Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

NOW

He didn’t want to be here. He really, really didn’t want to be here, does no one get that? Does no one see how his want and need is manifesting as a dark cloud over their heads? No? 

Great. 

He gets the feeling that he also shouldn’t be here. He can’t ignore it; slimy, dark and slick. Like the oil that leaks from the back of the ship. It settles on his skin and refuses to become one with the rest, simply sits and makes him feel disgusting. Makes him panic. It matches the colour of the dark cloud. 

Here is the ocean village. He can’t remember its name, but he can remember someone saying that it was surrounded by deep water on all sides. It’s the second they’ve come to, the second they’re tearing to pieces, the second they’re searching. Here, is among screaming, panicking villagers. 

Here is under the scrutiny of so many people, expecting so much from him.

Maybe if he was a bit more…normal. A bit more like them , what was happening around him wouldn’t seem as bad. The violence wouldn’t be as shocking.

It wouldn’t make him feel as if he’s about to be sick over his own toes. 

He really doesn’t want to be here. 

“Translate.” 

That’s growled at him, most likely to intimidate and scare him. It’s deep and low, like the growling of the ship’s engines just outside the reef. But, like the first two times, it just makes him confused. 

Translate what? No one’s spoken, how can he–

“That is a forest clan member,” the man before him says, slow and pronounced over the crackling of flames. “They do not come here. Please, tell him!” 

Oh. What? No, that’s not the sound of flames it’s–

Everything he knows breaking apart. 

He wants to scream. Demand how he knows what this man is saying. Two hours ago he’d only ever understood one language. But then, that’s not English, but something else entirely. But he can understand it. Even worse, a reply, an apology is forming on his tongue as easily as if it was English.  

There’s a hand on his shoulder. It startles him, and he whacks it away, a snarl bursting free from his lips. 

“Time to prove you’re useful, kid. Translate!” 

He’s breathing too fast, it’s hitching against his ribs. If he didn’t have so much riding on his shoulders, he’d be able to curl up underneath the glare that’s pinning him to the ground. Escape from it. He needs to be useful. Needs to prove himself, needs to make sure he doesn’t get tossed aside, please. 

Black spots, there’s black spots at the edge of what he can see. He’s going to pass out. 

He can feel his body swaying. 

He doesn’t want to be here. But he doesn’t know where else he could be. Doesn’t remember. 

“Colonel!” someone shouts. “Bogeys incoming. From the South.” 

“Thank the Great Mother,” the woman says, yelping when the person behind her jams something against her side. 

There’s a tense moment, and he glances up to see the indecision passing through the Colonel’s gaze. It hardens. 

“We’re done here, burn it down.” 

His arm is grabbed, and he has no choice to follow. Stumbling in the sand he watches with wide eyes as two mounted ikran fly towards them. When they get closer, he notices the riders are pointing at him. Shouting something that he can’t make out over the destruction of the village and screaming people. 

That oil-slick feeling makes him feel ill. And for once, he fights against the hand holding him back. 

THEN

When she’d been told they’d captured an associate of the Sully led insurrection, General Ardmore had expected one of the science guys. The traitors who’d decided to stay planet-side when the others had been banished. The humans who, like Jake Sully, betrayed their own race. 

She had a whole display arranged by the time they’d landed the ship, a monologue of every single thing they did wrong that she did right. She’d illustrate the strength of their company in the process. 

As they were crossing the tarmac, she was planning how to begin her speech. Practically writing it on cue cards and storing it in a small drawer in a corner of her mind. It would sit right between what she’d imagined telling Jake Sully once he was finally captured and her speech from when she’d earned the rank of General. 

But when she reached the interrogation cell, cup of coffee in hand, she shredded the speech. Burned the remains and swept the ashes into a dark corridor. Not because it was useless, in fact it was one of her better pieces of writing. But because its target audience was entirely incorrect. 

Outwardly, she takes in the interrogation cell with a considering look, taking a gratifying sip of coffee. Inwardly, she growls and savours the burning hot liquid on her tongue. This is not who she wanted, and not an opportunity to play house. 

“This is not an opportunity to play house, Colonel,” she says, her tone as icy as he’s ever heard it, she’s sure. She hears him tense, the heels of his boots clicking together as she places her coffee cup onto the desk. It is too hot to drink. 

When she straightens, she clasps her hands behind her back, and paces so that her nose is nearly pressed against the glass. Staring at the occupant behind it. 

“Tell me, what caused a reconnaissance mission to go so completely ary?” she asks. “Whilst I’m pleased we were able to finally make contact with the leader of the insurgency, were you not under orders to keep the safety of your team paramount?” 

“Yes ma’am,” Colonel Quaritch replies immediately. “Unfortunately, said contact resulted in a fight we hadn’t anticipated.” 

“And how many returned?” 

“Six of us, General,” Quaritch answers. 

Seven, if you include the kid currently spitting at the two way mirror. The glob of saliva slides down the glass, but he keeps hissing at the glass, pointing at it and the camera.

He knows they’re watching. 

“And the other six were lost at the hands of the same leader of the insurgency we are trying to eliminate, correct?” she asks, her fingers tightening. She can feel a muscle in her jaw jumping. “The one that you made contact with, against orders?”

“Yes ma’am. Sully and his wife, I’m afraid.” 

“Private,” she says, and the officer sitting to her right jolts in his seat, “please remind the Colonel how much it costs to create the Avatars, and how long it takes to transport them here.” 

Because if she tells him, her anger will be obvious by the way her voice will shake. 

“It costs at least a million to grow Avatars, and six years to transport them here to Pandora,” the Private explains. She can tell that the Colonel isn’t the least bit pleased at having a basic piece of information being spouted at him by an underling. 

She could give less of a shit.

“Not to mention, Colonel,” she continues, “we’ve only made so many copies of your memories. That technology took time, effort and years of research.” 

The kid snarls at the mirror again, but she only blinks.

“You’ve cost us, Colonel, six million dollars, and thirty six years worth of work with your little stunt,” she says. “What did you think you could achieve, when your men first encountered these children in the woods? That you could make Jake Sully surrender within your first mission?” 

She thinks he might’ve, because he sniffs like she’s personally offended him. 

“These things take time,” she says, when he keeps his trap shut. “And thankfully, it wasn’t an entire loss.” 

The two way mirror shudders as the kid tosses a chair at it. The Private jolts in his chair. Quaritch whistles lowly, and she blinks as the boy cusses like a twentieth century sailor. Pointing at the glass just a little to her left; like he knows they’re watching him but not sure of their actual position. It takes away some of the intimidation.

“Buttholes!” he shouts, before aiming his next insult at the camera. She can’t understand what he says, but by the tone it must be strong enough to have a strict mother demand he wash his mouth out with soap. 

“He might be able to give us information on where the Sullys could be,” she says over the shouting, picking up her coffee and taking another sip. It’s cooled, finally, but she wrinkles her nose at the bitterness. Someone must’ve added in one two many scoops into the filter. 

“But, ma’am,” the Private says, and she allows him to continue only because his courage surprises her, “surely in this state we are unlikely to gain anything from the boy. It would be a waste of time to try, no?” 

“Indeed,” she replies, setting down the cup again, “which is why we have options.” 

The boy pounds his fist against the glass again, snarling at them. She’s the only one who doesn’t flinch. 

“We shall try the…standard option first. But send a message down to the technicians that I want their newest experiment up and running should we have need of it,” she says, finally turning to the Colonel. He doesn’t meet her eyes, rather stares straight ahead as she approaches. 

“Should all else fail, Colonel, then we may try the more familial approach.” 

“Ma’am,” he replies, not revealing anything. Even his jaw has stopped twitching. 

She allows the corner of her mouth to quirk, and then she waves to the Private to open the kid’s cell. He’s a bit spooked by the order, and scrambles to follow it when she stands at the door. It’s outside of protocol to do this. But the boy is an important asset, and she wouldn’t rely on any soldier or recom do what she does best. 

When she steps up to the glass door it slides open soundlessly. The kid must have some impressive reflexes, or senses, because he stops shouting and jolts in place to face her as soon as the door meets home. The leather of her boots squeak as she steps over the threshold, and the boy tenses further. 

His lips pull back further. 

She stops just in front of the metal table bolted down to the floor, putting it between herself and her prisoner. “I am General Frances Ardmore,” she says simply, slicing through the silence. 

The boy hisses, spits something in Na’vi, then says, “Why should I care who you are?” 

“You don’t have to,” she replies, tucking her hands behind her back again. “But seeing as you might be remaining here for the long term, I thought you’d appreciate knowing who was in charge.” 

“I won’t be staying here,” the boy growls, shoulders rising towards his ears. “And you can’t keep me here!” 

“Oh?” she says, fighting to keep her expression neutral. “Then I suppose this will be short, if you’re going to attempt an escape.” 

His distrusting gaze watches as she takes up the chair he threw, and places it back upright. She doesn’t sit, just leans against its back and considers him. He’s as human as she is, and yet as inhuman as he can get. 

His skin is browned from the Pandoran sun, whereas hers is still as milk white as it always has been. Blue stripes criss cross over his whole body, with no pattern or reason other than to make him blend in with the clan folk. 

When he twitches his head between the mirror and herself, she spies the wooden beads threaded through his locks. They clack together when he snaps his gaze back to her at the shuffle of her boots. 

She smiles, although it’s only a small twitch of the corner of her lips, and it does nothing to lessen the wariness of his gaze. 

“What do you want?” he asks, when the silence starts to become uncomfortable. He leaves his hands loose at his sides, gaze tracking every movement. 

“What I want,” she replies, the chair creaking beneath her hands, “is quite simple. I want you to answer a question. I’ll even make it easy for you.” 

She pushes off the back of the chair so quickly the boy flinches, hands coming up to his chest as he takes a quick step back. But she only ducks into the observation room for a moment, and returns with a datapad in her hands. 

She places it in the middle of the table, not glancing up when the boy lowers his hands, and then inches forward in curiosity as she flicks past emails and applications too quickly for him to see. Slyly, she looks at him through her eyelashes once. 

The corner of her mouth twitches again at the disappointed scowl on his face. “You won’t find anything of use, kid,” she murmurs, and the boy startles again. “But you’re welcome to try.” 

She leans back once the map of the Pandoran forest around them spreads across the table. It’s a miniature version of the large scale hologram they have in the war room, but portable. It’s extremely useful for board meetings and the like. 

“Point out where the insurgents main camp of operations is on this map,” she says simply. “Even a general area will do, that’s all we need. We could then see about negotiating a way to get you where you want. Might even be able to commission a cryo pod home.” 

She knows at least thirty men who would jump on the offer immediately. Soldiers who’ve well extended their tours here, but are too valuable to send back to Earth. The kid’s silence is kind of confusing her, if she’s honest. 

He’s staring at the hologram map. From behind the two way mirror, she can feel two more stares burrowing into the side of her head. She doesn’t move, just watches as the kid finally leans forward. 

When he reaches out a hand, she thinks he’s actually going to give her what she wants. What she’s been yearning after for a year. Twelve months too long, in her professional opinion. 

Hope squeezes the breath from her lungs, and holds her completely still. 

But then, his finger strays too far to the edge of the datapad, pressing against its side and sliding it across the metal table. The map goes with it, and hope remains until it’s tipping over the edge. Landing on the ground with an ominous clattering. If she has to get it fixed, during the same week as the board meeting with key shareholders, she might just end the kid. 

“Oops,” he mutters, crossing his arms. 

She raises an eyebrow, and says, “None of them are coming to rescue you kid. Why keep them safe? Why go against what’s best for your own kind?” 

The kid huffs a laugh, like he knows something she doesn’t. It’s infuriating. 

“If you do not tell us where they are now, things will become much, much more painful for you later down the line,” she tells him, deadly serious. It’s the voice that has soldiers with balls a lot bigger than his shaking in their boots. But the kid just leans forward until he’s so close she can make out the flecks of dirt on his cheeks. 

“Do your worst, General Butthole,” he spits. 

This is a child. He’s a child, barely of age. She’s heard worse come from men working the communications, and yet the insult falling from this boy’s lips is more jarring than an f-bomb being dropped over a local channel. 

Lesser men would’ve cuffed the boy around the ear. But she’s not one to lose her temper so quickly. 

“You won’t cooperate?” she asks. 

“You want me to give up my family,” he says. “I wouldn’t betray them if you were going to kill me.” 

“Funny,” she says, “I wonder if they’d think the same of you. Family is meant to protect each other after all.” 

She lets that hang between them, watching for any sign of him wavering. He’s stubborn, she’ll give him that; clenching his jaw and glaring at her. But stubbornness has a tendency to crumble under the weight of fear. And stress. 

“Fine,” she replies, pushing off the back of the chair and swiping her datapad from the floor. The screen isn’t cracked, thank Christ, but one corner is dented. She digs the pad of her thumb into it as she says, “You have until this afternoon to rethink your decision. If you’re still adamant then I’m afraid we’ll have to take the information by force.” 

He scowls at her, but stays silent. Watching as she takes her leave. 

“General,” Quaritch asks a few minutes later as they make their way down the corridor, “do you believe this will actually get the boy to talk?” 

She’s messaging the head of R&D, to enquire about the functionality of their new toy. She has to pause to answer him, and a pair of guards swerve around their abrupt stop. 

“Honestly I don’t know,” she says. “It could be that he’s able to resist our methods, at which point we’ll have to try your approach, Colonel.” 

He shuffles, puffs out his chest and lifts his chin a little. “Of course, General.” 

She considers him, for a moment. “It’s a method I would rather not have to use,” she tells him, a wrinkle appearing between his eyebrows. “I find that relationships, both of a romantic and platonic nature, can do a lot of damage to a platoon and a squad.” 

The breath he’d been expelling gets sucked into his lungs. She refrains from raising a knowing eyebrow, and simply leaves it at that. 

They’re halfway to the science labs when she remembers she’d left her coffee in the observation room. 

When she’d first joined the marines, it was under her own assumption that she’d either slip through the cracks and remain largely out of sight or, she’d have to work up the ranks herself. Step by agonising step, placing hand over hand until she became what she wanted to be. 

She never thought that someone would recognise her potential, and place her exactly where she needed to be. Negotiation was her forte, and interrogation turned into her greatest asset to her squad. To the point that her captain wrote up her letter of transfer within a matter of months. 

She doesn’t remember the entirety of the contents, only that she was labelled as shrewd, cold, and a valuable candidate for the Special Ops Corp. Informally known as the T & I squad. 

It was there she flourished, both within her speciality, and her capability to lead. It’s where she formed the bedrock of her own policies and protocols. It’s what she’s good at, and what some people think she was born to do. 

So, she stares at the research and development’s brand new shiny toy with more than a wrinkle in her brow. She allows one displeased twitch of her mouth as she circles around it. 

“We only finished the blueprints just before getting into our cryo chambers,” the head of R & D tells her, practically vibrating on the spot. “Getting the materials made whilst in flight was a genius piece of thinking on my part. And the engineering was all done by Don for the first few weeks we were here.” 

It’s smooth and sleek, like nearly everything within the laboratory. Bright white too, to match the floors, ceiling and the coats they wear. She could nearly check her reflection to make sure none of her lunch got stuck in her teeth. 

“How much power does it use?” she asks, taking another circle around the machine. She kicks an errant cable at the back, ignoring the small injured noise behind her. 

“Oh, this baby is so efficient it doesn’t even need half of what the tech does up in the observation tower,” they reply. They’re fidgeting with their clipboard, but she knows it's not out of nervousness. “We could have it running for hours, and not cause any problems.” 

She comes face to face with them again, and they nearly drop their clipboard. “Of course, we’d never actually do that, General. Ma’am. We know how important and limited our resources are at the moment.” 

“What does it do?” Quaritch suddenly asks. He’s staring at the machine with a distant sort of interest, one that they don’t quite catch onto. She would laugh, but she’s more professional than to laugh at her subordinate’s misfortune. 

Whilst the scientist is distracted, she takes a moment to finally let her expression fall into the scowl that’s been tugging against her cheeks for five minutes. Her displeasure plain on her face, which isn’t seen by anyone but the machine. Which doesn’t have any feelings to be offended. 

It’s essentially taken her one asset. By placing a subject within its grasp and clamping them down so they don’t escape, it takes what it needs using some sort of technology that she doesn’t quite understand and displays it as a literal image. 

Any question answered in a moment. Any deepest, darkest secret immediately brought to light with just a question and a few moments of patience. Information only gained through years of trust and familiarity recorded and placed in a databank to be analysed over and over at will. 

It’s a cheat code to what she’s been learning to do all her life. And, in her opinion, it takes away the best part of her job. 

Although she’d never tell anyone that she loves making people scream…

“How long until it’s functional?” she suddenly says, cutting them off at just the right time, if the Colonel’s uncomfortable look is anything to go by. 

“Oh, it’s absolutely ready to go. There’s just…possibly a couple more calibrations to work through,” they reply. She’s a bit unnerved by the way their eyes sparkle, but she doesn’t comment. “Do you have a candidate to try it out on?” 

“Let’s just say I have a particularly stubborn character who I think would benefit from another method,” she says, although even that is giving too much away. 

“I’ll have those calibrations finished just after lunch then, General,” they say, and although they don’t quite salute her, they try their best without dropping their clipboard again. 

“You think this’ll work?” the Colonel asks once they’ve left, and although she doesn’t actually give him an answer, the small noise she makes makes him tense. 

She doesn’t know if it will, but it’s the only other option they have apart from one she’s not entirely set on trying. 

By the time they gather the boy from his cell - with the help of two guards, one at each arm - and take him back to the laboratory, the machine is ready for them. At least, the head scientist says it’s ready. They say it through a few doubtful excuses but they’re allowed to approach it anyway. 

The kid pales dramatically at the first sighting, and for a moment he nearly sways against the guard on his left. She, slyly, takes another glance at the technology and has to agree that yes, it does look quite intimidating. He doesn’t fight when he’s pushed towards it, and only wriggles a little when the support clamps down against his chest. 

According to the R&D head scientist, they changed it from cuffs because too many test subjects were resisting the machine if they thought they were tied down. Restricted to be tortured. Although, she doesn’t think this setup will be any better; it seems to clamp the person down like a cat holding a tiny mouse in place. 

Once he’s settled, watching the soldiers warily as they step back, the head scientist approaches her. They’ve switched out their clipboard for a datapad, fingers moving so fast over the screen she thinks it must be second nature. No one’s that good at multitasking. 

“So,” they say, pitching their voice low, “all you need to do is ask him a couple of leading questions while the machine is running. Anything he thinks we’ll be able to catch and turn into visible data. You’ll have everything you need to know within a matter of seconds!” 

They’re beaming like it’s the most amazing thing in the world. She keeps the displeasure off her face, but can’t quite stop her fingers from clenching. 

“Just a few questions?” 

“Yep!” they chirp. “Should be fairly painless for him, provided he doesn’t resist.” 

“Have others resisted?” she asks, their eyes flickering with a curiosity that makes her stomach roll. 

“Not yet,” they reply. “But, there’s a first time for everything!” 

She’s left alone then with the kid and the machine. He’s staring at her, his jaw clenched. 

“I don’t like this anymore than you do, kid,” she says as she steps up to the platform. “But you were the one to refuse a very simple request.

From the top of the platform, she and the kid are at eye level. Strapped down as he is, the dynamic changes. No longer is she the interrogator and he the subject of her ire. She’s the cat, and he’s the mouse that’s not getting away unless he squeaks. 

With a loud hum, the machine starts up, the circular structure above his head beginning to spin lazily. She’s not underneath the green lights it produces, and yet it’s irritating even from where she stands. 

“Where has Jake Sully gone?” she starts, as the machinery reaches optimal speed. The kid begins to squirm as she asks, “Where would he take his family?” 

“I don’t know,” the kid says defiantly. “Even if I did I wouldn’t tell you you–” 

He spits out something in Na’vi, something rude and abrasive. She doesn’t react to it. 

“Would he remain in the forest?” she asks, and he snarls like she’s an idiot for not listening the first time. “Where would he run to?” 

“I. Don’t. Know!” he shouts, his arms and legs twitching. 

“What clans would harbour them? What villages would give them refuge?” 

“I don’t know you butthole! You’ll have to kill me before I tell you anything!” 

“Would they be able to hide outside of the forest? Were there plans created in case of discovery?” 

“Why do you think I know?” the kid shouts, wiggling against the restraints. “They don’t tell me anything!” 

“I think they tell you plenty,” she argues, because this is better than continuous denial. “They would have contingencies, yes? So would they escape to the clans in the west? Or the Ash Na’vi up north?” 

“General, careful,” someone says behind her. She tilts a little so that the kid’s yelps aren’t so loud. “You’re peaking all over the prefrontal.” 

She purses her lips and allows a short, sharp sigh to escape her nose before turning back again. 

“Where are the rest of the Omatikaya?” she asks, and the boy’s eyes widen. 

“I’m not telling!” 

“Where is their main base of operations? Where have they been hiding?” 

He can’t deny that he knows, can’t dance away from the question with denials. And he knows it. He struggles more, fights the paw clamping him down and snarls when he can’t do more than press against it. Her mouth curls a little, and she leans her hands against the metal bar separating the platform from the machinery. 

“Tell me, where the clan is,” she says, locking eyes with the kid.

He’s wide eyed, properly afraid, his breaths coming out in uneven hitches and gasps. For a wild, nearly jubilant moment, she thinks he’s going to crack into two. And give her what she’s been yearning for. The glory and reward she’s deserved for every god awful thing the company has made her do. 

He opens his mouth, she leans further forward, and the answer she gets is a pain filled scream. 

His eyes squeeze shut, and his attempts to escape get more desperate and insistent. Until he’s rocking the machinery with a strength that hadn’t been there before. 

Behind her, she hears shouting, cries for the machine to be turned off, that he’s peaking all over the place he needs to be dragged out now–

She steps down from the platform as the machine slows to a stop. The kid’s not screaming any more, but he’s still gasping. Keening every few moments as a couple soldiers and lab coats dart forward. 

She’s smug, victorious, triumphant, until she sees the head scientist throwing down her datapad like a child. Only then does her heart sink.

Quaritch comes down to join her with a dark look. 

“Well, Colonel,” she says as the kid flops bonelessly into the arms of the soldiers, “looks like we’ll be trying the familial tactic after all.” 

He opens his eyes to a white ceiling above him, and a cold surface below. It’s actually cold everywhere, like the room hasn’t been heated at all, but it’s pressing into his body and making him shiver. His teeth clattering together is the loudest thing he’s ever heard; it sounds like they’re rattling in his skull. 

Around him is silence, on all sides. It’s like a really heavy blanket, and he pushes against it until he’s upright. It’s a struggle, but he manages it. Just. 

He can only hear the clacking of his teeth and his breathing, where there would be ambient noises of– something. He’s not sure what, maybe other living, breathing people. The quiet puts him on edge. 

Even the sounds from outside usually make their way through thick metal walls; there’s not a bit of his home that’s silent. He should know, he’s explored every inch of it. How he knows that, though, he’s not sure. It’s just a definite. 

So then, what if he’s not at home? 

His breath catches on something in his chest, and fear burns behind his ribs. If he’s not home, then where is he? There’s nothing identifiable around him, the white walls and ceiling not giving anything away. The mirror on the other side makes him pause.  

His nose is bleeding. He hadn’t felt it, but when he brings his hand up to his lip, red stains his fingers, and copper falls on his tongue. He’s not wearing his mask, and he can breathe, but the metal table underneath him is clinical. It’s probably why he’s so cold.  

“Where am I?” he whispers, the fear turning to a sick sort of uncertainty, coiling around his stomach. There’s something else about his reflection that’s causing his heart to pick up the pace. 

He’s older than he remembers. That last bit of baby fat that had been clinging to his jawline is gone, he’s gotten better at his stripes, and there are a couple more beads in his hair that he definitely didn’t put in. 

“The hell,” he says, daring to make his voice a little louder as he swings his legs over the edge of the metal table. His toes are numb from the cold already, but it’s the starkness of the differences in his face that make him shudder harder anyway. 

He stares, wide eyed, at the dark bags sitting underneath his lashes, and plucks at a dreadlock to expose a bright blue bead. 

Somehow, over the thumping of his heart in his ears, the sound of heavy boots outside reaches him. He freezes, eyes locking onto the glass door and the shadow growing taller on the wall outside. Someone’s coming, friend or foe, he’s no idea. 

He should hide. 

He does hide, scrambling under the metal table and tucking himself into a tight ball. Arms wrapped around his knees, shoulders drawn up to make himself smaller. Eyes peeking over his wrists as the boots stop at the door, and wait for it to slide open. It’s soundless, and creepy as anything.

The leather boots creak with the first step over the threshold. His eyes widen at the edge of camouflage pants he spies, his heart thrashing a little bit harder against his ribcage. He still doesn’t know why. 

In the seconds between the boots stepping away from the door, and it sliding shut, he makes a lunge for freedom. Scrambling out from under the table and going for the corridor. 

“Hey, woah easy!” the person snaps. 

He’s grabbed from behind, lifted boldly from the floor even as he kicks and flails. The person holding onto him grunts when he digs an elbow into their gut, before throwing him back onto the metal table and holding him down. He could get away from it, digging his nails into the wrist and wriggling, but he just sees the door sliding shut again. 

He wouldn’t get out even if he tried to kick it down. 

The man holding him is also much, much bigger than he is. He doesn’t doubt his own skills at evasion, but two steps and he’d be right back where he started. The guy is also a Na’vi, but he’s wearing clothes, so he must be an Avatar then…

Or something else? 

He’s only ever seen a few Avatar’s in his life, and one of them is N–

A sharp, quick pain makes him hiss. His hand slips from its wrenching hold, and the man takes that as a sign that he’s finished fighting, stepping back from the table with his arms out. Like any resistance wouldn’t be futile. 

“We cool?” the man asks, his whole body still tense. Wary of him lunging for the door. 

He stays right where he is, pushing back up so that he’s not hanging half off the table. The cold metal bites into his fingers. He nods, watching as the man takes a knee, placing them at eye level. 

“Kid, you got heart,” the man says, and he frowns at him. That’s not what he was expecting. Although, he’s not sure what he was expecting anyway. Maybe some kind of hostility, seeing as it’s looking like he’s a prisoner. 

“The science pukes leaned on you pretty hard,” the man continues, “but you gave them nothin’. Shows you got guts. I like that.” 

Why would the scientists lean on him? That’s not really gonna do anything other than make him uncomfortable. He’s starting to think this guy might be a bit cracked in the head. Everything about him also just screams alpha male, which makes it even more uncomfortable. 

He just manages to keep the sneer off his face, although he does let himself cross his arms. And stare, mulishly. 

The man shuffles at his silence, just a small twitch of the hand resting on his knee, but it’s enough of a tell. He makes an aborted noise before reaching into a pocket of his vest. 

“I want you to have something,” he says, snatching his hand before he can shuffle away, turning it upright so that when he drops the chains and metal pieces, they don’t immediately slide to the floor. They’re cold, but at this point his fingers are numb enough that he doesn’t really notice. 

The man points at the chain and metal, and says, “That’s Colonel Miles Quaritch. Deceased.” 

He looks at the metal pieces, inspecting the writing that’s illegible with only a tiny bit of curiosity. When he’s turned them over at least twice, he raises his head and says, “Who?” 

He’s taken the man by surprise. If he wasn’t kneeling right next to him, he’s sure the guy would’ve flinched so hard he’d need to take a step back. 

“Very funny, kid,” he mutters, before saying again, “Colonel Miles Quaritch.” 

“You already said that,” he throws back, jiggling the pieces of metal in his hand, considering whether it would be an idea to chuck them into the corner. “Who is that? Am I meant to know him?” 

The man’s eyes go wide, flickering towards the mirror and back again. He gapes for a few seconds, before clenching his jaw and leaning forward a bit more. “What’s your name, kid?” 

He chuffs a laugh, rolling his eyes. “Shouldn’t you already know that? You’re the one keeping me hostage,” he says, but the man is immovable. Staring at him expectantly. 

“Fine,” he grumbles. “My name is–” 

He knows it. He swears he does, every person knows their own goddamn name. But his tongue practically freezes behind his teeth, his voice dying out as his brain trips over an empty space. Like he’d misjudged how many stairs were in front of him and missed just one. 

“My name is S–” he tries again, but it’s like trying to drag the words out of the snarling maul of a bloodthirsty animal; nearly impossible. 

“Okay, kid, it’s alright–” the man tries to say, but he flinches away from his hands, nearly tipping himself onto the floor in a desperate attempt to get away. To get out of his own skin. 

“What’s my name?” he says, and although his voice is quiet, it could’ve been a scream for how devastating it feels. 

Behind the mirror, General Ardmore clutches onto her coffee cup so hard it creaks. When she lifts it to take another sip, she notices her fingers trembling. She places it down so no one else sees, and tucks her hands behind her back. 

Next to her, the mumblings of the head of R & D get more frantic, their datapad flicking through so many programs at once that it’s a wonder they can keep up. They’re lost in their own little world, completely obnoxious to the tension rising within the observation room. 

“You said,” she murmurs, keeping her gaze locked on the kid as he crawls back underneath the table, “that this would be a quick, painless, easy method to getting what I want.” 

The scientist doesn’t stop tapping against the screen of their datapad. The Private beside her hunches his shoulders, and Quaritch stands like a menacing sentinel right next to the door. 

She’s surprised he has taken this so well, considering the other shit that’s been piled on top of him these last few days. Complete body change notwithstanding. 

“It usually is,” the scientist replies, “and this time would’ve been no different. But with our previous test subjects, they gave us what we wanted. Easily, and quickly, once they realised there was no way to keep the information from us. This boy fought back until the last second, and we got nothing.” 

They sound too happy about that, she thinks. 

“What does this mean, exactly?” she asks, refraining from giving into her banal instinctive want to punch them. 

“We’ve got a gnarly case of amnesia on our hands! Seems the machine focused a little too much on the kids prefrontal cortex,” they reply. 

“We can see that,” she says, finally swivelling on her heel to pin them with an unimpressed look. “I’m asking what this means about my operation. Will you be able to fix this?” 

They suck air through their teeth, gaze still locked on their datapad screen and completely oblivious to her ire. “Well,” they say, dragging the word out, “possibly! I would need to take scans, maybe perform a couple of tests. Amnesia often doesn’t last for very long.” 

“That’s in the usual sense?” she asks, and they nod with a bright (stupid) grin on their face. She takes a deep breath, then says, “Very well. I expect you to have these tests completed within the next few days. The longer we wait, the further Sully gets from us.” 

“Yes Ma’am,” they chirp, before hurrying out of the observation room, the tail of their lab coat flapping at their ankles. 

“General,” Quaritch says after a few moments of silence. He goes to say something else, but she cuts him off. 

“I’m not expecting the tests to work,” she says, and the tension lays itself on even thicker. “In fact, I’d be surprised if they yield any results at all. The best way to trigger his memory is to have him be in places he knows.” 

She knows this for a fact, having years of experience with her father, and grandparents before. It’s a wonder what modern day medicine does now, but it’s a shame humanity has yet to come up with a way to cure alzheimers. 

“Ma’am?” Quaritch asks, and she internally yanks herself away from memories best left untouched. 

“If, and when, this doesn’t produce anything, I want you and your squad to take the kid out,” she tells him. “See if connecting with his tree hugger roots will jog his memory some. Climb trees, connect with the flora and fauna and such. Teach him some self defence if he’s forgotten how to fight.” 

She’s seen the footage from the body cams. It looked like the kid knew how to handle a bow, and it’ll be interesting to see if the muscle memory is still there. 

“And if that doesn’t work?” 

She considers for a moment, swaying to the inside of one foot and then the other. An unnoticeable habit. 

“Then I suppose he’ll make for a good piece of bait,” she says, swivelling so that Quaritch can see the slight quirk to her lips. “Don’t you?”

Chapter Text

THEN

They take him into another white washed room what feels like a lifetime later. This one, at least, has a table that’s not bolted to the ground, two chairs, and the same kind of mirror on one wall. 

That’s how they’re keeping an eye on him, he thinks; a two way glass, with a room just behind it. Or he’s been baring his teeth at nothing and looking like an idiot. Or some poor dude has gotten a nice view of his teeth. The second option makes him grin with the kind of savagery that has the guards outside his cell shuffling when they bring his food, minutes after his stomach has first started growling. 

It’s a bit creepy to think they’ve been watching him, like he’s not some regular prisoner, but someone they need to carefully monitor. He doesn’t think he’s let anything slip yet. Unless he’s been talking in his sleep. He wants to prove his usefulness, he needs to be careful with how he goes about it. He can’t give everything away at once

The scientist who’d led him here, the one that leers at him like he’s under a microscope, gestures to one of the chairs. He eyes it, and then decides to lean himself against the opposite wall when they take the other. 

They roll their eyes, before kicking out the chair in front with one foot. Its legs clatter against the floor but it doesn’t fall. He stares at it, and the scientist gestures to it again. 

“Sit,” they say, adjusting their own position and flipping open a page on their clipboard. “We’re gonna be here a while, and I’d rather not hand you back to the General all exhausted.” 

None of the other scientists use clipboards and paper, this he knows from simple observation. The small pieces of technology the other labcoats use are common, there’s at least two in every room he’s been in. It’s one of the many ways this scientist is different, and a reason why they put him on edge. 

He sniffs, but then lets his lower half settle against the chair. It’s hard, but not cold. A nice surprise after spending days sitting on a freezing floor. He leans his forearms against the edge of the table and presses the balls of his feet into the ground. If he could, he’d jiggle his leg, but that might disturb the chicken scratch the scientist is digging into their paper. 

And he doesn’t really want to piss anyone off. Yet. 

“Alrighty,” they say cheerfully, glancing up at him with a smile that does nothing to relax the tension surrounding them. “This’ll just be a little test, a little chat to see where we’re at with the whole memory situation.” 

They flap their hand at his head, barely avoiding hitting his nose. 

“Just a few easy questions, and then you’ll go to the General for some basic physical tests.” 

“Why?” he asks, and they pause where they were flicking through their clipboard. 

“Why?” they repeat, and he nods. “Well, last time we spoke, you couldn’t even remember your name.” 

He winces, but they barrel onwards, saying, “You wanna be useful, right? Do something other than stay in that cold, empty room all day?” 

He nods. 

“Then Ardmore needs a couple parameters in what you can do, in terms of fighting and survival skills,” they say. “I usually stay out of the General’s reasoning but they might be putting you on the SecOps team heading out into the jungle.” 

He shivers at the idea. Out of fear or excitement, or both, he doesn’t know.

“Let’s start off easy then,” they say, twirling their pen. “How old are you?” 

He blinks, and says, “Sixteen.” 

“Do you know your birthday?” they ask, after noting something down. 

“No,” he says simply. 

They don’t push, which is good because he’s pretty sure none of the scientists would know their birthday if they were born on a completely different planet to the one they’re native to. The months and days don’t match up, physically or culturally. 

Wait, how does he know that?

“Where were you born?” 

“Here, on Pandora,” he replies, without hesitation. 

“Parents?” 

Something throbs just behind his eye, but he ignores it. “Don’t know. I think they’re dead. I wasn’t raised by them.” 

“Interesting. Who raised you?” they ask, and he shuffles in the seat. 

“Scientists. Like you,” he replies, and they hum quietly, taking another note. “Taught me to read and write, too.” 

They glance up, their jaw tightening a little, and makes the note the next line down, before subtly tugging the clipboard a little closer. A smirk tugs against his lips, but he keeps his expression neutral. He still doesn’t want to get on the bad side of the people providing him with food and water, he kinda needs that to survive. 

“Where did they teach you? Where was home, back then?” they ask, folding their arms against the paper. 

That throbbing gets a little worse. He winces, and takes a second to think about the question, because his own thoughts are starting to slip through his fingers like water building momentum. 

“Um…a building?” he says, shuffling again. He jiggles his leg under the table. Their eyebrows twitch, like they want to frown. 

“That’s obvious, but where? On the south side of the forest? In the mountains? Next to a river?” 

“South side,” he manages to get out, his jaw tightening a little as something finally comes to him. “The sunset was always on the left of the labs.” 

It’s noted down, and the throbbing gives, but only a little. 

“Okay,” they say, dragging out the word. “Now for something a bit more difficult. What’s your name?” 

He huffs a laugh, shuffles again and says, “Difficult? How’s that difficult?” 

“Well,” they say, “it might not be for me, kid. I know what my name is, surname and middle ones too. But for those of us who’ve gone through a traumatic head injury, it might be a bit trickier. And from what I’ve heard, you’re having a bit of trouble recalling yours, right now.” 

He bristles, and fails to keep his scowl off his face. So that guy had told others about his little…lapse. Makes sense, why he’s felt like hundreds of eyes have been digging into his head. 

His gaze flicks to the two way mirror again. The scientist taps their pen against their clipboard. 

“Fine,” he says. “My name is S–” 

He cuts himself off, the empty space in his head yawning wide enough to make him fall still. Why can’t he remember his own name for fuck’s sake?

“My name is…” his scowl deepens. Glaring down at the table top and biting the inside of his cheek doesn’t help. He can taste copper. 

“Alright, enough,” the scientist says, waving their fingers in front of his face to get him to look up. “We’ll come back to that question another time, don’t need you spiraling halfway through.” 

He doesn’t like it, he really doesn’t like it, but he nods and lets the question go. Although it’s hard to ignore the expanse now sitting just to the right of his heart. 

How, a tiny voice inside his head, does he not know who he is? That’s like the sky not knowing it's blue. 

“Next question; an important one so I’ll need as much as you can give me,” they say, clearing their throat and turning over a page. “When did you become involved with Jake Sully and his family?” 

There’s a dagger, or a knife digging into his eye and the side of his skull. Right where the throbbing was. He doesn’t wince, but he does bring his hand up to rub against it fiercely. If he winces, he gives away weakness, and he should never show weakness. 

There’s a voice that comes with that saying but he can’t think of who even though it feels like their name is right on his tongue like–

“Uh, don’t really remember,” he says. His voice is shaking why is it doing that he didn’t say to. Wait–“Who’re you asking about?” 

They lean forward, and he can’t escape the gaze that’s pinning him to the chair. Suddenly he doesn’t feel cold, he feels too hot. Like he’s been dunked in boiling water. 

 “Jake. Sully,” they say, articulating every syllable as if that’ll help. “When did you get involved with him, his wife and his children?” 

“His–what? Who’s Jake Sully?” he forces out from between his clenched teeth. “I dunno a Jake Sully. There weren’t any in the building– ah.” 

He curls a little, pressing the heel of his palm against his eye. It’s burning like fire, and he desperately wants to gouge it out to get to the bottom of why it’s hurting him so much. 

He sees the scientist’s gaze flick to the two way mirror thing and back again. Their hand, where it’s pressed against the table, twitches. But they look at him and say, “He’s an insurgent and traitor to our company, and we’re trying to find him.” 

Their words are hesitant, but he’s only vaguely noticing that over the piercing pain in his head. The ringing in his ears makes their voice faint even as they lean closer and ask, “We need you to tell us where he is.” 

“I-I don’t know,” he stammers, letting his hands dig into his hair as if to distract from the all consuming hurt that’s rushing through his entire body. “I dunno know who Jake Sully is–” 

He keens, the pain spiking so much it feels like the knife is digging in , but they don’t give up. In fact they lean further over the table, and press their hand against his shoulder. Like they’re gonna comfort him. 

He drags his gaze upwards, everything feeling like it's going slow, and nearly begs for them to stop. If they ask again, he might not be able to stay conscious. 

“Please, kid,” they say. “Sully’s killed so many of my friends and comrades. I just want to see him brought to justice. Please, can you help? Give us anything at all?”

It’s not their words that get him to try, it’s the discomfort he’s getting from having their hands on him.

He takes a steady breath, and focuses on the edge of the table. If he reaches through the pain, past the empty spot in his chest, to where he knows his memory is meant to be, maybe he could grab for something before the pain cuts him off. 

Like a bait and switch, although he’s no idea how he knows that technique. Or how to use it.

For a moment, he thinks it’s working; he can remember, faintly, a tall blue person, like the guy who came to see him when he woke up. They’re saying something, too muffled for him to make out, but they’re turned as if speaking to him. He needs to know what they're saying, so he reaches a little bit more, using every bit of strength to reach–

He opens his mouth and says, slowly, hesitantly, “I remember…” 

“Yes,” the scientist replies urgently, leaning forward so much they’re not sitting on their chair anymore. 

“I…” he says, but then something cuts him off. 

The memory is snatched away, faint as it is, and all he’s left with is the pain. Ratcheting up to a new level until he’s dislodging the hand from his shoulder when he curls up. Red hot and all consuming, it races through his body. 

Can he form words to beg them to stop? He doesn’t have control over his tongue, or what’s falling out of his mouth, so he doesn’t think so.

The pain doesn’t die down, instead it remains at a white hot state, too overwhelming to let him even think properly. Because a tiny part of him is still reaching. 

Sixteen years of memory completely out of his reach. Unable to remember anything from the life he had before these four white walls, he can’t even know his own name. The tiny desperate part of him refuses, and pushes until it blows past his limit. 

His stomach rolls, and a spew of bile escapes his mouth and lands on the floor. He can distantly feel it against his toes, warm and disgusting. He can’t pick up his head to wipe the trail from his chin. Can’t do anything but dig his hands further against his skull. 

“That’s enough,” someone says, muffled over the dull ringing in his ears. When did they come in? He’s not that out of it, is he? 

Another voice says something, but they’re muffled. It’s not steeped in authority like the other one, so it must be the scientist. Were they asking more questions while he was battling against an enemy only he can see? 

He doesn’t really care, doesn’t even have the energy levels to try. The pain has died, but it’s now turned back into the throbbing behind his eye. He has just enough strength to drag himself back together and lift his head from the table. He’d call that a win. 

He makes eye contact with the new person, and feels his stomach plummet down to his toes. It’s a woman, dressed in military fatigues with multiple stars glinting from her shoulders. She’s severe, he can tell by how her hair is tightly pulled back, and how sternly she’s staring at him. 

A cold sweat breaks out at his mid back, his eyes widen and his heart begins to thump against his ribcage like it wants to escape. But he stays still, forearms leaning against the edge of the table, breaths steady and controlled. Entire body tense. 

The chair in front of him is empty. Some of his confusion must’ve appeared on his face, because the woman moves to tuck the chair under the table.  

“There will not be any more questions today,” she says. “It is obviously not giving us results, and any further attempts might cause more damage. Unless you feel you are capable of continuing?” 

He shakes his head, that faint memory disappearing. He wouldn’t have a hope of trying to drag up another one. 

“Very well,” she replies, stepping closer to the edge of the table so that she’s towering over him. His pulse thunders against his skin. “I am Frances Ardmore, General of this facility. You will address me as such.” 

When he uses his voice, it’s a croaky rasp, and his teeth nearly feel unwilling to move, but he manages to push out a, “Yes Ma’am,” without tripping over the words. 

“You are here as a potential informant, but you will be held here for the time being, until we can ascertain the…damage…done to your memory,” she continues, and he feels his cheeks getting hot. Even though whatever’s happened doesn’t feel like it’s his fault. “If it becomes obvious the damage is too great, or we are unable to solve the problem, we will find other uses for you.” 

A shiver rushes up his spine. It draws him upright, and he says, “I can be. Useful, I mean.” 

She purses her lips. “That remains to be seen. This was an investigation to the health of your short term memory. My apologies that our Head Scientist got carried away. Until we know those results, or lack thereof, you are to rest.” 

“And then?” he asks hesitantly. 

“We will perform a physical examination, which will include your knowledge in weaponry and hand to hand combat. If you are to be of use to us, you will need to go beyond these walls, and I will not have you dying after taking only two steps into the forest.” 

It feels like an order. It drags his spine up further, until it feels like his shoulders are inching towards his ears. “Yes Ma’am,” he says again, this time a lot clearer. 

“Good,” she replies, eyes flicking over him once more before turning on her heel to go. “You’ll be shown to a resting area. And I expect you for your examination in two hours.” 

He’s left in the quiet. It’s then that he realises; if he can’t give them what they want, he’s as useful as a wet cardboard box. Unless, he can prove himself to be capable in other ways. 

He feels like he’ll lose what little else his stomach contains. 

He collides with the training mat painfully, smacking his nose into the linoleum so hard it smarts. Around him, the onlookers snigger, and there's a rustling as if paper is being passed between hands. 

“Get up,” the General barks. “Go again.” 

“Ow,” he grumbles, because it’s the only bit of annoyance he’ll let slip free, before angrily pushing himself back up to his feet. 

The longer the bout went on, the more people surrounded the edge of the ring. Leaning their arms against the ropes, ducking underneath to watch the footwork. A few of them have bunched a pile of equipment in the corner so that they can watch from a height. Eyes everywhere, pressing down on him, willing him to trip, fall, fail. 

To the left, the guy he’d first seen when he’d woken up - Quaker? Quackage? Quartich! - and a few of what must be his soldiers watch him too. They’re the only people with masks hanging around their necks. He wonders if it’s got something to do with the air quality. Or maybe their noses can’t take the stink of sweat that hangs in the air. 

“Ready?” someone asks, and he snaps his attention back to his opponent with a shake of his head. 

They’re stocky, broad shouldered and about his height. He’s sure this soldier was picked for that reason; better to keep the examination on an even playing field. It doesn’t help his pride though, when the floor’s being wiped by his own body taking a tumble every bout. 

They’ve done three now, and although his hands tremble with adrenaline, he’s not flagging. Just getting irritated, annoyed, and angry. 

He sniffs, wipes his nose and raises his arms before nodding. He’s copying his opponent, because he made it seem natural, but this position just screams wrong to him. He has nothing else to go off of. 

“Fight!” 

The bell dings, and the soldier moves, bouncing on the balls of his feet and lunging forward with a quick one two punch. Around them, the soldiers start shouting advice as he ducks, swinging under the first fist and nearly getting clipped by the second when he comes up again. 

“Come on kid!” 

“Watch your feet, watch your feet–!” 

“If you let the twerp win, Darren, you’re dead–” 

“--careful of the left side–” 

“Shut up,” his opponent growls, throwing an uppercut that’s avoided by a large step backwards. 

Too big; he’s now put himself out of range. With a small noise, he tries to claw back the distance with another step, but he puts too much weight onto his ankle. It tilts, a bit painfully, at the same time that another fist comes right for his nose. 

He has a second to decide before he’s rolling. Shoulder colliding with the floor as he goes with the lean of his body, bouncing back up again and kicking his opponents foot out. 

He waits for the guy to get back up. He’s not cruel, and this isn’t a serious fight. Although, he doesn’t know if he would actually know when it’s serious, does his body have the sense for that? Is it some kind of muscle memory like this? 

He takes too long in his head. The other guy’s up, glaring at him as the crowd laughs and jeers them on. A couple of them slap the floor of the ring, sending the vibrations up his legs. The guy takes his momentary distraction and lunges again. 

Back protesting at the sudden sharp lean to avoid the hand aiming for his nose, he steps forward to get into the weak spot the soldier’s left open. But again, he goes too wide, and the overbalance gives his opponent the advantage. 

It’s a light tap but it sends him sprawling again. The soldiers and workers around them either cheering or making noises of sympathy as his body collides with the floor. He lets his head flop backwards, glaring at the ceiling. 

“Enough,” the General says, the sound level dropping instantly. 

There’s the creaking of ropes, and he tips his head back to see her ducking into the ring. As he scrambles upright, his heart thudding against his chest, he prepares to be told to leave. Or be dragged away and locked up. He’s proven himself worthless, and he’s going to be treated as such. 

He’ll never get outside of these walls. Won’t ever find out his name–

“Soldier,” the General suddenly says, and the guy’s smug expression is wiped clean off his cheeks, “swap out with Ja please.” 

There’s no argument, the soldier just nods even as all eyes stare at her with no small amount of confusion. The guy won, why is he the one being called out? The soldier’s not happy that much is obvious. 

He wonders if it’s offense that’s turning the soldier’s gaze dark as he ducks under the ropes. 

At the edge of the room, Quaritch and his squad look on impassively. A couple of them - a woman with tattoos spanning her entire arm, and a guy with sunglasses perched on his nose even though they’re inside - lean together to whisper something. That’s done impassively too, as is the light shove another gives to get one of them moving. 

He can tell it’s an act, the shadow of their tails behind them are moving too quickly. They’re just as wary as the humans, if not more so. 

“We’re going to try something,” the General says to him. 

The squadmate that had been pushed - Ja, he supposes - lopes towards the ring. When he reaches the ropes, he doesn’t even need to duck under, he just steps over them. Leavering his hand first so that they don’t clip his belt on the way back up. 

He’s so much taller than the soldier. Easily two heads, if not more. He has to strain his neck to meet his gaze. Ja could take a few steps and reach the other side of the ring easily, how is this fair? 

An image of his body being sent flying across the room with one punch makes him shudder internally, but he just clenches his jaw. 

Ja regards him with a look that he can’t understand. The swish of his tail gives away his discomfort, and he nearly huffs in offense. Not like he wants to fight either. 

“One more round,” the General says, and he suddenly gets the feeling he missed something while he was trapped in his own head. 

One more round until what? He’s unconscious? Or the other guy’s got him under his knee with his chin digging into the floor? The guy doesn’t look particularly mean, but then again how would he know. 

Around them, the crowd gets restless again, and as Ja slides into a traditional fighting stance - feet shoulder width, arms held in front, ears pricked forward - he suddenly gets the feeling that it looks incredibly wrong. Like the General with a party hat wrong. 

He wants to fix his stance, wants to shove against his shoulders until he’s crouching more, loosen out his arms, get him to not hold his tail so tensely. But he doesn’t, he just lifts his own hands in an imitation and tilts his head. He’s happy for the other guy to make the first move. 

It’s a bit like watching a baby animal who’s still a bit unsure on its legs. Like Ja doesn’t know his own body. The way he’s bouncing on the balls of his feet isn’t helping either, because his tail struggles with keeping his balance in its held position. The guy lunges, his arms still kept up at his face, but Spider flinches at it. 

Taking a step back that, previously, had been too big, but against this opponent puts him just out of reach of his arm span. A small smirk is sent his way, as if his skittishness is hilarious. Ja does it again, a small jerk of his body that causes him to flinch and their audience to jeer. 

A scowl draws his eyebrows down, and he retaliates with a quick one two combo to the guy’s side before getting out of range again. His feet move on their own, wanting to retreat to his opponent’s left but he fights it. 

This whole spar feels wrong, but he’s not about to give it away just because of some instinctive move that’ll turn out to be stupid. 

A long arm takes a swipe at him and he ducks, not tucking and rolling this time, but doing some awkward kind of low crawl which seems a lot quicker. His opponent looks at him funny when he pops back up to his full height. 

“No point playin’ with him, Ja,” someone says from the edge of the room, one of his squadmates snorting. 

Ja rolls his eyes, and tries his own combo against him, but he steps into the opening created to his left and kicks at his knee. 

He sees now why his body naturally went to that side; he’s right handed, but dexterous with both, his left hand as strong as his right. 

Ja stumbles in surprise, but he’s not done yet. He circles around the back, too quickly for the guy to keep up, and yanks hard on his tail. He nearly leaps into the air with his shout of pain. Around them, the voices jeer and laugh louder. 

Ja’s tail lashes. 

He goes back into the low crawl that feels natural, a teasing smile twitching the corners of his mouth as he circles. Looking for another opening. 

This is almost…fun, he has to admit. He feels he’s done this before even though he has no memory of it. 

“Tidy it up Ja, come on now,” Quaritch calls from his place. 

“Meant to be sparring, not playing boys,” the General adds. 

Ja draws himself back upright, ears flicking and arms coming back up to his side. 

But he doesn’t come out of his crouch, comfortable where he balances against his knuckles and the balls of his feet. 

He moves with a sudden burst of speed, launching himself towards Ja’s boots with the intent to bring him down. The guy’s tail is tense again, his whole body uptight so he reacts quickly, punching out with a hand that has him skittering back. Placing himself just out of Ja’s reach. 

The eyes watching him have become heavy with intrigue. Assessing, but nothing more. 

The jeers around them get a bit quiet the longer it’s dragged out. Seconds stretching into minutes as they dance around each other. At one point, he uses the ropes to gain a bit of a height advantage, try and throw himself at the guy, and the soldiers around them berate Ja for not watching his back. 

The move doesn’t work anyway, because the cloth stretched across blue shoulders gives no purchase, and he slides back to the floor. Rolling to get away from the stomping boots. 

“Keep going, kid!” someone shouts. 

“What is this, a play date? Punch him Ja!” 

He lets the rush of the fight get to him, adrenaline burning through his veins like fire. 

But then his opponent finally manages to swipe him away with one flailing arm when he ducks into that same opening. Fingers clipping the side of his face and sending him flying. 

Shock smooths out the pain, his body colliding with the ropes before landing with another muted thud against the mat. It’s jarring, knocking away the shadows of green he hadn’t noticed, and the ringing of distant laughter in his ears. He spends a few seconds flat on the ground, blinking at the ceiling again as his chest heaves. 

“--dismissed,” someone suddenly calls, cutting through the hint of a memory he had been scrabbling for and leaving behind a hollow kind of desperation. But also the aching in his cheeks as they’re spread by a wide smile. 

What was that? Was that him acting on instinct, his body moving by himself? But why only then? Why not when he was facing the first soldier, who’s probably now thinking he’s been cheated out of a really good fight. He burns with the want to know.

A hand suddenly appears in front of his nose, blue and dwarfing his own when he takes it. Ja pulls him upright, settling him back on his feet with a sort of awkward pat to his shoulders, then lets go once he’s stable. 

“Good fight, kid,” he says, as if he doesn’t really know how to talk to him. 

He almost asks to go again before Ja can turn away. Instead he keeps his mouth shut, and nods. Lets go of Ja’s hand like it's burnt him. Or he’s burning it. 

“That was more than a good fight!” a sudden, enthusiastic voice says, yanking his attention towards the head of R & D practically vibrating in place. They’ve nearly got stars in their eyes. “I only caught the end of your little spat, but the way you moved kid was so natural I could cry! How’d you do it? Was it inst–” 

“We will have time for questions later,” General Ardmore cuts in. “When we do our analysis.” 

He can tell by the twitch going on under her eye that she doesn’t really like them. 

“Did that jog anything, kid?” the General asks.

Should he mention that tiny flicker? It wouldn’t really be useful, besides the imprint is dying with every blink. He can’t even remember if it was the sound of laughter he’d heard, or the ringing made by his brain slapping the sides of his skull.

“No, m–General,” he replies. His heart thuds at the purse to her lips. “I think Ja needs to loosen up though.” 

From where he’s clambering over the ropes, Ja stops, turns, and frowns. 

He swallows thickly, but refuses to curl over, meeting the General’s gaze when she stares, one eyebrow raised.  

“His tail was tense the entire fight,” he tells her, barrelling through the immature snickers coming from Ja’s squadmates. “It threw off his balance, made it easy for me to duck in.” 

In the silence, he thinks he’s said the wrong thing. It stretches for so long that he opens his mouth to add something to fill it. 

But then the General hums, and says, “Interesting. It’ll have to wait, but it would be good for all recom squad members to become better acquainted with their new bodies before going out into the field again.” 

He blushes, ducking his head to stare at his toes. He feels eyes on him, but he doesn’t dare look up to see if they’re as pissed off as they feel. 

As they leave the training room, and step out into clean, sweat free air, his arm is caught by the R & D head, who tugs him close. 

“You sure you didn’t remember anything? Nothing at all, not even a glimpse?” they demand, nails digging into the meat of his arm. 

“Nothing,” he says, truthfully, because the flicker is completely gone now. Lost to the mire that slugs around his brain everytime he moves. 

Their gaze turns intense, staring into him like he’s a microscope. Quick as anything, they have a datapad in hand - mini, unlike the one the General sometimes totes around - and is holding it up against his forehead. 

He flinches at the sudden burst of movement, but isn’t able to bat it away before they’re drawing back. 

It’s an image of what he supposes is his brain. All bright, colourful flashing lights. He thought it’d look more scrambled than that. Maybe with one whole bit missing, or the front pasted to the back or something. 

“According to this,” they say, “there was a spike in your prefrontal about ten minutes ago. It was small, I’ll give you that, but it was something.” 

He’s pinned again by their intense gaze, unable to get away as the nails dig in harder. He tries to lean away, but they follow, saying, “Any ideas as to why that is, kid?” 

“A migraine maybe?” he tries. 

“You did brain yourself quite a few times against the floor, but that would affect this whole area,” they reply, gesturing to a bit in the middle of his brain vaguely. “Did you perhaps remember something small? An image or a noise maybe?” 

Behind them, the General clears her throat expectantly. But even that doesn’t loosen their grip on him. 

“If you’re keeping it from her, that’s fine,” they say quietly, a shiver racing along his spine at how dark their eyes go, “but I wouldn’t think lying to me would be a good idea. Considering I’m the one who’s meant to be helping you get your memories back. You do want that, right?” 

“If we could,” the General suddenly says, “before we block off this corridor completely.” 

Their nails unlatch, but their imprint will remain for what feels like hours later. He watches them pace away from him with his stomach rolling badly. He gets the feeling that they’re as scary as the General when pressured, angry, or don’t get what they want. But at the same time, what had come back to him was useless. And it’s too far gone to remember everything. 

Which is inevitably expected of him. 

He thinks that that’s it for the physical examinations. He’s proven he has little to no combat training, and isn’t able to take down a human, let alone one of Quaritch’s squad. But he’s not brought back to the small room he’s been held in.  

“General,” the scientist suddenly pipes up as they turn into a corridor he’s never seen before, “why are we bringing the kid into the heart of our defense sector?” 

He stops before he can collide into the tall blue woman’s back, nearly tripping over his own feet in the process. They’ve come to a stop next to a heavy metal door, a wall lined with masks he’s seen worn by other personnel around the base to its right. 

“I believe,” the General replies, tucking one mask under her arm and handing one to him, “that that’s on a need to know basis, considering the boy is under my jurisdiction. And you’re not on a need to know, doctor. Kid, put that on.” 

He startles, and nearly drops the thing on the ground. There’s too many bits to it to make sense of, so he waits and watches instead. Copying the General as she clips the box thing to her waistband and slips the thicker band over the back of her head. 

“I do realise that, ma’am,” the scientist replies, “but surely it’s detrimental to the integrity of our safety to let him see our defenses. Isn’t there a security breach in this?”

He hasn’t been made to change out of the clothes he woke up in. He’s pleasantly surprised to find a bit of his own waistband that’s nearly made for his box thing. He clips it on, and then fumbles a little with the mask to settle it over his face. 

He notices the tense silence around them once he’s finally gotten himself sorted. Quaritch and his squad don’t take their eyes off the General, every pair of ears pricked high against the side of their heads. 

“When you become General of a high security city,” Ardmore says, quietly, “with over one thousand personnel and a military arsenal the size of Japan under your control, then you and I may discuss what is and isn’t a security breach.” 

She takes a step so that she’s hovering over the scientist, and something in his stomach burns with revenge. 

“Until then, I will be taking the kid to test his familiarity with handling weapons, so that in the likelihood that your tests and examinations fail he’ll be able to leave these walls without being killed immediately,” she continues as the scientist shrinks into themselves. “You may accompany us if you wish, but only as an observer.” 

She doesn’t wait for an answer, simply throws the door open and blasts all of them with an influx of light and sound from outside. They stride through, and he has to cover his ears to get used to all the noise. 

The defense sector is really big, and full of people, machinery and even robots! They scuttle along the ground with a sort of purpose he wishes for. He lifts his foot to let one pass when it cuts across the pathway. It holds a piece of metal bigger than itself over its…head? How does it even do that…

“General, I still think–” the scientist protests, but a massive vehicle rumbles past, and he doesn’t hear the rest. He’s too focused on trying to watch it trundle by them. 

The person driving it notices his curiosity and waves from where they sit. He waves back in awe, unable to do anything else. It’s so much, all of it so overwhelming, and so cool! He’s never seen anything like it, and to be honest it’s giving him a bit of a headache. 

He can feel it just behind his eyes. 

He has to hurry to catch up, but Quaritch and his guys are so concentrated on what’s happening between the General and head scientist that no one even notices his approach. The tension that had been growing in the background, like a chill along his skin, has turned into an ice cold wind. 

Which doesn’t show any signs of dying down, as the scientist aims a glare at the back of the General’s head. 

“Here,” Ardmore says, leading the group towards a fenced off area, and also ignoring the glares, “is where we develop and test the newest designs for the weapons the company uses.” 

Here is a testing facility, decked out with ranged targets and training dummies nearly the same height as Quaritch. They’re surrounded by weapons of every type, some with their own training area separated from the rest. 

“It’s where you’ll collect your gear when your squad heads out into the forest for real, Colonel,” the General comments, placing her hands behind her back, “so best make yourself familiar with what we have.” 

Quaritch stares at her cooly for a moment, before making a simple hand gesture and scattering his squad. Quaritch himself doesn’t move, simply raising his eyebrow against her small frown and assessing gaze. 

“Try out whatever feels natural, kid,” she says when it’s clear neither are backing down, and he stalls where he is, shrinking under the gaze that’s now pressing against him. “I need to see what we’re working with.” 

In other words, prove how useful you can be. To her. Not to Quaritch or the head scientist. His heart thumps against his ribs as he takes in his options. 

Somehow he knows the handguns and sniper rifles taking up the rack to his left are a non runner. His skin itches when he looks at them, his stomach turning when he gets close enough to see their dark metal gleam in the sunlight coming through the open roof. He spies Ja inspecting one as he passes, and leaves him to it. 

He takes a spear-like weapon down first, considering its height against his own and then hefting it to test its weight. It feels unnatural, but he tries for an overhand spin with it anyway, just to show he’s actually trying. He misjudges, and its sharp end digs into the floor with a harsh sound, causing the whole thing to vibrate between his fingers and slip out of his grip. 

He glances up, expecting disappointed, clouded expressions. Only Quaritch has winced though, the head scientist is too busy with their nose buried in their datapad. Ardmore watches on. 

Hurriedly putting it back, he steps away from that option and wanders away from the long ranged weapons. The selection of what look like automated crossbows - and don’t ask him how he knows what’s what - piques his interest, but it feels uncomfortable when he aims one at the targets. 

His shot goes wide, and he thinks it nearly hits someone from the disembodied shout. He puts the thing down before he’s blamed for injuring anyone and backs away like it’ll shoot at him without being held. 

Again, nothing’s said, so he goes towards the selection of knives contained next to the training dummies. He can still feel eyes on him, but they’ve multiplied. Like everyone in his proximity is watching. 

Some of the dummies are nearly as tall as Quaritch and his squad, but at least one is his height. He tilts his head at them, and then considers the blades laid out on the metal table next to them. 

The knife he picks up is a bit smaller than his forearm, and wickedly sharp. When he holds it he can feel its perfect balance and comfortable weight, giving the thing a few experimental slashes. He lets his fingers twirl it once, because the eyes on his back are becoming expectant, and then he turns to the dummies. 

He pokes at one of their covers, to see if it’ll hold up against the blade, and then swipes a few more times before switching hands. A small noise escapes him at the similar amount of strength, trading the blade from one to the other as he circles. 

After a few more hits where the dummy sways on its chain, he moves to the taller one. Something about fighting at his height feels wrong. But so does fighting against an inanimate object. 

He falls into a rhythm anyway; quick jabs that leave the dummy as soon as they breach the cover, a few swipes that create distance, and even a couple swinging kicks that just feel natural. 

All noises of rummaging have cut off at this point. Out of the corner of his eye he can just make out Quaritch’s squad watching, and the glint of the scientist’s datapad which is now held up to their eyes. He ignores it, the adrenaline rush warming him from the inside and narrowing his peripheral. 

Tunnel vision, what a wild thing for humans to do. 

He doesn’t realise how concentrated he is, doesn’t notice that his movements have become purely instinctive. He doesn’t even need to think of where to put his feet and hands anymore. They just go where it feels natural, until his ‘opponent’ is covered in slashes and some of the sawdust inside is leaking to the ground. 

He’s pleasantly overheated, sweat collecting at his back and forehead. His breath hisses through the mask as it works through the wide, satisfied grin on his cheeks. 

The silence catches him off guard, and then the lack of greenery around makes everything lurch. He takes a step to keep his balance, latching a hand onto the dummy to keep from tipping. 

Did he– Was he meant to do that? Did he do something wrong? It felt exactly like it did going up against Ja but a lot more intense. He squeezes the handle of the blade and wonders at how natural it feels. 

The General and the scientist are staring at him, one with far more emotion in their gaze than the others. He shrinks under the attention, noticing that the scientist is hissing something at the General. Almost going as far as to elbow her, although the glare that’s cut towards them stops their arm midway. 

He glances between them, and goes to put the knife back when the General says, “Who taught you to fight like that?” 

“Huh?” he asks. 

“I said,” the General asks again, her jaw tense, “who taught you to fight like that?” 

He did hear her the first time, but her patience is wearing thin. He doesn’t want to have his head bitten off in place of the person who’s actually pissing her off. 

“Um,” he says first, to fill the silence he hadn’t been spending thinking, “I don’t–” 

“Were you trained in multiple forms?” she asks instead. She’s easing him towards it, because he’s not going to remember straight away. 

“I think so,” he replies, even though his headache throbs and his fingers ache when he flexes them. “At least, I know about hand-to-hand, and bladework.” 

“How do you know?” she asks, and he shrugs. 

“Feels natural,” he offers, because he doesn’t have anything else.

“Can you think of who would have taught you,” the scientist suddenly butts in. The General’s shoulders rise. “Maybe the security guys who chose to stick behind? Were there training videos or something?” 

He’s not gonna get out from under their paw if he doesn’t answer, or try to give something other than ‘I’m not thinking about it’.

He considers the two instances, side by side, and follows the idea that he hasn’t had to think about it. It’s muscle memory, but where did it come from? Someone must’ve given it to him so that he could practice it enough to not have to think. 

He’s onto something, his headache spiking again. In front of him, the scientist hisses something excitedly, but it’s drowned out by the noise around them and the roaring of his blood between his ears. 

“Kid?” someone, the General he thinks, asks. He’s been quiet too long, but he’s now chasing this trail for his own curiosity and not just to be useful. 

With the biggest spike in pain, he dredges something up from the dark recesses of his brain. A scant flicker, but it gives him something. 

A forest, burnt orange by the setting sun. Logs– branches, no, tree trunks of varying sizes lodged in the ground surrounding him. The handle of a blade fitting against his palm, too big, too small, then just right. The familiar burning in his muscles of a job well done, lungs hitching with gasping breaths that he’s wrangling back into control and–

The overwhelming sense of loneliness. 

“Me,” he finally gasps out, letting the knife fall to the floor with a harsh clatter when he digs his hands into his knees to stay on his feet. “It was– Me. I trained myself.” 

He gasps a few more times, before glancing up and repeating, “I taught myself how to fight.” 

It’s not the answer they were looking for. The General’s gaze shutters, and the scientist's arms flop, the datapad falling from where it had (obviously) been taking another scan of his brain. His stomach curdles a little at the sense that his answer wasn’t useful at all. 

She holds a mouthful of coffee over her tongue as the head scientist tries to reason their way around the hot fucking mess they’ve made. And she can say that, because it is a hot, steaming, fucking mess. 

Their one asset, and lead to Jake Sully, can’t remember where the clan is hiding, can’t even remember his own name. And the best they can eke out of him is that he trained himself how to fight with a knife, and that he knows self-defense, which is obviously Na’vi in style. 

And that was only because the head scientist went against her, practically demanding that she ask further questions because his prefrontal cortex was spasming all over the place. She’d been so close to punching them, and still is. If they keep blabbering that is. 

If they try anything harder, more difficult than trivial questions, try and get any detail out of him? It causes the kid a jarring migraine and a nosebleed that looks a lot like a setback. 

The other tests and examinations the scientist has tried haven't gotten anything better. And when Ardmore’d tried showing him a map of the forest again, his eyes had gone wide with wonder. But he hadn’t recognised any of it. 

And yet, the scientist still thinks they can fix this. 

“--and really, who knows what could happen out in the forest?” the scientist continues. Ardmore keeps her eyes locked on the window, watching the boy idly pick through the plate of bland cafeteria food. “He could trip and fall out of a tree, causing more damage! Surely–” 

She fades them out again and finally swallows her gulp of coffee. It’s just right this time, and it doesn’t scald her throat on the way down. Beside her, Quaritch shuffles, like he knows how much her irritation is growing. The Private, a different one this time, tenses. 

“If you’d let me take him to the labs for a day, we could do a detailed, in depth scan. We could also perform some basic skill tests to make sure he’s definitely suited for the field, otherwise it’d be like sending out a lamb into pasture without its mother–” 

She’s had enough. She’s had more than enough, she’s going to gag them before they can even shut their mouth. Who’s in charge here? Who’s running this whole joint? Why do they think they have the right to call the shots? 

She puts down her coffee cup hard enough for the scientist to shut up. The silence becomes deafening as the leather of her boots creaks. 

“I believe that you’ve come to think that whatever you want, you will get,” she says, once she’s facing them. “Tell me, does rank mean nothing in your labs?” 

“No, m–General,” they say, suitably cowed. Their cheeks have become pale, the temperature in the room now ice cold. 

“So then, why do you think it is suitable for a scientist to tell a General what should be done with their prisoner?” she asks, and before they can answer she adds, “Is it not under the jurisdiction of the General to decide such matters?” 

“Yes, General.” 

“Is this situation any different from what happens within your labratories?” 

“No, General. But I’m not deciding, only suggesting–” 

“You were suggesting, Doctor,” she interrupts. “But now it has become prevalent to me that your suggestions are evolving into orders and demands.” 

They don’t drop their gaze, but they do begin to shuffle nervously. 

“That boy,” she says, pointing behind her to where the kid is still sitting on the metal table, “is our asset to Jake Sully and the Omatikayan insurgents. If you cause more damage, we run the risk of losing what small advantage we have by containing him.” 

Beside her, the Private is barely breathing. Whilst she’s nearly losing control of her own. She lets her hand drop and steps forward so she’s nearly looming over them.  

“I can see that this situation is in need of a more certain direction,” she says, “which is why, as of tomorrow, the kid will be placed under Quaritch’s supervision with the Sec-Ops squad.” 

The scientist splutters, but she raises her voice to speak over them. 

“They will go into the forest to see if they cannot accumulate to their new bodies through more natural methods. And perhaps jog some of the kid’s memories. You were the one to mention familiar surroundings, correct?” 

She glances over her shoulder, and lets her own smugness burn hot in her chest. “Until a time that I feel they are appropriate, your tests and examinations will not be a priority.” 

Their nose flares, and their shoulders hitch back like they’re offended. But under the eyes of the Private, and Quaritch, they can’t do anything but nod, and say, “As you wish, General.” 

She refrains from waving as they exit, but it’s a near thing. She picks up her coffee mug again instead, wraps her fingers around it and lets out a slow breath through her nose. The tense knot at the base of her spine loosens nicely. 

“This is not the familial route, Colonel,” she says as they watch a guard step into the boy’s room to take his empty plate. “I want it strictly professional.” 

“Yes, General,” he replies, and she’s pleased to note there’s no hint of displeasure in his voice. 

And her next sip of coffee is especially good. 

Chapter Text

NOW

He scrabbles against the hand around his wrist. Scratches at the blue fingers which nearly encompass the width of his arm to make them let go. They tighten, press against his skin until it nearly turns white and he’s hissing at the pain.

Wrenching against his arm does nothing to dislodge it. If anything, the fingers tighten, and nearly cut off his circulation. 

His sudden fighting takes the Colonel off guard. 

He yelps in surprise and pain, though the skin’s not broken. The Colonel’s head snaps around like a branch swinging back into place, his glare turning ice cold as he digs his heels into the sand. Bringing them to a halt.

The Colonel’s so tall that his pulling does nothing. His feet don’t even slip in the sand, even though he tries really, really hard. They move an inch, but then the Colonel’s stepping forward anyway and regaining his balance easily. 

He meets the Colonel’s glare and hisses angrily. He’s not sure why, it’s almost instinct at this point. Or maybe it’s because he doesn’t like the emotions clouding the guy’s glare. There’s too many to make out, too much that he doesn’t understand. 

He focuses instead of what he can understand. That he wants to get away from here. Away from him. 

“Colonel!” someone calls.

He turns his head to hiss at them too, to get them to stay away. He can only fight one person, not an entire fucking squad. 

Around them, the villagers have descended into chaos, shouting for help and for them to leave and for peace until someone in the squad loses patience and fires a couple shots into the sky. Causing more screaming, and crying. 

The Colonel’s ears flinch at the noise, and the same voice that had called for his orders before tries to reprimand the soldier - human, not one of the squad. In the sky, the flying creatures - ikran - screech in surprise. 

The control on the situation, however loose it was, is quickly disintegrating around them. And the Colonel’s realising how little time he has until it goes completely and they’re only left with chaos. 

He hisses, and yanks the forefinger pressing painfully into his pulse point. If he can get one free, then surely the rest will follow. 

“Stop it kid–” the Colonel tries to protest, but he keeps pulling. 

He keeps fighting him. Breaking away from the mold of a good, obedient squad member. Something in his body needs to get away. Right now. 

“Orders, Colonel!” that person shouts again, their boots kicking up clods of sand as their gun clicks with its reload. They’re not blanks, they’re going to shoot to kill. 

He struggles harder as the silence stretches, feet digging into the sand and snarling at anything that moves close to him. 

“Colonel, orders!” 

THEN

By the time the door slides open again, his tray is licked clean, shiny under the bright lights. The guards posted outside had handed it to him a while after he’d gotten back from the training centre.  

Tasteless and without texture, the bland white foodstuff had been inhaled as soon as he’d been able to wrap his fingers around the spoon. Shovelled past his tongue and tastebuds and turned into pure energy for his muscles and bones which had been screaming at him ever since he’d sat down. 

Maybe he’d worked himself too hard. Two fights and a demonstration of his latent knife skills could possibly do that to a body which has been sitting idle for a few days. Whatever the case, the exercise had worked up his appetite, and his tongue hadn’t had time to complain about the aftertaste because his body had already accepted the food’s necessity. 

If he was going to be able to make sense of anything else that’ll happen today, he’d need food to power through. It leaves his stomach still begging for more, clamouring for something spicy enough to warm him from the inside out. 

Where would he have found enough spice to do that? Does he even like spicy food? He wonders if food had been a sort of adventure for him before all this. Discovering new things he loved to eat, and blatantly ignoring bland foodstuffs. Surely his stomach and his tongue would be used to regiment rations and cafeteria meals if that wasn’t the case. 

Maybe he could ask for something different when they come back.  

His head perks up when the door slides open, but his fingers falter halfway between the edge of the table when he sees it is not the guards coming to collect his leftovers. He snatches his hand back, and pushes himself to his feet instead. 

“Oh good,” the General says when she crosses the threshold, “you’ve eaten. I’m afraid that was all we could offer in terms of food. The cafeteria only had the hot and sour soup left, which wouldn’t have travelled well with the long walk.” 

Quaritch has to tilt his head to avoid braining it against the edge of the door, but he takes position to the General’s right. “Kinda hard to get anything else on Tuesdays,” he comments. 

Is there something special about the food on Tuesdays?

“Why’re you here? I completed your exams for today, didn’t I?” he asks instead.

He’d been caught and pinned by the head scientist as soon as they’d stepped away from the weapons container, cache, thing. They’d brandished their datapad in front of his face, when his head had still been throbbing slightly, and demanded he point out where Jake Sully might be hiding. 

Why they thought he would have an answer now when he hadn’t this morning he doesn’t get. He hadn’t been able to do anything other than stare at how expansive the forest looked, and wince through a sharp spike in his headache. 

And now that his stomach is satiated, he kinda wants to sleep for a little bit, if that’s allowed. 

“Yes,” she says, “no more exams, no more tests. We’re here to talk about what’s happening next.” 

That’s not ominous at all. “What is happening next?” he asks, working to keep his hands loose at his sides. 

“That depends,” the General tells him, and his stomach clenches. “From what you’ve shown us, you have a general knowledge in weaponry and hand to hand combat that surpasses the ordinary grunt. Not every soldier can go up against a trained Private and come away without a concussion. Not to mention your fighting style.” 

She trails off, and in the few moments of silence, she assesses him. Stares at him. He wishes he could duck under the table, but he strengthens his stance instead, lines his spine with iron steel and meets her eyes.  

“Placing you out in the field might be just what’s needed to jog your memory,” she says.  

There’s a big ‘but’ hovering somewhere in front of him. He waits for it to drop, glancing between the Colonel and the General and trying to get his stomach to stop tying itself into knots. 

“But,” there it is, “we don’t know your capability with taking orders, or working in a squad dynamic. There is also the fact that you have the information we need to find Jake Sully and his insurgents. We have every right and advantage to keep you on base, and behind our safe walls until you give us what we need.” 

His head starts spinning as his heart thumps behind his ribcage. He feels sick. Pressing his fingertips against the edge of the cold table chases away some of that feeling.  

Quaritch hasn’t moved much, so when he takes a step forward, towards him, he jolts. Wide eyes locking onto the Colonel as his heartrate skyrockets. Is he going to be dragged away now? Brought back into the claws of the head scientist?

“Starting today, you will be placed under Colonel Quaritch’s jurisdiction,” she says. “You will train with his squad, learn about the planet, and head out on expeditions into the forest, both as reconnaissance and physical therapy.” 

He frowns at the intense look Quartich is aiming at the General’s head. He must’ve been told this in advance right? These types are always going off about standard protocol. Or maybe he was, and he’d protested, but the General had ignored Quaritch’s complaints.  

The Colonel opens his mouth, but the General speaks right over him. “I am of the opinion that sense and muscle memory is the only way, in this situation, to amend the damage. It will be a good thing for the Colonel and his squad, too.” 

Quaritch’s jaw tightens, and he takes his previous position. This time, glaring at the opposite wall. 

“They have the perfect opportunity to get used to their bodies. Both through regulated training, and free exploration,” she says, “seeing as the last time didn’t go as planned.”

There’s silence, and she watches him expectantly. 

“We’ll be taking you to the housing quarters to get you settled,” she says. She doesn’t notice how tense Quartich’s shoulders are. “Then I’ll leave you in the Colonel’s care so he can explain the recom squad’s new mandate.” 

Quartich hadn’t been expecting that, apparently. 

“Ma’am,” the Colonel says as she turns to head out the door, “surely this would be a waste of your time? I’m perfectly capable of showing the boy to our barracks.” 

“Not at all,” she says, eyes sparkling with something that’s not excitement. “In fact, I was heading that way to check on the new recruits. Puts a bit of fear into them when their General completes an inspection, right?” 

There’s no arguing with her.

“Lead on, General,” is all Quaritch says, and she nods in approval before the door slides open again. 

He follows uncertainly. Leaving a gap between himself and the Colonel whose smoldering, angry gaze makes him wary. Note to self, don’t get on his bad side, unless he wants a really nice black eye. Or the fear put into him, whatever that is.  

“The barracks are on the other side of the defense sector and training grounds,” the General explains once they’re out the silence of the corridors. “Next to the air strip and Aviation for efficient mobilisation.” 

He’ll have to memorise a map of this place. Already he feels turned around and confused. 

“Science Operations need to gain permissions to pass through the defense sector, and vice versa,” she tells him. “We’ll need to get you an ID of some kind, to make sure you’re not shipped to the Mining Corps.” 

She smirks at the shock painted across his face. It might be a joke, but he knows better now than to assume based on her expression. Quaritch also remains silent behind him, so he doesn’t laugh.

The defense sector is a lot quieter than it was this morning, but there is still some activity causing a racket that bounces off the metal walls. Those same small robots crawl across the floor, a quick rattle of gunfire draws his attention to the squadron using the targeting range, and amongst it all, the general hubbub of construction work drills into his head. 

They pause to let a massive bipedal machine walk past. It raises a hand in salute to the General as it goes, the glass top of its cockpit glinting in the late afternoon light, revealing the pilot inside. 

He gapes at the thing in open awe. 

“An AMP,” Quaritch says. “Not as limber as an exoskeleton, but it can do some damage.”

“They’ll be decommissioned soon for more developed models,” the General adds. “Too many casualties caused by that damn cockpit.” 

“Right,” he says quietly. He can see why; any well aimed hit would expose the pilot to the air outside. A second would take them out immediately. 

The section of the base they head towards isn’t as developed. For one, the metal floor gives way to the soft, crumbly earth. The gleaming cranes that stretch towards the sky, also don’t interact with this area. It actually makes it a lot more peaceful. Kind of. 

“These pods are regiment standard,” the General explains as they get closer. “Developed and improved from the ones used in the Arctic wars. Built to last the lighter gravity and toxic atmosphere. It’d take a sword to pierce through the covering.” 

The white pods - rounded structures dug into the ground - are placed in rows. Straight as anything, there’s enough space between each to allow a vehicle to drive past. And for the soldiers to spread themselves out as they want to. 

They sit outside the heavy metal doors, some stretched out to enjoy the light and heat baking them from above. The glass of their masks glinting as the rays hit them. A few groups toss a ball between them, laughing when one drops it at noticing their little group. 

A soldier brings a large plate filled with food into a pod, whilst her buddy stands half naked over a smoking fire. 

“Colonel, I’ll leave him in your hands for now,” the General suddenly says. He doesn’t really like how thin her lips have gotten. “It seems I need to reiterate our company’s policy on free time. You’ll need to make sure your squad is up to date.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” Quaritch says, but she’s already striding towards the first row of pods. Where the soldiers are already trying to scramble away from her impending wrath, grabbing for the incriminating evidence. 

“Best leave her to it, kid,” Quaritch says, when he stands watching for a bit too long. The Colonel is walking away by the time he drags his gaze away, and he has to jog to catch up with his long strides. 

“Here’s where we’re housed,” Quaritch explains, turning down one of the rows. It’s not so different from the others, although it is a bit quieter. “The higher-ups have their digs in the base itself. Means they’re close in an emergency.” 

“Hm,” he says, watching as a human tugs their mask off to take a massive gulp of his drink before sliding it back on again. His fingers trail against the bottom of his own exopack. 

“Each pod has a regulated atmosphere and temperature. So we don’t waste supplies sweating through our blankets or suffocate in our sleep,” the Colonel continues. “They have their own amenities, although you’ll be sharing with the squad.” 

“Oh,” he says. That doesn’t sound fun at all. But he doesn’t have the room to complain.  

“In here,” Quaritch says, pausing outside pod 216. “We’ll get you settled, introduce you to the squad. The General will be too busy to explain our new mandate.” 

Quaritch glances over his shoulder, as if Ardmore is going to bustle up towards them in a muted fury. When no one joins them, he pushes the first of the heavy doors open. It hisses, oxygen escaping into the world outside as an alarm beeps at them. Quaritch ushers him through with an arm, and closes that door behind himself. 

The airlock space, where the atmosphere regulates before the main entrance opens, is a tight squeeze. But he manages to detangle himself from the exopack without elbowing the Colonel in the gut. And then stores it in one of two empty see-through boxes without stepping on his toes.

“We’ll get another to act as a spare,” Quaritch tells him once it's tucked away. He hadn’t actually thought of that, but he nods. “You’ll also need to be in charge of them. I won’t be checking the battery levels or anything.” 

“Yes,” he says, tacking on a “sir,” at the end for good measure. He’ll need to ask someone how he even charges the things. He doesn’t see any sort of instructions, and every pack he’s been handed so far has been fully charged already.  

“Kid,” Quaritch says, just as he’s resting a hand on the door handle. “Watch what you say with the squad. They’re still a bit tetchy and wound up.”

Is it because he nearly wiped the floor with one of them? That sounds a bit immature and petty. Or is it something more? Should he pay attention to what his gut’s saying and not speak at all? 

The door is thrown open before he gets to decide, and the peace that had been created by the small airlock space is lost. A wall of laughter, jeering, joking and voices overwhelms him, music blasting from a corner of the pod rattling his bones and vibrating in his chest. It’s so loud. 

He remembers from the other day seeing the six squad members of the SecOps and not thinking much of them. Not because they weren’t professional, but because they hadn’t done anything else other than watch him. Ja had been the only interaction, but even that hadn’t given him much. 

Here, this relaxed secluded space gives him an opportunity to revise his first impressions. 

Two of them sit hunched on a bunk, standard issue uniforms cast off in favour of bare chests and shoulders to beat back the heat in the pod. The one thing the designers failed to think of; good air flow. Sweat gleams along their shoulder blades as they glare at each other. Cards slip in their hands, both of their tails flicker. 

One narrows his eyes, and slaps a bright blue card on top of the pile in between them. He watches as the other laughs, and holds up another that he can’t see. 

“Down and out,” they say. Their hands are now empty. 

A ball sailing past them into Ja’s hands distracts him, and his eyes snap over to watch as the guy yelps at the strength of the throw. The back of his legs hit the edge of the bed, and he tips over backwards. A woman cackles loudly, high fiving the dude in sunglasses.

“Might wanna improve your form,” she calls as Ja struggles back upright. 

“Shut up, Z,” he shoots back. “Not everyone has a monster arm.” 

It takes a loud clearing of Quaritch’s throat for them to be noticed. Everyone in the pod freezes, one of the card players turning his head to make sure it really is the Colonel, before they start scrambling.

The cards get swept underneath the blanket, too hurriedly as a few end up on the floor. They snatch their shirts from the opposite bed as a guy, who had been sitting languidly in the corner, hurries to his bunk. 

The guy in sunglasses heaves Ja to his feet, and the woman snatches the ball from the floor. It’s thrown in a random direction, clanging against something that might be important, and then the woman takes position too. Each stands rigidly, hands behind their backs and chins lifted. 

“Welcome back, Colonel,” the guy who had been relaxing says. 

“Welcome back, sir!” the squad says in unison. 

“I see you’re enjoying your slot of free time,” Quaritch says. “But it seems we’re lacking in our training in spatial awareness, otherwise you would’ve noticed us a lot sooner.” 

The squad members straighten further. 

“Apologies, sir,” says one of them, “that was my fault, I had the music too loud.” 

“Indeed,” the Colonel replies. “In future, it would be wise to keep the noise to a healthy level. It seems our new ears are much more sensitive than we first thought.” 

“Sir!” 

The silence stretches. He glances at Quaritch, wondering how long he’ll make them sweat for, before the Colonel turns to him. 

“We have a new mandate to follow,” he says. “The General is expecting detailed reports on our progress in getting used to our new bodies both inside the training centre, and with goal oriented missions into the forest” 

“Are we not taking down the insurgents, Colonel?” the same guy as before asks. 

“That’s secondary for the moment,” Quaritch says. “Until we gain intel into any attacks, we’re on the bench.” 

They exchange glances, side eyes that don’t look pleased. He’s surprised they don’t start glaring at him, he’s the reason they can’t go on the hunt. 

“We also have a new squad member, who will help us achieve the greatest results,” Quaritch continues, and the heat of the Colonel’s hand against his shoulder makes his stomach turn. “The kid, as you’ve seen, has innate skills which will aid our fight in the long run. We’re to learn from him as much as we can.”

He’s not sure what he was expecting. The dead silence he gets was a possibility, but actually standing in it…he doesn’t like it. They don’t like him, or maybe it’s something more than that. 

“Squad members don’t have ranks,” Quaritch explains, and it takes him a second to realise it’s him he’s speaking to. “Everyone’s on an even standing, ‘cept for me, so you’ll address them by name.” 

It kind of makes sense. He’s not going to ask for more details. 

“Over there we have Wainfleet,” Quaritch tells him, gesturing to the guy who’d been playing music. “Then we have Prager, and Lopez,” the two card players, “Mansk,” the guy with sunglasses propped on his forehead, “and Zdinarsik.” 

Each squad member openly stares at him. Zdinarisk and Lopez look like his presence is a physical offense, so he doesn’t keep eye contact. 

“And, of course, you know Ja,” Quaritch finishes, choosing to ignore the increase of tension within the pod. The friendly nod that’s sent his way does little to loosen his shoulders, although something small in his chest warms. 

“I look forward to working with you,” he says as quietly as he can without murmuring. He gets the feeling that he should stay very, very small. Do everything in Tiny. 

“Sir, what about finding Sully?” Lopez asks. 

“He’s gone to ground,” Quaritch tells them, and someone clicks their tongue, while the others shuffle agitatedly. “Haven’t seen hide nor hair. But it don’t matter.” 

Quaritch waits until they’ve settled again, before saying, “We’ll train with the kid to get used to our more native bodies; traversal and combat sessions will give us an advantage we didn’t have before. Finding Sully and his batshit wife means we need to go native. Be Na’vi. This’ll be where we then go into the forest, applying what we learn with the real world.”  

“Train, sir?” Zdinarisk asks, her jaw working a pink thing between her teeth. “Surely we’re doing all the trainin’ we need to?” 

“Surely?” Quaritch asks, with a raised eyebrow and a tone that screams judgemental. “Any soldier who thinks they’ve done enough, trained enough, is dead and buried six feet under.” 

Zdinarisk’s throat bobs as she swallows. 

“If it’s a question of time, we’ll change our timetable,” Quartich adds. “Get rid of the strategy sessions, shorten the distance runs and make lunch only forty minutes.” 

More than a few gazes widen. 

“If we want to catch up, that’s what it’s gonna take,” the Colonel tells them. It sounds so intense, and he wonders if this has been hiding underneath the quiet veneer Quaritch has kept whenever the General’s around. 

“Unless you don’t want to honour our comrades?” Quaritch asks. 

“Sir!” they call out again. 

“Good,” he replies. “We’ll start the new regimen in the morning. For now, you can settle until lights out. One of you should help the kid get sorted in one of the free bunks.” 

“Not going to do your ‘Welcome to Pandora’ speech, Colonel?” Prager asks, and Lopez elbows him with a hiss. 

“I believe he’s already had a suitable welcoming speech,” Quaritch replies. 

When did that happen?

“Bunk next to Prager is yours kid. Just make sure you have what you need before settling.” 

Even though the Colonel turns away then, lowering his head to discuss something with Wainfleet, the tension ratchets up another level. All eyes land on him, each nearly burning a hole into his head. And he hasn’t even said anything yet.

It’s an agonising walk towards the empty bunk, his gaze locked on his toes as whispers fly over his head. Some about his hair, one about the blue smudged paint on his arms and legs and a couple about his clothing, or lack of. 

One stands out among the rest; “First we need t’change the oxygen levels in our own pod, and now we’re giving the kid our fri–” 

It’s cut off with a grunt, like someone dug their elbow into their friend’s gut. Maybe this bed he’s getting was someone else’s before him. Now that he notices it, there’s at least five empty beds stretching towards the back of the pod. And only one of them has a blanket and pillow on top. 

Are they for future members? Or ones who haven’t gotten here yet.  

“It’s been a week,” someone whispers as he reaches the empty mattress, “they’re not gonna send anymore to us.” 

“No, because our damn bodies cost millions of dollars,” another answers. “And they didn’t account for batshit crazy bitches.” 

“Only a week, huh?” Thought it was longer.” 

“With these Pandoran nights, it’s easy to think that way,” Ja suddenly says. “They’re at least two hours longer than the ones on Earth.” 

“D’you have to fill the silence with your general knowledge bullshit?” Lopez snaps.

He glances up to see Ja flinching, even though Lopez doesn’t sound as annoyed as he could be.  

He doesn’t have any stuff to put on the bed, but he’s also a bit hesitant to sit down as he’s been told. Something about it and the bunks beside him have become a sort of empty yawning space. Sucking out all the air. 

Around him, the rest of the squad have finally dispersed from their rigid positions, settling back onto their beds. The card players continue their game with a more muted volume. 

He inspects his bed while they’re distracted, reaching out to rub the blanket between his fingers and wincing a little at the rough texture. The pillow is hard too, the fabric scratchy, and when he presses against the mattress it springs back just as quickly when he lifts his hand. 

“It’s made of cardboard,” Ja suddenly says, from where he sits diagonally across from him. He crosses his legs over the blanket spread across his own bed, and points at the frame. “More environmentally friendly. The Japanese developed them for the Olympic games back in the twenty-first century.” 

“And they think it’s good enough for us grunts,” Zdinarisk says. “Whoop-dee fuckin’ doo. I suppose they made them weaker than those ones to really keep us from bangin’ each other.” 

“Like that stopped a few of us,” Lopez suddenly says. 

From where he stands, he can’t see his expression - his head turned to look at Zdinarisk - but something about it makes her cackle, and Ja rolls his eyes. 

“Seriously?” 

“What?” Lopez protests. “It’s true isn’t it? We got the proof right in front of us.” 

“Shut up,” Ja says, reaching down and throwing a sock at Lopez. “You’re about to lose, y’know?” 

Lopez squawks, and he leans over to watch Prager put his last card down, a yellow seven. Lopez wails loudly, and throws the rest of his hand down. “How?!” he demands. 

“Pure strategy baby,” Prager says, leaning back against his hands. “And it helped that you were distracted.” 

“One of these days,” Lopez growls into his hands before lifting his head, “I will prove that you’re cheating.” 

“I’d love to see it.” 

“Keep it PG please,” Zdinarisk says, “there are young ears present.” 

He jolts at being noticed, and ducks his head when Ja turns to look at him. 

“Bed’s not gonna bite you, kid,” he says. 

He gingerly sits on its edge. Keeping his expression neutral and eyes on the blanket. 

“If you lot are done gabbin’,” Quaritch says over the general ruckus, “I believe it's lights out. We’re up early to grab some grub before the training mats can be claimed.” 

“Yes sir.” 

The others hurry to a small offshoot room at his words, Prager tripping on the edge of a bed frame when the lights suddenly dim. 

“You can go wash up there, if you’d like,” Ja tells him. “It’s communal.” 

He doesn’t know what that means, but he thinks it's not a good thing by the way the guy’s nose wrinkles. He heads towards it anyway. The sweat clinging to his hairline from the mask is starting to itch.

When he clambers into his bed, having washed off the gunk - and tried scrubbing against some of the blue on his skin which isn’t coming off soon - he realises something's missing. 

It’s too quiet in the pod. All he hears are the quiet breaths around him, and the occasional shuffling of blankets when one of them moves. There should be more. Someone muttering in their sleep, or snoring maybe. Or more natural ambient noises. The silence is too stifling, too heavy. 

He ends up tossing and turning all night, heart aching around he can’t remember. 

“Awe come on,” Zdinarisk goads, circling the edge of the training mat in a crouched position, “y’ain’t got skills.” 

He watches from the opposite side as Mansk follows, tail flickering behind him freely to keep his balance. 

He’s keeping his arms crossed because otherwise he’d be reaching forward to fix both their stances. Mansk is too low to the ground, and Zdinarisk isn’t low enough. Why isn’t anyone saying anything to fix that?

“I wouldn’t tempt him, hermana,” Lopez calls from where he’s wrestling Prager to the ground. He doesn’t even sound strained as he adds, “Mansk can be a mean son of a bitch when he’s tempted.” 

“You expect me to believe that when he hasn’t even–” 

She’s cut off by Mansk charging into her midsection, using her distraction and lack of balance against her. Zdinarisk lands flat on her back, head bouncing against the soft mat as Mansk pins her hips down. She thrashes and hisses but can’t get him off. 

“Point,” Wainfleet says. He’s inspecting one of his knives critically, completely ignoring the sparing going on around him except to call the fights when someone falls. “Don’t be distracted by things around you Z-dog, otherwise–” 

“It’ll be a straight shot back to Earth in a body bag,” Zdinarisk grumbles, shoving at Mansk’s shoulder. “Would ya get off?”

“Kid,” Quaritch says, quietly so that the others can’t hear over their jeers. Lopez and Prager are now fighting to get each other into a headlock. When he glances at the Colonel, he raises his eyebrows and tilts his head towards the fighting pairs. 

Is he…actually asking for his opinion? He wants to know what he thinks. His palms are actually getting a little sweaty wow. 

“Thoughts?” Quaritch asks, and he jolts. Must’ve kept him waiting too long. 

“You’re actually asking the kid?!” Zdinarisk says incredulously, pushing herself up from the mat. “Does our own opinions not matter, Colonel?” 

“They do,” Quaritch replies diplomatically, jaw tight “but from where I stand, he’s the one with the most experience and expertise.” 

“Yeah, from what knowledge?” Lopez asks, before yelping when Prager yanks on his tail. 

“Kid doesn’t have any memories, right?” Zdinarisk asks, her jaw working her piece of gum harshly. He’d asked what it was that morning, and she’d pulled it out and nearly stuck it on the end of his nose while laughing. He didn’t find it funny. “How do we know what he’ll teach us is actually useful, or correct? Could be something he scraped together, an imitation of their styles.” 

“If it is, then it’s damn more useful than the training we get from the company,” Ja cuts in. “I’d be happy to be critiqued by the kid. It could be the difference between dying out there and getting back alive.” 

“Oh god,” Zdinarisk groans. 

“Ja’s already adopted the stray,” Prager jeers from where he’s pinning Lopez’s arms to the ground. “Quick, take him away before he starts mother henning the guy.” 

“Shut up,” Ja grumbles, crossing his arms. 

“The kid,” Quaritch says over the noise level, “has already demonstrated some innate knowledge for the native fighting style. Which is why I’m asking his opinion rather than yours, Zdinarisk.” 

Her eyes turn flinty, and she blows a bubble in her gum. 

“Unless,” Quaritch says, “you want to continue as you have and be constantly on the back foot in this body?” 

Her bubble pops, and she waves everything off with an irritated noise. 

A short “hmph” escapes Quaritch, but then he waves his hand towards the training mat. Prager and Lopez have frozen where they are, limbs and tails tangled but watching intently. Eyes flitting between Zdinarisk and the Colonel. Like they expect him to do more. 

“Kid,” Quaritch says. 

He’s looking at him expectantly. Eyebrows still raised, chin gesturing him towards the open space. He has to swallow hard, and steel himself to take the first step. He’d been prepared to give opinions, sure. Maybe that’s where he made his first mistake; he shouldn’t have assumed that he’d be allowed to stay in the shadows. 

The training mat squeaks under his toes, and he takes a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. He can really feel all eyes on him now, and he might just throw up if he doesn’t get his shit together. 

Zdinarisk has paced to the other side of the mats, and she watches him approach with open anger. It’s not quite hatred, yet, but she obviously doesn’t like it that a kid is going to give her tips on how to fight. 

By her muscles alone, she’s trained for years. He could never match up. 

He goes to Mansk first, stopping just out of arm’s reach. He doesn’t give him a wave, although he feels he should just to break the ice that’s formed around everything. 

 “Your stance,” he says, Mansk’s brow furrowing, “it’s too low to the ground.” 

He lowers himself until his knees protest a little, imitating Mansk’s movements with his arms out to keep his balance. “Moving like this means you don’t have use of your arms. They’re out here all the time, keeping you on your feet,” he explains, flapping his hands and wobbling a little. 

Mansk’s ears twitch. 

“But, if you lift your chest,” he does so, letting his arms drop, “and use your tail a bit more, and the flat of your feet, you’ll have them back.” 

Zdinarisk chuffs a short laugh, but Mansk keeps watching. Eyes flickering over every limb until he lowers himself again. But not as much as last time; he’s taken the note. 

With a grunt, and a short nod, he moves as he did before, testing out the new position. Mansk is quicker across the mat, and from where Prager and Lopez are still tangled up together they make small noises of interest. 

“Feel the difference?” he asks when Mansk takes a few experimental swipes. He nods again, completely concentrating on how his body’s moving across the space. Focussing on every step. 

“What about her, kid?” Quaritch says, and Zdinarisk clicks around her piece of gum. 

She mutters darkly, something about not taking orders from a snot nosed kid. He ignores her, and stands at his full height. She doesn’t like him; fine, he doesn’t have to like her. 

“She’s not adjusting at all,” he says bluntly, and Zdinarisk glares at him. “You’re not low enough to the ground so your balance is focused on keeping you upright and not in a fighting position. Your tail is stiff, limiting your maneuverability. You’re also absorbing too much weight in your knees with heavy steps.” 

“Ooh,” Lopez calls, voice muffled from Prager’s hand pressing against his mouth, “someone’s not as perfect as she thinks.” 

“If you relax your tail, bend your knees a bit,” he continues, demonstrating, “Mansk won’t be able to shove you over so easily.” 

She crosses her arms mulishly. 

“Or you could get thrown to the mat every time,” he says with a shrug. “Not my problem.” 

The snapping of her gum is extra loud this time, and yet she crouches. Not enough, but it's an improvement. At least this time when Mansk crashes into her, Zdinarisk stays mostly upright. Mostly, considering she’s still not completely relaxing her tail. She ends up on her back anyway. 

It’s a start, but the distrust is still there. Zdinarisk and the others speed towards the obstacle course tucked in the corner of the training area as soon as Quaritch dismisses them. None of them spare a glance back to see if he’s following. 

It suddenly feels like he’s on a completely different planet to them. The distance is like a hefty punch to his gut. 

Why does he care? It’s not like he’s friends with them, not like he even wants to be a proper member of their squad. Not like he’s known them for more than twelve hours. So why does he feel like he wants to try? It must have something to do with that hole in his chest where his name should be. 

Rubbing his knuckles against his sternum doesn’t help, and when Quaritch turns away he scrubs a finger under his eyes, batting away tears like his life depends on it. 

If he can’t take back the distance he’ll just have to make himself indispensable, so they’ll have to notice him and talk to him once in a while. Or at least not treat him like some kind of bug lodged into the grooves of their boots. 

As he goes to follow them, shoulders back in determination, his head throbs. He blinks, brings a hand up to scrub his eyes again and stops. 

It’s like a mirage, or a trick of the light. There were at first five adults in front of him, messing around like children, and then in the next second they’re replaced by four kids. Or, at least, they looked like kids he couldn’t really tell. They were gone when he blinked again anyway. 

“Kid.” 

He jolts, and takes another couple of steps in case his flashback(?) memory(?) mental breakdown(?) was noticed. He glances over his shoulder when the sound of heavy boots keep up with him. 

“Y’alright?” Quaritch asks, curious concern dragging his eyebrows upwards. “Looked a bit lost.” 

“Fine,” he mumbles. 

A sudden loud laugh ahead catches the Colonel’s attention. His expression folds into one of understanding which he recognises and dreads. He hopes the irritated click of his tongue illustrates how much he doesn’t care if they don’t like him but the Colonel’s emotional intelligence isn’t as good as his strategies because Quaritch opens his mouth.

He tries to speed up to escape the pep talk that’s coming. And it is coming, like a stampeding creature. He can’t stop it when Quaritch’s hand lands heavily on his shoulder in an imitation of comfort. 

“It’ll be okay,” he says, squeezing too hard to be comfortable. “They just…need some time to warm up to you.”

He nods, far more focused on tucking that image away to analyse later. Who were those kids? Had they been…important to him? 

“Just keep being helpful, and giving advice and they’ll see you for your potential,” Quaritch says. Oh, he’s actually zoned out the entire pep talk, whoops. “Our circumstances here are much more different than the last time. Cut ‘em a bit of slack.” 

“Right,” he mumbles. 

“Lopez!” Quaritch suddenly barks as he strides past. “Get down from there.” 

The obstacle course, they’re told once the rest of the squad is lined up, has been built for the likes of them and the exo-skeletons to get used to the scale of the forest outside. The soldier in charge, an orderly who reports to the quartermaster decked out in his own exo-skeleton and mask, nearly begs them to not wear their boots while on the equipment. 

He wiggles his bare toes against the linoleum floor. No one’s told him implicitly that he needs to wear shoes and, somehow, he’s more comfortable when he can feel the ground under his feet. 

“If you can get through the course,” Quaritch says, “without falling on your asses, you’re cleared for basic recon tasks in the kill zone.” 

From his tour, he remembers the General briefly mentioning the kill zone; a space surrounding the base, void of any plant or animal life. It still technically counts as being outside, but the skills they learn here won’t be useful at all. 

“What gets us into the forest proper?” Prager asks, the rest of the squad shuffling in place like they’re ready to try it now. 

What kind of crazy juice was put into their coffee this morning? The balancing beams alone come up to his shoulders, there’s no way he’d ever be able to get through the course without braining himself on something. He’d be surprised if they even got halfway.

“If you get through within an allotted time, carrying your gear and without falling off, I’ll see about getting us assigned to more exploration tasks,” he says. 

As if he knows what the squad is thinking, Quaritch narrows his eyes at them. 

“You’ll be given staggered starts to keep distance, and if I see horseplay,” he cuts a look to Prager and Lopez, “you’ll be dragged down and forced through the equipment care and use session. Are we clear?” 

The squad click their boot heels together and give their most enthusiastic, “Sir!” he’s heard yet. It startles the orderly it's so loud. 

He watches them from the ground at their first attempts, biting his lip to hide his laughter when they fail at the easiest things.  

Mansk gets two steps in and slips on the wooden bar he’s on, landing on his ass and glaring at the equipment like it was its fault. Ja manages to get tangled in one of the climbing ropes, tail thrashing to keep his balance as he yelps for some help. 

“Aren’t they meant to be highly trained soldiers?” he mutters to himself as Wainfleet jumps for the monkey bars and loses his grip. 

He knows they’re getting used to their bodies - why he has no idea, and no one’s bothered to explain - but surely they can rely on muscle memory to do something as simple as using their own tensile strength. He finds it hard to believe this is their first time on a course like this. 

And yet Lopez snarls when his first attempt at the same monkey bars ends with him on the ground. Wainfleet laughs from where he’s waiting at the other side. 

“Somethin’ wrong, kid?” Quaritch suddenly asks. He works quickly to clear his expression. 

“No, sir,” he replies. 

Quaritch hums and says, “They need to stop thinking like a human, don’t you think?” 

It’s pointed, but he acts ignorant and says again, “Sir?” 

“They’re tryin’ to force their way through, relying on old muscle memory that won’t help them here,” Quaritch explains. He points at Zdinarisk, where she’s tackling the climbing rope to help Ja, and says, “She’s one of our best at traversal, and yet she’s taking ten seconds more than she would’ve to climb that. She’s not using the full range the Na’vi have at their disposal.” 

Zdinarisk finally reaches her squad mate, but his relief is short-lived as she loosens the tangled rope and lets him drop to the training mat below. Once he’s gained his breath back, Ja swears at her so loudly it’s audible over her cackles. 

“Why do you guys need to get used to these bodies?” he asks. “Aren’t they yours?” 

“No,” Quaritch says simply, leaning against the railway that cordons off the obstacle course from the rest of the training arena. “These bodies were made for us during the sixteen years it took the company to retake the land and build our…beautiful new home.” 

From the obstacle course, Prager snarls at Lopez when he’s tripped, and the two start to race each other like they’re children. 

“The company asked each of us, before our very first tour here, to sign a form consenting to our memories being downloaded onto a shared sort of file. The lab coats can explain it,” Quaritch continues, waving his hand. “Basically, when we…died, they were uploaded into here.” Quaritch taps the side of his head. 

He stares at the Colonel, then at the other squadmembers. 

“It’s why training is so important,” Quaritch continues, unaware of the turmoil happening beside him. “We’re getting used to new senses, new limbs, new ranges of movement. ‘S why we’re like baby deer trying to figure out how to walk.” 

“Son of a bitch!” Ja shouts from where he’s gotten tangled again. 

Quaritch heaves a sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Hopeless. Kid, why don’t you try showing these…incompetent subordinates of mine how to do it?” 

“Why do you think I can?” he asks, his voice coming out shaky. 

His thoughts and brain feel like they’re getting themselves as tangled as Ja. Turning over themselves until they’re one clump. Until practically nothing makes any sense. 

For a second, he thinks Quaritch is going to kneel down and give him another pep talk, but this time he won’t be able to escape. But then the Colonel’s eyebrows scrunch, and his jaw tightens and he waves his hand towards the obstacle course instead.

It looks like he’s waving away something.  

“Because you nearly took down one of my best fighters on your first try. And that was only because of muscle memory,” Quaritch says, and it comes out a bit harshly. “This won’t be any different, and they need all the guidance they can get. Even if they don’t like that it’s comin’ from a snot-nosed kid.” 

The logic isn’t sound, but he doesn’t have room to argue. He lopes towards the obstacle course and keeps his head up when he feels the rest of the squad notice. 

Ja, from where he’s finally got himself free, gives him a small nod of what he thinks is encouragement. It does nothing against the dislike coming off the rest of them in waves. 

Approaching the same balancing beams Mansk was having trouble with, he rubs the sweat off his hands. Tilts his head to consider the height, and then presses against the grain of the wood to hoist himself up. 

It’s cold against his skin, and slippery from the rain that had snuck in through the open rooftop that morning. He grunts, but manages to get his feet underneath himself. From here, the distance between him and the ground causes a roll of his stomach, but he swallows hard and forces himself to walk. 

It’s slow going and wobbly, his arms held out and one foot going in front of the other cautiously. But then, halfway across with the monkey bars in sight, he gets a little faster, confident. He slips and it’s obvious they wanted him to fall. It makes him scowl, get angry. 

And a little bit reckless. 

He takes in the distance between the monkey bars and the balancing beam with a single, cursory glance. He could make that, easily. He braces his legs and swings his arms, before launching at the first one. 

Fingers smarting at the contact, his body swings too high. His heart leaps into his throat, but he uses the momentum to get to the next bar. 

He doesn’t realise he’s going too fast until he reaches the end of the monkey bars. From there, he knows he’s meant to swing himself up and over, where the course then expects him to jump to the next balance beam - easily a head taller than him. 

He panics, swings his body again, and tries to shake the fear away because he knows he can do this. He’s got the muscle memory to rely on he won’t fall, he can definitely pull himself up and then jump that distance–

Except. No he can’t. 

Nothing’s telling him what to do. He’s hanging there, his toes a good two or three feet from the ground, unable to compute what he needs to do to get up. How did he do this before? Why isn’t the muscle memory kicking in? If he fails here, on the first obstacle–

He feels his hand slip. Maybe because of the sweat lining his palms, or the wet metal from the rain. He tries to tighten his grip but he’s too late. 

He suspends for a second, a gasp escaping his lips before his backside collides with the floor and the rest of his breath is knocked out of him. His head throbs, but that’s ignored easily; it’s a regular occurrence now. 

Lying there, he feels the thump of his heartbeat against his ribcage. Desperate and fast. He couldn’t get past the first obstacle. Couldn’t even make a jump that looked easy to the others. How useless is his body that it couldn’t even make him land properly? 

He pushes himself upright, wincing when his tailbone smarts, and lifts his gaze. 

The dislike has turned into smug superiority. It’s obvious in how Lopez and Zdinarisk try and fail to hold back their smirks. Ja attempts to get them to stop, although his hissing isn’t as subtle as he might think, and at the end of the obstacle course Mansk shakes his head silently. 

Whatever, he couldn’t care less what they think. There’s only one person that he needed to impress. 

And when he sees Quaritch pinching the bridge of his nose, his stomach plummets so badly he really thinks he’s about to get sick.

He’ll be handed back to the lab coats. They'll have a field day picking apart his brain. He can see his chance of being useful and getting out of the base slipping away. 

Scrunching himself up to be as small as possible, he goes to apologise. But the promises to be better barely get past his teeth before an insistent beeping disturbs the tension. 

Quaritch reaches behind him for his datapad, swipes at the screen. Whispers above his head draw his shoulders back up to his ears. The Colonel frowns, clicks his tongue and shoves it back into his pocket. 

This is it, he thinks, he’s been ordered to bring me back to SciOps, I’ll be put back into the containment rooms and that’ll be that. Oh E–

“Hustle up,” Quaritch calls, and he jolts. “We got new orders, and need to report to the General.” 

When no one moves, he raises an eyebrow and says, “Has everyone gone deaf? I said hustle up!” 

They scramble to obey. 

Quaritch glances at him when he doesn't move. He must notice the panic, the fear, but he doesn't even twitch his eyebrow.

He simply says, “You too, kid.” 

Chapter Text

He has learned in the time that he’s been in the base that the General is not to be argued with. 

It could be because he’s seen a few soldiers and colleagues try and fail, or because the vibes she gives off are so strong. Intimidating and commanding. It could also be both, or something else completely. 

Whatever the case, what General Ardmore says goes, especially when it comes to the movement of her soldiers. She isn’t to be questioned, and her strategies and plans are the bible as far as the SecOps are concerned. Her control stretches into the other departments too. Goes with the territory of being General. 

So it’s a surprise when Quaritch tries to push back on their new orders. 

“Ma’am, my squad haven’t had nearly enough time to train,” Quaritch tells her. You could hear the crick of someone’s knee as it pops it becomes so quiet. The rest of the squad tenses. 

“I am aware of that, Colonel,” General Ardmore says. She stands with a datapad in hand, analysing a muted video of the most recent insurgent attack. Blue figures swarm a supply truck, its engine belching out dark grey smoke as the aircraft is fired at. 

It stays for long enough to see the truck emptied of supplies, and then turns back when more reinforcements join the ground attack. 

“Then you realise the danger that faces us should we leave the base to go into the forest,” Quaritch continues. 

“I do,” she says, pausing the video and making a note. “However, the squad’s new mandate is to explore the forest. And train in a more natural way that befits your new bodies, so that it benefits the good of our mission here. It’s not for your entertainment, Colonel.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” Quaritch replies. “But shouldn’t we gain some confidence–” 

“What was that first excursion for?” she asks, cutting right across him so sharply the Colonel’s tail twitches. “A metal obstacle course is no replacement for the natural terrain. You’d know that better than anyone, Colonel.” 

“But the flora and fauna, ma’am,” Quaritch says, “we don’t know if these bodies have the same intolerance to toxins as the Na’vi, and everything out there will try to kill us.” 

Coincidentally, the video jumps to one of the inside of a Samson copter patrolling the skies. Within seconds, the image becomes juddery and a snarling maw jolts the camera and the video ends. He’s glad he’s not the only one who jumped. 

“You’ve toured here before, Colonel,” she says, switching back to the first video and zooming in on the attackers. He tilts his head at their colourful war paint. “You know better than anyone the potential dangers and which areas of the forest to avoid, no?” 

“That doesn’t remove the risk, General,” Quartich argues, and by the twitching of her jaw, he’s really getting to her now. “If we get damaged, or even killed, it’s millions of dollars lost.” 

“I do know that, Colonel,” she mutters. Next to him, someone shuffles. 

“It would be a loss to the company, and I wouldn’t have any other option than to give my full report,” Quaritch continues. “Which was that you sent us out into the field, with little training and against my suggestions.” 

“I don’t like what you’re insinuating, Colonel,” she says, her voice dangerously low. She pauses the video, and turns her attention solely to the team. 

Her gaze slides away from Quartich and lands on him. Her mouth twitches. “Don’t forget the latent potential you now have available to your squad.” 

Somehow, she’s hit a nerve, because Quartich’s shoulders tighten. It sounds like an insult to the rest of them. 

“How have the sessions gone? Any developments to report?” 

For a moment, it looks like he’s going to fight back again. But then, begrudgingly, Quartich says, “No ma’am.” 

“Alright,” she says, her expression smoothing over. “As I’ve mentioned, you’ll spend extended periods of time in the forest. You’ll gain intel about how our enemy works and thinks, and utilise native techniques in the process.” 

As if sensing the question she adds, “We will continue the search for Jake Sully’s whereabouts from here but rest assured, you will be the first to know.” 

“And the members of my team, ma’am?” Quaritch asks. “Will that remain as they are now?” 

“Do you not believe them to be adequate?” she asks, raising an eyebrow. 

He feels his shoulders rise. 

“More than, General,” Quaritch replies. “It’s only that I doubt the safety of all squad members, given the lack of experience.” 

He can’t tell if it’s pointed, or if he’s being talked about. The sniggering happening down the line suggests he is. 

“I see,” she says. “Then I suggest your squad pays attention to everyone whilst out in the field. It’s clear to me, the true potential has yet to be experienced. And natural instincts will save us all in the end.” 

Her boots are soundless against the metal floor as she paces up and down their line. Although all of them are at least a good head taller than her, she makes them nervous. With just her gaze alone, she has Prager and Lopez swallowing hard, Ja shuffling in place and Mansk sweating. 

Even Zdinarsik’s jaw tightens around her piece of gum. 

“If fighters are too concentrated on what has happened, what could be becomes lost to them,” she continues. “And if you continue to ignore those around you, you will get left behind.” 

Her words are damning and they know it. No one protests, and he watches on in awe. 

“Good,” she says finally, pacing back to her display and waving her fingers at the Private sitting at the control panel. 

She nods, and suddenly a map of the forest splays out before them. “You will be heading into the Eastern quadrant of the forest, at the edge of the vortex surrounding the mountains.” 

She circles a close knit collection of trees with a finger, and the map zooms in. “Here is where you will develop your mobility and maneuverability. Explore and experience everything your body can do on its own. We’ll then see about gaining faster modes of transportation.” 

Whispers and excited mutterings dart up and down the line. He doesn’t catch much, something about a horse but they stop at her silence. 

“You will each be transferred a blank observation document to your datapads,” she tells them, “Note down everything. I don’t care if it’s something as banal as ‘I climbed a tree’ or ‘I did a shit in a bush’. We want to know how you will handle long stints of time in the natural environment.

“Quaritch will make sure that you have something to report for each day,” she says. The Colonel clicks his tongue quietly, but she ignores it. 

“Until we hear more about Sully’s whereabouts, this is how you will spend your days on Pandora,” she tells them. “It’s not what you expected, I’m sure, but think of it as a recon assignment, which will inevitably benefit the success of your main objective.”

She waits, as if one of them could have as much guts as Quaritch to argue. When the silence continues she nods, satisfied. “You’ll be taken to the forest at 0900 tomorrow morning. Spend the rest of the day preparing. The quartermaster will have everything you need for supplies.” 

He relaxes at the dismissal, a knot in his shoulder presenting itself as he begins to walk away. Must be a tension thing. Maybe he could use some of the equipment in the training arena to stretch it out before they headed back to the pod. Could he do that–

“Kid, hold up a moment,” the General suddenly calls. 

He trips when he turns too quickly, heart jackrabbiting in his chest. Behind him, the rest of the squad’s laughs grow distant as they keep going. He swallows hard, wonders whether he should salute or stand to attention. 

“How’re you settling in?” the General asks, and he tucks his arms behind his back. 

“Fine, General,” he replies, because it doesn’t sound like she wants all the details. It’s only as a courtesy to start the conversation. “Did you need me for something?” 

He swears, if the head of the R&D sector pops out from somewhere to do one last test, he’s booking it back to the pod. 

“No,” she replies, wandering over to the control panel and plucking a datapad from next to the Private’s elbow. She doesn’t protest, so it must be a spare.  It’s handed to him. “I wanted to give you your assignment personally.” 

He takes the pad, and switches it on with a graze of his thumbpad. The only thing on it is an open, blank document. Staring at him like a void. He frowns at it. “Should I be writing everything I do too?” he asks. 

“Not necessarily,” she says. “It’s for anything you might remember during your time in the forest. Everything from images, smells that are familial, sounds that stir up an emotion. Anything.” 

“Huh.” 

“We want you to get better, kid. And you can’t do that if you’re brushing off anything that could be important to your recovery.” 

He ducks his head. He hasn’t been as subtle as he thought. But he couldn't ignore the feeling that comes with every memory; that he shouldn’t tell them anything. His stomach twists whenever he even thinks about telling them. 

“Everything?” he asks, the screen of the datapad going dark. 

“Everything you consider important,” she replies, tapping the screen with her finger. “I want that document full by the time you get back. A lot can happen within three days.” 

“General,” Quaritch suddenly cuts in, “what about the kid’s exopack? Those batteries are only good for twelve hours, and three days is a long time to go without a resupply. I doubt he’ll be able to climb everything if he needs to carry a spare everywhere he goes.” 

Her expression shutters. It’s so abrupt that it makes the temperature around them drop. 

“I should think that would be obvious, Colonel,” she says. “Considering you have six people in your squad, seven including yourself. If you each take an exopack, and have a log of when they’re changed, you’d be on the last of the supply when you head back to base.” 

It had been Quaritch’s last attempt at an argument. He can tell because the guy’s ears fold back as he cowed. 

“Or did you have something else in mind?” she asks when the silence stretches. “You would be placing your squad on watch during the night cycle whilst in enemy territory. So if anything goes awry with the boy’s mask in his sleep, someone will be able to fix it before it becomes deadly.” 

That’s something he hadn’t thought about. His hand could knock his mask sideways during his sleep, and then he’d have ten seconds before he’d start suffocating. But that means he’s to depend on the rest of the squad to keep him alive. 

Oh shit.

“If you’re still trying to find a way to keep the boy here, Colonel, it won’t work,” the General adds. Behind her, Quaritch tenses further. “We need his memories restored, and because all other methods have been exhausted, this is what we are left with.

“So I suggest,” she says as she turns to give the Colonel a look that must be terrifying, because sweat begins to gather on his forehead, “that you do whatever you can to help. Or do you want your so-called revenge?” 

The atmosphere between them becomes charged. For a moment he thinks Quaritch will actually snap and try to take a swipe at her - his fists are balled tight enough that they’d be able to do some serious damage. But the General is completely at ease, tilting her head just a little. The few loose hairs of her bun catch on the collar of her shirt. 

Revenge? Between the Colonel and Sully? That sounds interesting. 

A few more seconds of silent competition, where even the Private at the console begins to scrunch at the physical weight of tension, and then Quaritch lets his gaze drift to the wall just behind Ardmore. 

“I will draw up a roster to check his exopack, General,” he tells her. “All squad members will return in three days.” 

“Very good, Colonel,” she replies, her head straightening back up again. “You might want to get to the Quartermaster's quickly now. Who knows what your squad will collect as ‘supplies’.” 

The first time he steps ‘outside’ the base, it’s onto the hot tarmac of the airstrip. After baking for hours under the Pandoran sun, the stuff’s at the right temperature to sear off a layer of skin. That’s if you’re not moving quick enough and in bare feet. 

Which, coincidentally, he is. It’s a good thing the rest of the squad have such long legs. 

They weave between aircraft carriers and copters, Quaritch leading the way towards their assigned Samson. More than a few squads of human soldiers jog past, lugging huge packs and heading for the training arena. At least one AMP lopes along with them.

The airstrip is busy for this time of morning, filled with sound and activity as pilots complete their daily checks and some load their cargo bays. Where are they going? Are they heading to the forest or further afield? If they’re going for a patrol of the kill zone, or hunting for insurgents they should be packing more firepower than that. 

They head towards a Kestrel gunship, its bronze paint winking at them and its rotors already beginning a slow swirl. 

“Y’late!” their pilot shouts, hanging out of the cockpit and glaring through his mask. 

“I believe we’re right on time, actually,” Quaritch says over the noise. 

“Not by my watch,” he snaps back, and someone sniggers. “I got other cargo runs to complete today, so I want t’be snappy about leaving. I’m the one what’s gonna get you in and out of the forest, and I run a tight ship.” 

He would expect that no one inside the base would talk to the Colonel like this, but he gets the sense that the pilots and Aviation Corps are made of different stuff. And report to different people, because this guy glares at Quaritch with no fear. 

Or maybe that’s just because he’s short a few brain cells. 

“Let’s get going, then,” Quaritch says, waving the rest of the squad towards the aircraft. “Wouldn’t want you to be late for your next pickup. Or your afternoon tea.” 

“Hilarious,” the pilot grumbles. “Because I’m British, that’s very good.” 

The others shrug their packs from their shoulders and haul them into the cockpit before they go. He’s glad to get his toes off the hot tarmac, jumping onto the metal floor and sighing at the soothing coolness. 

“Kid,” Quaritch says, kneeling down when he settles on one of the metal benches. “Don’t forget about the chip in your mask. We’ll need to calibrate it once we touch down.” 

The Colonel reaches out a hand to tap the rubber edge, but he flinches away. Ah yes, the amazing, wonderful tracking chip that’s going to be like a literal leash wrapped around his neck. If he gets lost, he’s to stay exactly where he is while the others search for him. Quartich’s datapad will be able to track his coordinates once it gets close enough to pick up the frequency, and they’d be reunited again. 

No autonomy, but at least he won’t be monitored every second of every day.

“Yes sir,” he says when he realises the Colonel was waiting for a response. Quartich nods, and then takes a seat himself, just as the rotors hit their full speed and the Kestrel lifts off the ground. 

Around him, the rest of the squad grab hold of the hand rails above their heads. But they’re too tall for him to reach so he just digs his palms against the edge of the bench the same time the pilot calls back to them to, “Hold on!” 

According to their schedule, the flight to the Eastern quadrant is meant to take half an hour. They pass over the blank stretch of the kill zone and hit the trees within minutes, and already what he thought was going to be a boring, silent stretch of time turns into a journey he doesn’t want to end. 

Once they get a bit more stable and reach their optimal altitude, he lets go of the tight grip he has on the bench and leans out of the door. His mask keeps the wind from his face, but it still whips his hair behind him. The edge of his cloth slaps against his legs, but he doesn’t care. It feels so fresh against his skin. 

He’d close his eyes to appreciate it, but the forest keeps his attention. It’s so bright and vibrant, multiple different shades of green and sizes of trees to look at. Some of them stretch higher even than the metal cranes in Bridgehead.

Here and there, the canopy gives way to a waterfall, or a rushing stream. And more than once, their pilot has to swerve smaller flying creatures which screech at them as they pass. 

He can’t hear what’s being said behind him, but the cackling is audible.

They’re tilting towards the east, and with the change in direction, he catches a glimpse of the kill zone behind them. 

The dead brown creates a barrier against the forest, separating the base from the outside with the strip of nothing. He knows from the maps he’s seen (memorised) that the kill zone surrounds Bridgehead from all sides, and it stretches for a good mile. 

What he didn’t know was how close it was to the forest itself. You’d only need to take a few steps from the edge, and you’d be within the trees. 

It must’ve been created at the same time the base was situated, that’s the only way he can think. It makes his chest ache, thinking about how it would’ve been made, how many trees would’ve needed to be cut down and felled. Would they have burned it all too?

He turns away when the aching gets too much, and focuses instead on the large masses of rocks coming their way. 

They’re floating! Literally metres off the ground with no tether, and yet they stay in the same place. The wind begins to pick up, and movement out of the corner of his eye draws his attention to the signal their pilot is giving them. Looks like he can’t take them any further. 

A tug on his shoulder drags him back to the bench, but even still he’s wide eyed with awe as they land. Dipping below the treeline bathes them in a sea of green, the wind from the rotors kicking up the leaves and branches, exposing some hiding places as animals flee from the loud noise. 

“Disembark!” Quaritch shouts, placing his hand against his middle back and pushing. He scrambles to keep his feet underneath him, and then suddenly his toes hit the wet ground. 

He jolts at the coldness of it, at the way it squelches between his toes. He loves it. The smile that takes over is a bit too big to hide, and he actually giggles as he digs his feet in more.

“Move, kid,” Quaritch barks, shoving again so that he’s away from the gunship as it takes off. 

“Is he okay?” Prager asks, staring at him. 

He must look a bit nuts, grinning at the feeling of mud. 

“Must’ve finally cracked,” Zdinarsik says. She rolls her gum to the other side of her mouth and smirks around it. “Poor kid.” 

“Knock it off, Z-Dog.” 

Everything around him is far more fascinating than them. So he ignores the group to stare at the giant leaves above their heads, listening to the sounds all around them. It’s so alive, so vibrant. The base is practically dead in comparison, cold and rotting from the inside. 

Maybe he shouldn’t be thinking that. 

“Y’know,” Quaritch suddenly says, snapping him from his thoughts. He jumps at how close the Colonel is, nearly right in front of his face, “kid might be having the right idea.” 

“What idea, Colonel?” Wainfleet asks, but Quaritch doesn’t expand. Only narrows his eyes, and then straightens with a sniff. 

With the stare removed, he shuffles because that was just…weird. 

“We’ll find a suitable place to set up camp,” Quaritch says. 

Wainfleet makes an aborted move with his hands, like he wanted to throw them in the air exasperatedly but thought better about it. Wainfleet glares at the back of the Colonel’s head instead. 

They don’t go far from where they landed. He counts at least twenty trees between the bit of grass that was flattened by the Kestrel gunship and where they decide to make camp. It’s secluded, quiet, and next to a bubbling river. 

Having no experience with camping, he watches as they set up their tents and supplies. There are three in total, rooming two people with a bit of room for their packs. He will have to move between tents, depending on which squad member is meant to be monitoring his exo pack that night. 

He can say nothing, stomach burning with anger. He’s a person, not a pet. 

Quaritch sends one of them to look for loose branches for a fire, and another to collect water. Zdinarsik comes back with an armful of logs and dumps them on the ground way before Mansk comes back with two full water bottles. The squad also toss their rations in a waterproof sack and hide it under a pile of mud. He’s not sure why. No one would even want to eat them, they're so gross. 

“What next, Colonel?” Wainfleet asks once they’ve finished. 

Quaritch observes their camp with a critical gaze, sucking at his teeth as he kicks one of the tent poles. It shakes but stands firm. 

“Take off your boots,” Quartich says, reaching down to unlace his own. 

The others splutter in surprise and he frowns. Has the Colonel finally cracked? 

“Why, sir,” Lopez asks. “Our boots are military grade, they can take a bit of mud and rain.” 

“I don’t doubt that,” Quaritch replies, hopping on one foot to slide a boot off. “It’s not the quality of the shoe I’m criticising, but your ability to traverse these trees with them on.” 

A finger is suddenly pointed in his direction, and he just manages to not jump. “The kid has the right idea. Bare feet means more traction on slippery surfaces, and the ability to actually feel the ground. The boots are good for open terrain fighting, but climbing trees? They’re incompatible.” 

The Colonel’s argument makes sense. But the others don’t move to follow his orders as quickly as he thought they would. They exchange one more uncertain glance, and then they slowly remove their boots. 

“Eugh,” Zdinarsik complains, “Wainfleet, when was the last time you threw your socks in the wash?” 

“Someone's toes smell like cheese,” Prager suddenly says. 

“Don’t look at me,” Lopez argues. 

“Whoever smelt it–” 

“Ja, how old are you exactly?”

The bickering continues as the squad ties their boots together and tosses them over a tree branch so the stench doesn’t contaminate their sleeping space.  

“Finally,” Quaritch mutters, digging his knuckle into his forehead. “Now that you ladies are ready, I’ll give you your first assignment.” 

The squad waits, the anticipation a physical thing nearly. What could they be asked to do? Go hunting for food? Spar each other? Play hide and–

“Climb a tree,” the Colonel says, gesturing to the trunks around them. 

“Climb a tree,” he says again, but this time with a more authoritative edge when no one moves. The squad shuffles, and mutters, until Quaritch heaves a large sigh out of his nose. 

“If you don’t pick a goddamn tree to climb, I’ll choose one and throw you at it,” he threatens. 

That gets them moving, all of them scrambling for the sturdiest trees they can see. Zdinarsik shoves Mansk when they both reach the same tree, and Lopez and Prager race for a short stubby one at the edge of their campsite.

He stays right where he is to watch the chaos. At least, that’s what he intended to do. Until Quaritch, from where he’s reaching for his second hand hold, twists and glares at him. Like the threat applies to him too. 

His eyes widen, and he turns on his heel to duck under a low hanging branch in search of a tree. Surprisingly, or not, there’s no protest to him disappearing from view, just more grunting as they climb.

He’d rather not have his embarrassment be visible to the rest of them. Even still, he doesn’t go far. A few trees or two and he stops, deciding on his own tree. One that could hold his weight and be relatively easy to climb. 

He’s placing one foot on the bottom root, and reaching up with a hand to grab the first branch, when something rustles the bush to his left. Freezing seems like a good thing to do, even though his whole arm shakes as he continuously reaches. 

A shadow darts from the bush to the ground, before darting away again. He mentally agrees with himself that staying still is a really good idea. 

But then, a tiny part of him whispers, what if it’s something cool? What if it’s something he needs to see? He’s got his datapad slung over his shoulder, so he could take notes in case he remembered anything. 

Slowly, his arm drifts to his side again, and the wet mud squelches under his toes. 

“C’mon,” Quartich calls, the sound distant as it works its way through the trees, “if everyone gave up at the first thing that was difficult we wouldn’t be here.” 

There’s a loud grunt, and then, “Prager! Get your ass back in gear!” 

They’re distracted, and he is technically meant to be exploring. So this wouldn’t be straying from what he’s been ordered to do. He takes one step towards the bush. And then another when nothing explodes and he’s not dragged back until his hand brushes against the leaves. Pushing them back to let the rest of his body through. 

There’s a loud cackle which sounds animalistic, but it fades once the bush falls back into place again. Mansk probably fell down, judging by the laughter. Or maybe it was Wainfleet…

Amazingly, more trees greet him when he works his way through the leaves and branches. Stumbling into the next clearing, his eyes grow wide at the colours. Here it’s brighter, the leaves not as clumped together so that the light works its way through to the forest floor. Their branches, too, are thinner than their cousins; more willowy. A few even droop because they’ve grown so long. 

“You’re too unstable to climb,” he says to one of them, patting its trunk like it’ll reply. Its branches have intertwined to make a bridge. He cranes his neck to follow it as it leads to the next tree over. 

“Huh…” 

Something under his foot snaps, and he pauses. Fingers reaching for it, and head tilted down, the shadow he caught sight of out of his peripheral vision shoots between two trees. It darts into a patch of light before it’s gone again.

It could be something dangerous. One of those animals that’ll tear his skin off and eat it within seconds. He’d seen more than four limbs! But what if it’s something really cool? 

The branches above his head rustle as the thing moves. Louder than it was before. He straightens slowly, muscles drawn taut, and then freezes again. 

About halfway up the tree, hanging from a branch, it stares at him. Six limbs, two eyes and ears, pale skin which seems nearly blue in the light. It tilts its head one way, then the other as it inspects, adjusting its position to curl one of its other hands around the tree branch. It has three fingers, thin and willowy. 

“Woah,” he whispers, watching its ears twitch. “What’re you?” 

Chattering higher up in the tree startles him, more of the same animals peering through the leaves to get a look at him. Some look like they’re nearly his height, and a few even carry babies on their chest. 

The one closest to him chirrups in response to its friends, but doesn’t move from where it gently swings from one hand to the other. It’s eyeing the next branch over, and he watches as it gracefully, lithely, leaps up to it, the leaves on one end barely quivering when it lands. 

“Huh,” he says again as it scuttles along that branch to reach the trunk. Hand over hand it goes, using the smaller knots in the bark as handholds and then pausing when it reaches a bundle of fruit. 

He runs his fingers against the bark of the tree next to him. “Maybe I could,” he murmurs as he reaches for the first knot. His fingers hook around the bark, and with a grunt he heaves himself up. 

His feet scrabble for a few seconds, trying to figure themselves out, but once he finds a foothold, it's nearly easy to get halfway up. 

The grin on his face is stupidly wide, he can tell.

“Kid?” someone suddenly shouts when he reaches for the first proper branch. They’re too close for him to climb down fast enough, and he freezes like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t when a blue arm pushes back the branches of the bush. 

Ja hisses when one snaps back at him, and then wrestles with it when it catches the edge of his shirt. They really should’ve gone without the uniforms; it’s not doing anything for them. 

He glances up to make sure his new friends haven’t run away. They’re still hovering, the one swinging from the branch watching curiously. They haven’t gotten scared, even at Ja’s loud, clumping steps. 

“Woah,” Ja says when he catches sight of him. “How’d you get up there?” 

Should he tell him? He’s going to spot the animals anyway, may as well before he takes them for hostiles. 

He lets go of the tree and points into the canopy above them. “Thought I’d take advice from the locals,” he says, and Ja’s frown turns into wide eyed fear and amazement. 

He gropes for something at his belt that’s not there, and then swears quietly. “Alright,” Ja says, “that’s cool and all, kid, but you need to back away slowly before they attack–” 

He scoffs. “They’re not gonna bite me,” he says, rolling his eyes and adjusting his grip when his fingers complain. “They’re fine. You should try it, see how much further you can get.” 

Not waiting for a reply, he clambers up the next foothold, and then stretches for the first branch. 

“Kid–” Ja tries again, almost sounding stressed. 

“If you start shouting,” he tells him, grunting as his legs flail to counteract the swing of his legs, “they’ll run away. Just follow me if you’re that scared.” 

He’s hit a nerve, he can tell by the sudden spluttering, but he doesn’t really care. The feel of bark under his fingertips feels natural, and just like he did at the monkey bars, he swings to move along the branch. Unlike the monkeybars, he’s able to stay on the branch, in fact, he actually gets faster. 

Moving with the momentum of his legs, until he’s nearly at the end of his branch and about to go to the next. 

Below him, Ja laughs in amazement, and the creatures chatter. Like they’re excited too. 

His grin is so wide it’s hurting his cheeks, the bark is nice digging against his fingertips. 

“Woah kid,” Ja calls when he manages to readjust himself without losing balance. His heart is thudding in his ears, blood rushing through his body and carrying the adrenaline rush with it. “You’re like a regular–” 

“Monkey boy!” 

Suddenly there’s nothing for his fingers to hold. They slip, and he falls. Doesn’t even have a chance to try and grab the branch again. The shout, joyous and amazed and familiar, fills his head. While the wind fills his ears as he falls. 

Down. 

Down. 

Down.  

He tries to fall the right way, whatever that means. Twisting and snatching for things that aren’t there. He’s watching the ground get closer instead, so quickly that he gasps, and the rest of his breath is punched from his lungs at the contact.  

His chest hits the ground first, and then he rolls, eyes squeezing closed at the pain. Everything smarts and throbs, and distantly he hears the shout of “kid!” and the cacophony of rustling leaves and branches. When he stops, the trees are empty, and there’s a pang in his chest not related to the breathlessness. 

“Kid,” Ja shouts again, but he focuses on committing that voice to memory. Then Ja’s above him, asking, “You good?” 

“Pad,” he wheezes, sitting up to scrabble for his waistband and snatching the thing from its clip. 

Ja splutters, tries to shove him back down as he argues that he shouldn’t be moving. Not until they know he hasn’t broken anything. Ja shouts for the others, but he’s too busy trying to get the datapad open. The blank screen stares at him.  

He notes down the words climbing, creatures, voice, and monkey boy(??), with shaky fingers. Then lets the thing fall onto his chest as he breathes a sigh of relief and flops backward again. He didn’t forget. In fact, he can still hear the voice, those words, bouncing around his skull. 

“Oh great, you broke him,” someone says.  

“No I didn’t–” 

“You will stop,” Quaritch commands Zdinarsik, “before you give me a migraine. Kid, y’alright?” 

He manages a nod, staring up at Quaritch and slowly tucking his datapad back onto his waistband. The Colonel’s eyes track the movement, but doesn’t draw attention to it.

“Ja, what happened?” 

Seeing as nothing’s throbbing anymore, he pushes himself upright as the situation is explained. The height he’d fallen from wasn’t that intense, but Ja makes it sound like he’d dropped from the top of the tree. Mansk places his hands against his shoulder, although they don’t feel very comforting or supportive. 

Like he’s being forced to stay down. Again. 

“Kid,” Quaritch says, crouching so that they’re on the same level, “d’you think you could show us what you were doing? Sounds like you might’ve cracked something.” 

He thought he’d be commanded to tell him what he’d remembered. He’s a bit taken aback but he does consider the idea. 

The sensation isn’t completely gone, he can flex his fingers and feel the bark underneath. He can remember what it felt like to use his momentum to move forward, how much tensile strength he had to use to stay on the branch. 

“I think I could do that,” he replies, rocking under the weight of Quaritch’s hand against his shoulder. 

“Good,” the Colonel says, even as a few eyes are rolled around them. “Let’s get to it then.” 

They get back to their campsite just as the eclipse begins, tired, dirty and with the rest of the squad groaning at their sore muscles. He’s pleasantly exhausted, scrunching his fingers to stretch them out. He could’ve stayed there all night if he could, but the orange blinking light of his exopack was beginning to feel ominous. 

“Alright,” Quaritch says once they catch sight of the tents, “a quick wash, and then shut eye. We’ll be up early for more of the same. We won’t be moving on until all of you can go at speed without falling on your ass.” 

The ambient noises of the forest is the only answer the Colonel gets. The rest of the squad are really tuckered out. Or they’ve just learned to not go against his orders anymore. After all, Quaritch is the one with the most field experience out of anyone here.

“Who’s got first watch over the kid?” Quaritch asks, but again, silence answers. Like he’s expected this, the Colonel sighs and clarifies, “Whoever’s exopack has the number one on it, make yourself known.” 

“So there was a point to those,” Prager mutters to Lopez as Mansk wordlessly raises his hand. 

“Good,” Quaritch says.

“Uh, sir,” Wainfleet calls from where he’s gazing up at their supplies, “our boots are gone.” 

The Colonel scowls and trudges over. “What?” 

The branch that they’d hung their boots off is empty. Only one singular shoelace is left, and its end is frayed. 

“Did anyone think to bring spares?” Lopez asks. 

“Obviously not, dipshit,” Zdinarsik replies. “They don’t fit in our packs.” 

He watches the Colonel narrow his eyes at the shoelace, like it’ll be able to tell him where the rest of it has gone. It sways in the gentle breeze, and Quaritch sighs through his nose almost violently. 

“Must’ve been some kind of animal,” Prager supposes, and a snort of laughter ripples through the squad. 

“Yeah, like some six legged creature is now prancing around the forest,” Ja jokes, wincing as his arm is punched. Zdinarsik smirks as Mansk ducks his head. Ja leers at Prager again undeterred, “Must’ve been one of those thanators, attracted by the smell of your feet.”

“Fuck all the way off–” 

“Settle down,” Wainfleet barks, then adds, “Could be the treehuggers.” 

“Too far out into the forest,” Quaritch replies. “The General made sure of that.”

“How?” 

“By triangulating the direction of the stars against the weather,” Quaritch says deadpan. “She didn’t exactly give me all the details. Whatever’s taken them, we need to assume that our position has been compromised. Stay alert, we’ll have at least two people on watch at a time.” 

“Seriously?” Zdisnarsik complains, and he tenses at the glare that’s sent her way. 

“If you want to end up skewered on the end of a highly toxic arrow, or become part of an animal’s breakfast, be our guest,” the Colonel says. “Just don’t think we’ll be joining you. You’ll even take first watch with Lopez, Z-dog. Question me again and you’ll do it for a week.” 

“Yes sir,” she grumbles, ears flattening against her head. 

“In terms of the boots,” he continues, the sniggering cutting off abruptly, “we’ll go without. But next time, secure them properly first, or we won’t bring them at all. Now go get cleaned up, any animal could track you easily with that stench.” 

That nighttime cycle finds him in Mansk’s tent, his sleeping bag placed as far away as he could get it. It’s stuffy, and he’s not very comfortable. His breath hisses in his ears as it's filtered with the brand new exopack battery, but even that is overwhelming. The fabric of the bag sticks to his skin with sweat, and every now and then Mansk snores quietly. 

How anyone would be expected to sleep in these close quarters he doesn’t know. But he’s not able for it, his limit coming quick and fast. It’s probably not even close to dawn, but he shoves back the sleeping bag to get out of there. He’ll suffocate if he stays any longer. 

“You’re meant to be tucked up asleep, kid,” Zdinarsik mutters when his head pokes out of the tent. Her skin glows with tiny luminescent freckles, and around them the forest is lit up with the same natural light. It’s so cool the way their bodies do that, he’d spent a good few seconds staring when he’d first noticed it. He manages to keep his gaze from lingering this time. 

Before her, the embers of the campfire smolder, but it won’t be lit again. Too dangerous; could attract all kinds of attention, and they’re all on edge from their missing boots.  

“Couldn’t sleep,” he says, sighing at the cool air against his overheated skin. Behind him, Mansk snores again. 

“Not surprised,” she comments, the safety on her gun clicking quietly as she flicks it on, then off again. “If you’re wandering, don’t go out of my line of sight, y’hear? Cause any kind of trouble, I’ll have you shipped back to Bridgehead faster than you can think of an excuse.” 

“O…kay,” he says, inching around her. He thinks the hostility would’ve calmed by now, but he’s not one to keep questioning it. He’d shrug, but she’d probably get pissed off anyway. 

He heads into the treeline, keeping her shadow just behind him and the profile of the big gas giant to his right. So that he can find his way back again. 

Here, the trees are completely different to what they were in the daytime. Hidden colour revealed by the darkness of night, his footprints glowing when he walks. They might not even need to track him, if they stayed like that. The sounds are different too, a deep lowing noise echoing from his left, the chirping of bugs nearly as loud as the sound of the stream as it works its way through its path. 

And the chattering noise above his head that sounds like the creatures from that afternoon! 

Wait. 

With one foot raised from the floor mid step he stops. Could they have actually followed them from the clearing? Were they harmful, and tracking him to find the rest of the squad to kill and eat them in their sleep? No, that couldn’t be right. 

The chattering happens again, more insistent, and he swivels on the ball of his other foot. His toes squish into the wet grass, and although the feeling makes him shiver, he tamps it down. 

Just so that he can leap out of his skin in shock when the creature nearly presses its nose against his. It's close enough that he can make out the bright gold flecks in its blue eyes, and follow the trail of its glowing freckles. He locks up as soon as the surprise has passed, staying so still he could be considered a tree. 

In case the creature does decide to, y’know, take a bite out of his nose. 

“Hi?” he whispers when it doesn’t do anything. It chitters, tilting its head inquisitively as its second eyelid blinks. “Nice to…see you again?” 

It churrs, like it’s answering him. Its white teeth flashing in the light of the forest raises his hackles. He leans away, but the creature stares at him more intently, so he stops. His legs complain with the strain.

It blinks, tilts its head the other way. Around them, nocturnal bugs and animals fill the silence. Even still, it’s awkward. He could try to back away slowly. 

Moving his foot back rustles something underneath his toes. The creature moves, pulling its hand out from behind its back. He flinches badly, squeezing his eyes shut and hiking his shoulders up towards his ears. 

He’s going to get bitten. Scratched. Or worse, eaten, and none of the squad will know because they’ll be snoring in their sleeping bags, completely dead to the world. And Zdinarsik won’t try to come find him if he screams, she’ll just shrug it off as some animal having fun. 

He peeks his eyes open when nothing happens, and they widen in surprise at the thing held up for his inspection. 

It’s one of their boots. An end of a shoelace is frayed, and there are scuff marks along its side from where it might’ve been dragged along the floor. Or dropped from the bows of the tree. 

“You took them,” he says, not daring to grab it. The creature chirrups, and thrusts the boot at him. “Y'know, losing these caused a lot of annoyance.” 

It shoves the boot at him again. Like it wants him to take it. When his fingers brush against the sole it’s not moved away. So he properly grabs hold and watches its hand as its grip loosens. It blinks at him again.

“Did you take them?” he asks quietly, turning the boot over to inspect the marks. 

It looks like mud at first, but it’s too dark to actually make out properly. So he moves his fingers a little to avoid touching it. 

The creature chirrups, but doesn’t answer. Obviously. 

“Do you know where the rest are?” he asks, twisting the broken shoelace between his fingers. “There should be way more of these, just like them. Maybe your buddies put them somewhere?” 

He glances up, expecting another wordless chirp. What he gets is a look that says, really clearly, I don’t know, try finding them yourself you idiot. 

“Got it,” he says, and the creature chatters before scrambling back up its tree. It doesn’t even stop to look back, just leaps onto a low hanging branch and starts swinging away. 

He considers the boot. If he brings it back to camp, there will be questions. Ones he can’t answer, because he doesn’t know where the rest are. Or if the creatures even were the ones to take them. 

Dread curls around his stomach and squeezes like an icy cold vice. If they didn’t take the boots, which is a big possibility because they don’t have opposable thumbs to work at the knots, then who did? 

He swallows against the cold feeling, the lump in his throat that’s growing bigger the more he thinks about the possibilities. And suddenly the boot no longer feels like a boot between his fingers, but a boiling hot rock. He needs to get rid of it now, before it burns something. 

Glancing left, then right to make sure the coast is clear, he tosses the thing as far away as he can. He hears the thud as it lands, and a sudden screech. He must’ve startled an animal, or maybe the boot hit it. Whatever it is, he doesn’t stick around to find out, instead speed walking back to camp. 

When he gets there, he ducks his head, keeping his eyes down in case he gives himself away at first glance. If it comes back to bite him in the ass, he’ll deal with it then. For now, he’s as clueless as the rest of them. 

Although, he can feel Zdinarsik’s judgemental gaze boring into the back of his head as he lets himself into his designated tent for the night. 

Mansk is still snoring when he clambers into his sleeping bag, and he’s still snoring when the eclipse finishes and the light breaks through the tiny gap at the bottom of their tent. He hasn’t caught a wink of sleep, too focused on keeping his thoughts from spiralling. 

He’ll regret not telling anyone about the boot later (when it does come back to bite him in the ass). But for now, he spends the rest of the day trying to keep the triumphant, smug grin off his face. Watching the rest of the squad fall on their asses as they fail to get even the simplest idea of gripping with their fingertips. 

It’ll be a lot of fun, these excursions into the forest. He can tell.

Chapter Text

THEN

The three days in the forest pass in a blur of tree climbing, meals by the campfire, and discomfort from sleeping at someone else’s feet. He has tried to make a case to not have to move between tents, but he just got a wave of a hand. A clear dismissal. He can’t be trusted to change his own exopack, apparently. 

The days pass, and he’s left with at least two paragraphs in the document. One detailing that voice, which he’s never heard again but can’t forget at all. The other about a dream he nearly forgot the morning he woke up. 

Something about climbing a mountain because what’s really important was happening at the top. He remembers the feeling of rocks under his hands, the sound of a screech so piercing it’s what had him shooting up from his pallet. But nothing else. 

He doesn’t think it’s enough for the amount of time they’ve spent in the forest. And when he has to present it to the General on their return he has to work really hard to keep his face neutral. 

The dread is a cold stone lodged in his stomach as she asks for the datapad. He clenches his hands into fists so tightly that he nearly cut into his palms. 

But all she does is flick a glance over his text with a slight purse to her lips and says, “Good.” Then the datapad is handed back to him, and he’s ordered to collect new supplies for the next expedition. 

It makes him think she doesn’t really care, but then Quaritch pats his shoulder on the way out, like he’s done his job. It might just be good that he's remembered something at all, and was able to write it down to keep reminding himself rather than it disappearing. Like the others (allegedly).  

She also probably didn’t say anything because she didn’t need to. The General’s not one to ramble, she’s careful with her words. He’s to keep going as he has been and bring back any more memories he can. The unspoken trust makes him feel all warm and fuzzy inside, but also makes his stomach turn. 

It takes a while to pass. 

With no new orders, Quaritch is able to determine their next steps when they return to the forest. Meaning, at first, a lot more climbing. Like the Colonel’s determined to rip their arms and legs off in one day, or he’s intent on breaking one bone in every body. At least. 

Even he has to join in, although he can scuttle away from Quartich’s glare and barking commands by reaching the highest bows of the trees. From there, he can happily sit, swing or jump between branches to watch the rest of them attempt to not fall, or get reprimanded. 

This continues, until the squad is able to safely get to the stronger branches without slipping. It’s surprising how confident they’ve gotten within  a matter of days, actually using their bodies to their fullest extent.  

“Thank god,” Lopez groans from where he sprawls on his stomach, arms and legs draping towards the ground, and his cheeks digging into the bark. “I can’t feel my fingers.” 

“They’re still there,” Ja tells him, flicking one with his foot. “You just damaged the nerve endings.” 

“I think I damaged my everything,” Zdinarsik grumbles, stretching her arms above her head and groaning. “I’m tagging out for the day.” 

“No you’re not,” Quaritch orders, swinging up onto their branch and making it shudder under the weight. Everyone jolts, or yelps in surprise. “We’re not stopping.” 

The Colonel is playing with fire now, or a possible mutiny and yet, by Quaritch’s demand that they stand up, he doesn’t really care. Quaritch would probably fight for control with his teeth and bare hands. 

“Up, on your feet,” Quaritch barks again when the squad just groans, putting some bite behind it so that they begin to push themselves up. 

Watching from his side of the branch, he adjusts his centre of gravity to keep his balance, spreading his weight across the bottom of his feet so that when it does move, he doesn’t fall. Some wobbling tells him the others don’t know how to do that, but, really, it’s such a basic thing they’ll figure it out in a few minutes. He keeps a wary gaze on Quaritch instead. 

“Can’t we go back to camp?” Lopez asks plaintively. “It’s almost the eclipse.” 

“More reason for us to stay out,” Quaritch says. “We will be travelling at all times of the day at some point, better get used to the darkness. Who has the kid’s exopack?” 

“Me, sir,” Wainfleet says, patting his right vest pocket. 

“Good, then we can keep going.” 

Their heads droop and a few groan, and yet their exhaustion gets tucked away within moments. Their balance steadies so that they can stand with their shoulders back without even a wobble of their knees. 

It’s decided that the next step would be to learn how to run across the branches. Use the trees as their own pathways to avoid the creatures prowling the forest floor. Even he has to agree that it sounds a bit ridiculous, but apparently it’s how the Na’vi traverse some long distances. 

By flinging themselves over empty space that’s wider than they are tall. Risking injury and death with every carefully placed step. It sounds impossible. 

“We’ll let the kid go first,” Quaritch suddenly says. He freezes under the eyes that scrutinise him, breath hitching in his chest. His heart might end up on the floor with how quickly it shoots into his throat. This must be some kind of karma, or the Colonel can read his mind. 

“Is that a good idea sir?” Ja asks. 

Oh, someone's trying to protest on his behalf, that’s nice. 

But it doesn’t work. 

“There’s a need for motivation,” Quaritch replies, and the tiny bit of hope shrivels in his chest. “A kid whooping your asses might be just what's required, considering our glacial pace.” 

The Colonel’s really testing their limits now, if they had any less loyalty he’d probably be shoved backwards and sent tumbling to the ground. But the trust or something else stays any attack. It doesn’t stop the heavy gazes from glueing themselves to his back. 

He jumps to the next tree, creating distance and keeping his nerves from getting to him. The time between his feet leaving bark and landing on damp moss is short, but it still turns his stomach. If he’d used less force, he would’ve missed the branch by a foot at least. He’d be the one tumbling down–

“Keep going,” he growls at himself, picking up his pace to jog across the branch. Behind him, he hears Quaritch urge the others on. And the branch shudders with every squad member that makes the jump. 

He glances around, quickly assessing and then changing direction. Drawing them towards older, stronger trees, with branches thick enough that they don’t even judder when he swings onto them. 

“What–” 

“Keep up!” Quaritch barks. “Good thinkin’, kid.” 

He doesn’t acknowledge the compliment. Too busy considering where to go. 

At one point, he pauses at a knot of branches so tightly tangled it’d be hard for any normal sized person to slip through. His eyes widening, he looks for another way. The branch to his left is too far, and the vine to his right that would be a perfect swinging aid isn’t long enough. 

So either he slips through, or stalls them. Or falls which wouldn’t be ideal. 

He’s close enough to see the mulch and moss clinging to the branches, still wet from the rains the night before. His fingers clench against imaginings of what they’d feel like, his legs suddenly cold from imaginary damp and his core clenching like he’s angling his body to twist his body–

“Woah!” Prager says, sliding to a shuffling stop and trying to jump to the branch to their left. 

He lands, fingers digging into the branch in front of the tangled moss and keeping his balance as Prager slips and loses his. His yelp is cut off when he lands on the forest floor below, and the others take the initiative of their long legs to jump over the knot of branches. 

He’s breathing heavily, heart thumping against his ribcage as he glances at the small hole. How’d he do that? 

Quartich leans over, the worry fading to irritation as he orders Prager back up. The others laugh at their friend, but he’s too busy trying to disperse the adrenaline by bouncing on his toes. 

“Come on,” he says when Prager starts climbing the trunk again. He doesn’t wait, just bounces two more times before starting to run across the branches. “Keep up, keep up!” 

“Shit,” someone hisses behind him, and he laughs when his arms work themselves to grab onto a vine and swing the rest of him over the divide. 

He can tell why the Na’vi travel this way. It beats walking by miles, and makes his limbs burn in the best way. He could keep going until his body gave up and he’d still have the energy to keep grinning. 

“How does my ass look?” he asks as he leaps over to a large root. The laughter bubbling in his chest escapes at the indignant noises and the insults thrown at him. The footsteps speed up, but he’s too fast now. 

Careening through the trees with no destination. Enjoying the freedom that’s wrapping itself around his legs and making them move faster. Something’s urging him on, some unknown entity, pushing against his shoulders, mid back. Feeding into his giddy excitement at being able to finally do something, to move. 

He doesn’t want to stop, how could he when there’s still so much to experience just here? 

He tries to reach for the next vine, fingers stretching across open space, just glancing against the edge of the plant to make it sway. His hand closes around it, his body leans forward, muscles bunching– 

“Oi!”

The strap at his shoulder, the one holding his exopack, digs into his throat. He’s yanked back, the momentum of his body stalling so badly that he’s almost thrown behind Quaritch. His legs flail in surprise and he beats against the arm that pushes him. 

“Hey!” he hisses, scrabbling at the arm once his toes meet the bark again. His voice is a bit scratchy, and the skin of his throat smarts where the fabric had burned him. “You can’t just–” 

The arm that’s still keeping him back flaps at his face until it finds his mouth. Then it clamps down so that his anger is muffled. He fights against it, but Quaritch simply turns, pins him with an impressive glare, and lifts his other hand to tell him to shush silently. 

There’s more thumping feet behind them, but they soften and slow down. At least the squad gets a warning. 

He shoves against Quartich’s arm with one hand, scrubbing against his mouth and chin with the other when it finally lets him go. He doesn’t pull a face - that’d be childish - but he does make a tiny disgruntled noise. He’s allowed that much at least, having a stinky palm shoved against his tongue. So gross. 

“Why did we stop?” Ja murmurs. 

Yeah, he’d like to know too, please.  

“Over there,” Quaritch whispers, pointing to a sizable gap in the canopy. 

It’s nothing obvious at first, just a patch of grass illuminated by the daylight. It’s empty of any wildlife and he turns to tell Quaritch that what he just tried to pull, literally, was really dangerous. You can’t just yank someone out of thin air with a strap wrapped around their neck, unless the aim is to choke the person. 

But then Prager gasps, and his eyes go back to the stretch of grass so quickly he cricks his neck. White hot pain spreads from his shoulder to the side of his head, giving him pins and needles and shivers all at once. It makes him wince, but when it dies down, he gasps too. 

It’s like something out of a photograph, perfectly staged; a herd of horses parade through the daylight, their blue skin and stripes jarring against the green carpet they walk on. There’s seven in all and none bear any kind of clan markings. 

They’re wild,  and led by a massive stallion who trots through the group snorting. 

He’d read about all the animals less likely to kill him before their first expedition including the ones that the Na’vi learn to ride. He hadn’t really paid much attention to the information on horses, because the flying creatures on the next page had been so much more interesting. Now he’s kind of regretting it.  

Six powerful legs and the streamline curve to their heads make them ideal for long distance and sprinting. They feed with long tongues, and use their neural connection tails to move the plants they want to eat into a better position. One of them even slaps another out of the way with the same tails, whinnying at them when they protest, then stomping the ground to get them to move. 

He wouldn’t want to be underneath those hooves when they’re at full speed, but they don’t look like they’d actively kill anything. 

“What do we do, Colonel?” Wainfleet asks, the safety on his handgun clicking off as he slides it from its holster. 

“Idiot, do you want them to stampede us–” Lopez hisses, but Quartich’s slow, calm hand pressing down against the barrel of the gun is enough for the weapon to be put away. 

“We need a quicker way to get around the forest,” Quaritch says, peering through the branches as the horses settle properly to eat. “And these creatures don’t seem to be owned by anyone. We shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, should we?” 

“No sir,” Wainfleet says, clipping the gun holster closed. 

“How do we get to them, though?” Ja asks. “They’re pretty big bastards, and I don’t think they’re just gonna let us get on their backs.” 

“Well, Zdog was a wrangler in another life, maybe she could try her hand–” 

Lopez shuts up at the slap to the back of his head, chuckling at his feet. 

“Observe for now,” Quaritch orders, too distracted by the horses to reprimand. “We’ll gather…proper supplies back at the camp and come back tomorrow. Hopefully they visit this patch of forest on the regular. Otherwise it’ll be a lovely day for scouting.” 

They make their way back once the herd has moved on. Slower this time, as the exhaustion catches up with everyone and their muscles begin to quake. Even he finds it hard to keep his grip strong and his balance stable. At one point, about halfway back to camp, the mossy branches start to look really comfortable. 

It’s only because someone hauls at his strap again that he stays upright. Mansk pats his head when he keeps walking, his glare bouncing off the guy's sunglasses. 

“I could sleep for a week,” Lopez moans when their tents appear through the trees. 

“I could inhale a meatball sub,” Prager adds, his stomach growling loudly. “Or just a massive bag of fries.” 

“Well, you can chow down on rations or,” Zdinarsik says, digging through her pack, “protein bars. Or you could take this,” she hands over a datapad, “and go searching for things we can eat that aren’t extremely processed.” 

“But that’s work,” they both whine, tipping their heads back and making their voices carry to the branches above. Somewhere, it disturbs an animal, screeching in surprise and rustling the leaves when it takes off. 

“That’s what it’s gonna take,” Zdinarsik says with a shrug. 

“I could go searching,” he volunteers. He’d do anything just to get some space for a little while. 

“No,” at least three squadmembers, including Quartich, tell him. He pouts, and someone pats his head again. He flaps his hand at it, because he’s not a kid even though they call him that. 

“You’d take too long,” Zdinarsik says, a specific type of glint in her eyes as she leans forward and mutters, “squirt.” 

His pout turns into a scowl, which isn’t taken seriously at all as the rest of them chuckle at it. They end up eating rations and washing them down with water. His mind cries at the sandy texture of it against his tongue, but he doesn’t know why and it’s killing him! 

He’d take the bland food trays he’d been given back in Bridgehead over this in a heartbeat. What he’d do to be able to remember what he ate before all this, so he could try and recreate it. 

Once the wrappers have been scrunched and disposed of (safely) Quaritch calls curfew. And he’s shoved into a tent with Ja, who has the pleasure of changing his exopack and keeping an eye on him during the night. At least it’s not Mansk, he’ll get a good night's sleep without anyone snoring. Or Zdinarsik, who’d somehow used her height as an excuse for kicking him in the side for a good ten minutes when he’d slept in her tent. 

However, the overbearing of Ja is just as bad as the other two. They spend at least a few minutes discussing how best to lay out their sleep positions, and with Ja wanting him to be as comfortable as he can be, he argues every suggestion. 

Being at his feet isn’t acceptable, because Ja says that they stink, and it’s unhygienic. And being pressed against the wall of the tent isn’t good for him because the night gets cold. So, just to make the guy calm down and be happy, he puts his pallet next to his sleeping bag and sits on it with an expectant look. 

“Better,” Ja nods, and finally settles. He’s the only one who does. 

Tossing and turning does nothing. The pallet sticks to his skin wherever he lies, and the sound of Ja’s breathing gets annoying even though it’s quiet. The hissing of his own exopack fills his ears, until he can’t make out the ambient noises of the forest outside. 

It gets to the point where he’s desperate to crawl out of his own skin. Only then does he shove himself up from the ground, and let himself out of the tent. 

The plants and trees glow their nocturnal colours, and the bugs and animals fill the silence with their noise. Everything’s calmer now, as if every living being recognises the importance of the quiet. He pauses just outside the tent to watch a glowbug thing drift past, its wings brushing the glass of his exopack and startling away at the feel. 

He wonders at its colour as it disappears, a hand lifting briefly to wave it goodbye. He drops it as quickly as he raises it, cheeks burning bright red. “Stupid,” he mutters. 

It’s darker than it was the other night he realises as he steps further into the camp. The firepit is out, not even the embers glowing with leftover heat, and yet someone’s still sitting over them. Hunched on a log, with their elbows against their knees, staring into nothing. 

He startles when they move, the glow of their freckles and the weak light from the gas giant above giving away their identity. Quaritch stares at him with an unreadable look, sitting up a little. 

“What’re you doing?” Quaritch asks, voice pitched low against the ambient noises of the forest. 

He picks his way through the camp, careful of any rogue branches that could snap under his feet and wake everyone up, and of the tin cups and plates still sprawled over the grass from their meal. 

“Couldn’t sleep,” he says when he’s settled on the log opposite, eyes catching on the freckles that stretch to Quaritch’s fingers. “Why’re you sitting here in the dark?” 

“It’s a quick and easy death to keep the fire lit during night time,” Quaritch says. When he opens his mouth to tell him about Zdinarsik’s fire a few days ago, Quaritch continues, “The younger recruits don’t know that though, and I find it’ll just cause more arguments if I order them to put it out.” 

“What would kill you?” he asks, genuinely curious. 

“Na’vi, or any animal that catches our scent,” Quaritch says, ears flicking at a loud snarl off in the distance. “Trust me, I should know.” 

Quaritch reaches up as if to feel something against his head, but his fingers falter when they actually touch his skin. “It’s safer this way,” he says as he quickly lowers it, “less risky.” 

He hums quietly, and bunches his legs up towards him to keep some heat. It’s turned cold without the daylight, he’s just never realised because he’s tucked up under a blanket by now. Last time, he’d kept moving, but he doesn’t really have any motivation to get up. Even though the log isn’t really that comfy. 

He can feel Quaritch’s eyes staring at him. Shuffling only makes the staring worse, and then Quaritch clears his throat, sitting up like he’s about to talk. 

“I had,” the Colonel begins, hesitatingly, “a son. He was kind of like you. Stubborn, a real character.” 

Had.

Was. 

Is Quaritch still grieving? Or is this his excuse to air out his feelings where none of the other squad members can hear him? Is this his attempt at trying to connect? 

He doesn’t want to be the one to have to hear this, but he glances at Quaritch anyway. A nonverbal way to say he’s got his attention. After all, it’s better to not be rude to the guy protecting him. Even if discomfort twists his stomach around his rations a little bit. 

“He had ways to get what he wanted,” Quaritch continues. “He had all of us wrapped around his finger.” 

Dunno what that’s like, he thinks, clenching his teeth and keeping his expression as neutral as he can. 

“What was his name?” he asks when the silence drags, and Quaritch spends a bit too long staring into the darkened embers. The look that passes over the Colonel’s face makes him frown a little, the intense gaze making him shuffle again. He doesn’t have a second head, so why is he being silently accused of having one?

It’s just a question, did he say something wrong? 

“His name,” Quaritch says, pausing and swallowing hard, “was Miles.” 

There’s another snarl, far off in the distance. The wind rustles the leaves above their heads and sends a small chill down his spine. His feet clench around the leaves and twigs underneath and he scratches idly against his wrist. Behind them, Mansk snores and someone shuffles their sleeping bag. 

Quaritch stares at him expectantly. 

“Wait,” he says finally, “isn’t that your name? Colonel Miles Quaritch, de-ceased.” 

His imitation is crap, voice deepening until it rumbles in his chest. 

“Yes,” Quaritch replies, “why?” 

“Isn’t it a bit, I dunno, dumb to call your son by your name?” he rations. “A grandparent or ancestor I’d get, there’s a lot of history there, but naming them after yourself?” 

He doesn’t finish his thought, but he doesn’t need to. A muscle ticks in Quaritch’s jaw, and he turns his gaze away while muttering something under his breath. 

“Why did you name him after yourself?” he asks after a few minutes of silence. He can’t help it, he burns with curiosity, because it really couldn’t be anything other than pride. 

Quaritch’s tail twitches, the muscle in his jaw jumps a bit harder, and he mumbles at his hands which twist a twig back and forth. 

“Huh?”

“I said it was the first thing that popped into my head,” he says, a bit louder. “His mother chose his middle and last names. I couldn’t think of anything better.” 

His chest twinges a little at the thought of his mother choosing his name. It twists even further when his head throbs at his attempt to dig his own up. 

“Nothing better? Not even something to change it a little, so that things wouldn’t get complicated at home? Like ‘Milo’ or something?” he asks, mostly to distract from the pain coming at him from two directions.

“Bit hard to when you and your wife are being called onto the field for the last time,” Quaritch bites back. He shrinks at the glare that’s not even directed at him but at the embers and burned branches that had made up the firepit. 

“Oh,” he says in a small voice. “What–What…happened to her?” 

“I don’t know,” is the quiet answer. The silence stretches again, but this time it’s more like a yawning chasm than a period of time.  

“You should try to get some rest,” Quaritch says, shifting his legs and sitting up a bit straighter. It sounds like an order so he doesn’t protest heading back to the tent. 

He doesn’t get any sleep at all. 

“No, you go around that way–” 

“But they’re spreading out–” 

“--taking too long, we need to–” 

“Everyone stop pussyfootin’ and catch one!” 

Quaritch’s shout startles the horses more. One snorts loudly, the breath shuddering the lips of their air holes and blowing hot air into his face. Another stamps its hooves threateningly. Wainfleet yelps when one gets too close to his toes. 

“Kinda hard when we’re dealing with animals twice our size,” Zdinarsik argues back, voice strained as she dodges a horse trotting towards her. “We need a plan!” 

“No, we need to evaluate our sanity,” Ja retorts.

“We need to calm down,” he interjects, standing tense at the edge of the clearing. 

They’d found the horses that morning, grazing quietly in the same area of forest they’d found them last time. Quaritch didn’t have a plan, which was obvious when his idea of ‘catching’ the horses consisting of herding them into a corner and trying to jump onto their backs didn’t work in the first five minutes. 

It’d just spread the herd out, so that each squad member was facing off against one, and he had the brilliant job of patrolling the edge. Basically he was sprinting in front of a panicking horse and throwing his hands up to keep them from running away. 

He’s surprised he hasn’t been trampled yet. Or lost a limb. 

“Alright, we need to calm down,” Wainfleet repeats, straightening up from his crouch and flapping his hands as he shouts, “Stay calm everyone.” 

“Not helping Wainfleet,” Lopez snaps from where he’s staring down a horse. Its tail is held out a little, its stubby end twitching and its breath shuddering from its chest. It reacts to Lopez’s voice by abruptly raising its head. 

“Easy,” Quaritch says, both to his squad and the animal in front of him. “What do we do, kid?” 

“Uh,” he says, intelligently, gaze catching on each squad member. At least five are within two feet away from a horse, and neither look happy to be that way. “Relax your body language. They won’t calm down if we’re all tense.” 

Their hands drop to their sides, and he sees Prager take a deep cleansing breath as Mansk lifts his sunglasses to his forehead. The horses snort, and one of them nickers uncertainly. 

“Good,” he says, inching along the perimeter to guard the trees next to a particularly skittish animal, “now talk to them while you approach. Quietly! And try to keep your hands where they can see them.” 

They do as told, surprisingly, inching towards the horses with tiny steps and keeping their hands at their sides. 

“Nice…horse,” Lopez says first, hesitantly. “Good…horse.” 

“--won’t hurt you,” Prager murmurs to his own, reaching out a slow hand to its nose. 

“I’ll be very calm, and quiet,” Wainfleet mutters, shuffling forward. 

“Won’t even notice I’m here,” Zdinarsik says around the piece of gum tucked behind her molars. “Because I’ll be silent.” 

Mansk isn’t saying anything, but he’s making better progress than the others, only an arm’s length away from touching. 

“There’s no need to get annoyed,” Ja says calmly when his stomps its hooves again. “I won’t hurt you.” 

“You’re a very good horse,” Quaritch murmurs, the nurturing tone sounding a bit wrong coming from his voice. “You won’t hurt me, and I won’t hurt you.” 

Patiently, calmly, they all continued to inch forward. The horses, only making small noises and shuffling the leaves beneath their hooves, watch them. He does too, eyes locked on their fingers, their body language. Even Zdinarsik is the calmest he’s ever seen her. 

There’s a moment, a second where he believes they’ll be able to get close enough to climb onto them. That he’ll be faced with a group of six (possibly blood thirsty) fighters on top of six skittish, large animals. It’s only a second though, because off in the distance, a branch snaps and leaves rustle. Usually, it wouldn’t be a problem, could be the wind or another animal. 

But the horses must smell something else, because they whinny loudly, one of them rearing up on its hind legs. And then they’re charging away from the group. And he’s not able to stop them. 

“Shit!” someone shouts, but as quickly as the horses are bolting, Quaritch is snarling and suddenly picking up speed. 

“After them.” 

A few seconds into their dead sprint, it becomes obvious that six legs are much faster than two. And the maneuverability is incomparable between them and the horses. So they scramble into the treetops, and use the canopy to their advantage. 

“If we keep having to walk or swing everywhere,” Quaritch says after a short while of sprinting, “we won’t get anywhere fast. I refuse to allow an opportunity like this go.” 

He grunts at the size of the jump between the next two branches, stumbling and catching himself in a way that’s hard on both wrists but keeping up with the squad. He stares at the Colonel’s bunched shoulders. 

His determination must’ve cracked something in his skull. 

“We chase them,” Quaritch continues, “even if it takes us until the eclipse for them to stop.” 

“But sir–” 

“No arguments.” 

No one else tries. The chase turns into a silent one, each person so focussed they don’t even have the choice to talk. Trying not to fall off and lose sight of the rest is a hard task on its own. Add in another factor, like the horses, and it’s a whole different level. 

They’re steamrolling through the trees, dodging around them with such grace it makes his eyes widen. Others they barrel right past, flattening roots and bushes like twigs. They’re fast too, keeping up the pace effortlessly while around him, the squad quickly loses stamina. 

“Sir!” Wainfleet tries this time, but Quaritch lifts a signalling hand and they all come to a stop. 

So do the horses, slowing into a trot, then a walk, meandering towards the low lying flowers for something to eat. They’re in a completely different part of the forest, nothing looks familiar. He hopes they’ll be able to find their way back to camp. 

“Alright,” Quaritch says, his mullish tone sending a shiver down his spine. One hand rooting in the pockets of his vest, Quartich continues, “we’ve tried this the hard way. Now we go the easy way.” 

“What do you mean–” Ja begins to ask before Quaritch reveals what he’s pulled from a pack. 

The dark metal of the handgun glints in the daylight. Around him, the atmosphere shifts, and the others reach for the holsters at their thighs. 

His stomach twists, his throat burns with nausea, and he - stupidly - reaches out to push down against the barrel of the gun. “No,” he hisses, glancing at the horses to see if they’d heard him, “if you shoot, they’ll bolt or you’ll injure them.” 

Or worse goes unsaid. It sits heavy on his tongue instead. 

Quaritch stares at him, and then chuckles. It’s a small noise, barely a breath but the others smirk like they think he’s dumb. Quaritch pulls out the ammo from another pouch and holds it up so that he can see. 

“We’re not gonna kill them,” Quaritch says, twirling the bright red pellet between his fingers, “they’re too useful for that. No, this little baby is going to knock them out cold for a few minutes. Long enough for us to be able to break them.” 

Quaritch flashes another signal, and the rest drop soundlessly from the trees. 

His heart launches itself into his throat as he scrambles to join them. It thuds against his pulse point, makes his breath shallow as they approach. The horses aren’t calm, their tails twitching erratically and their heads swivelling from one direction to another. As if they can smell the anger. 

Another branch snaps in the distance, an animal calls out through the trees. And the horses look up at the same time. The squad freezes where they’re hiding in a bush, guns held in front of them. Only when the animals drop their heads again do they keep approaching. 

He supposes Quaritch wants them as close as they can get before shooting. To give them less time to shake off the effects of whatever’s in the ammo. Still, he can’t get rid of the feeling that it’ll all go really wrong. 

They break through the bush, now completely visible if one of the horses were to just turn a tiny bit. Still walking, Quaritch signals them to approach, and they get a bit faster. 

Sweat gathers at the edge of his mask, a small drop of it working its way down his neck. The bad feeling is getting worse. 

He barely keeps the gasp from escaping him when their fingers move to rest on the triggers of their guns. He has to press a shaky hand against his mouth to keep it in, and tense everything to stop from reaching out again.

A sudden loud shriek startles the shit out of him. He jumps, and someone pulls the trigger too soon. The gun goes off - bang - but the bullet lands in the root of a tree. Kicking up splinters and causing the horses to panic. 

“Damnit–” Quaritch swears, but Lopez spots something and cuts him off. 

“Enemy targets, get down!” he shouts before more cries echo through the trees, and the short sharp ratatatat of gunfire fills his head and hurts his ears.  

“Na’vi!” Wainfleet barks, quickly switching magazines and ducking an arrow that flies at his head. 

“Kid, down,” Ja says, shoving him towards the grass as all hell breaks loose aove his head. 

The thumping of hooves against the ground tells him the horses have run off. He can’t see them, because his face is too busy being practically shoved to the ground, but he can hear them. His heart squeezes in his chest at their panicked neighing. 

“Get him to cover,” Ja shouts to someone, who begins to protest but cuts themself off with a grunt as they retaliate to an attack. 

He’s shoved through the group, one pair of hands switching for another against his shoulders until he’s right against Quaritch. Who’s tossing grenades into the trees and popping off gunshots like it’s second nature. Quaritch glances down and swears at the sight of him. Before none too gracefully shoving him behind him. 

“Kid, go,” Quaritch growls when an arrow gets way too close for comfort. “Find cover in the trees, we’ll track you down when this is all finished. Just get outta here!” 

He doesn’t really need to be told twice. Yet, Quaritch shoves his shoulder and sends him stumbling into the trees anyway. 

Getting back to his feet, he runs until he can’t hear anything over the hissing of his own breath, the thumping of his feet against the ground, and the thud of his blood in his ears. Still, when he stops and takes a breath, he can still hear the fighting behind him. 

He’s out of range, but he shouldn’t go too far in case he gets properly lost. He leans a hand against a tree in an attempt to ground himself, and starts to lower down to the ground to hide. 

Rustling and the pattering of feet stop him. They’re coming this way, from the direction of the fight. He freezes with one hand reaching down to the ground and wills it to be an animal. Maybe another monkey thing. 

He straightens and listens to the graceful steps, the rustling of leaves and the muttered words that he can’t really make out. They’re getting closer, and his heart rate rises again when there’s the muted thump of them landing on the ground. Literally two arm lengths from him. 

The person cranes their neck, looking at something off to the right, back to him. Tail swishing wildly and ears swivelling. If and when they turn, they’ll be able to see him, there’s nowhere for him to hide. 

Then, he might be as good as dead. 

They turn, agonisingly slowly, and he has a second to frown at the familiarity of their clothing - and the dull throbbing of his head - before his attention is taken by the expression on their face. 

It’s the shock that gets him first. Raw and stealing across their expression, it hitches their shoulders and lifts their hand. It’s the kind of shock that should, he thinks, be followed by a blinding grin. It’s weird to have it directed at him. 

But then something like anger drops their hand back to their side and makes them frown. Almost scowl. Ah, that’s a familiar expression. 

He takes a step back even though he’s frowning too. More in confusion because–

Why does he get the feeling this person is familiar? Why does he feel like he knows them? And someone tell him why his heart is clenching at the look on their face. Because it’s really throwing him for a loop. 

The scowl falters, maybe because of his expression. But their hand comes up again, almost reaching for him. 

A sudden loud, intense round of gunfire echoes to his left. Grating against the ears, it makes him flinch badly enough to take a step back. Worry burns in his stomach and throat like acid, but he doesn’t know who he’s worried for; the squad, the horses, or the attackers. Or all of them. He doesn’t want anyone getting hurt. 

The hand falters again, but it doesn’t drop. In fact, the other one comes up like they’re about to…comfort him. 

As they get closer, the familiarity he feels towards them gets stronger. Like their name is sitting just out of reach. Is it obvious he’s not acting like himself? Can they tell? Or is he just the same, and they just think he’s being normal?

He takes another step back at the sound of an explosion, and the harried, nervous, worried noise that comes out of their mouth is so unexpected it has him freezing on the spot. 

It has the entire forest coming to a still around them too. The sounds of fighting cutting out. 

He can tell the hand is far bigger than his with how close it is to touching his shoulder. He can see the details in their clothing, the bright colours and the pattern that looks so much like the one wrapped around his own waist. Still, something feels out of place. Something inside him. 

Maybe they can give it back to them. Maybe he’s been in the wrong place the whol–

“KID!” 

The shout breaks the silence, the hand is snatched back just before something dark and round is thrown between them. He notices what it is moments before it goes off. 

It gives him enough time to shove their shoulders. Pushing them as far away as he can. Before the grenade explodes, and throws both of them backwards. 

He can’t hear anything, can’t see anything. He feels the impact of his body landing and rolling on the forest floor, before he slows. Then turns to press his front into the ground, to get up again once the ringing has stopped. Dazed, he doesn’t notice who’s grabbed hold of his arm until he’s dragged up and away, barked orders sailing over his head. 

He has a moment to glance back, relief cooling the burning acid in his throat at the twitch of a shoulder as they push themselves up. Their eyes lock in that moment, somehow, and their mouth opens to say something, shout. But his arm is yanked again, and he has to look forward or risk falling on his face. 

The trees go flying past, blurring into a carpet of green. It’s dizzying, and he has to focus on the bite of the fingers digging into his skin to stay aware. He doesn’t hear the others, but there are flickers of blue, and Quaritch - because who else - gestures with his free arm. They’re getting away from the clearing, and the horses. 

When they finally come to a stop to catch their breath, he makes a big effort to shove down his initial reaction. 

He really wants to punch Quaritch. Or kick him, or both. 

Because what the fu–

“We need to keep moving,” Wainfleet says through his gasping breath. “They could have friends patrolling the area, and we’re too close to where we were.” 

“How’d they find us?” Zdinarsik growls, pointing an accusing finger at Quartich. “You said we were so far away from their position–” 

“The boots!” Ja exclaims, slapping Zdinarsik on the arm a few times as his eyes widen in realisation. “They must’ve found them because the monkeys carried them to their hideout.” 

“Right,” Zdinarsik says, tone blunt and gaze blank, “and they were somehow clever enough to practically drop them in the Na’vi’s lap and tell them where we were.” 

Ja deflates, and she swings around as if to start up again. But Quaritch holds up a hand, ignoring the caustic looks aimed at him. Their anger is valid, he thinks. This was the Colonel’s fault. 

“However they found us doesn’t matter,” Quaritch says. “We’ve been compromised, and it’s our top priority to get back and break down the camp before they can try to recover and find us.” 

“Move where?” Wainfleet asks, keeping his tone strategically neutral. “Any other location will need to be within walking distance, and with the kid’s exopack, we only have a day to find our new site. Shouldn’t we just request an evac before night falls?” 

By the scowl on Quaritch’s face, that’s a no. 

“We’ll sleep in a goddamn tree if it comes to it,” he says, “but we will not be giving up and running with our tails between our legs just because of one small skirmish.” 

“Wouldn’t really call it small,” someone mutters, but it goes ignored too as Quaritch signals for them to move out. 

His head throbs in time with his twisting, tangled ball of feelings as they walk. Every time he blinks he sees them reaching for him, being blown backwards, and then shouting after him. 

And Quaritch– took him away. 

Had Quaritch known. Or was it just a spur of the moment thing, fueled by adrenaline and done without thought. Because it had been him to throw that grenade. 

He stares at Quartich’s back. And stares, and then stares some more. He probably stares a bit too much, because Quaritch slows his pace until they match. 

“You good, kid?” he asks. 

He arranges his face into something that is kind of neutral. He supposes it works because when he says he’s “Fine” Quaritch turns around again. Either the Colonel’s ignoring his death glare, or isn’t even aware of it. 

The others see it. They look at him like he’s a ticking grenade with its pin pulled, and they don’t even know what happened. Even though they’re a bit pissed at their commanding officer too, they take offense that he’s trying to put him at least one foot under ground with his eyes alone. 

He stops to glance back. But they’re so far away from the clearing that being followed is only a whim. A wish. He could try and find his own way back, but then that’d just be leading the squad straight to the Na’vi. Or is it vice versa with the way he’s monitored? 

He doesn’t even know if he can run at this point, if the eyes on him are just a precaution. Or he might be snatched back immediately if he takes a step in the wrong direction. 

He also has no idea how to get back to the clearing, or the battlefield. He also has no other choice than to keep following orders. Unless something changes. 

It’s that night, when they finally strike down camp and move it about three clicks to the north west - not far enough, but as far as they can manage on exhausted feet and hungry stomachs - that he discovers a way to create a new document. One that only he can access, through his fingerprint. 

Here, he quickly, and subtly, writes down two things before curfew is called: 

Na’vi in the forest knew me. 

Quaritch threw a grenade before I could ask anything.  

Both sentences feel equally as damning, so he locks the datapad properly before tucking it away. 

NOW

He tries to use the hesitation to his advantage. But Quaritch isn’t as distracted as he thought. The nails dig into his skin again when he tries to wiggle away. 

“Strike ‘em down,” he growls, and Wainfleet’s smile turns feral. “We’re moving out!” 

“No!” he shouts, struggling. “Let me– go!” 

The sand is too slippy under his feet. There’s no traction, no grip. And his heart starts straining against his ribcage when Wainfleet lifts his gun towards the sky. His shouts get desperate, because they know him! They called to him he needs to find out why and they’re about to get killed–

Wainfleet’s finger squeezes the trigger. 

Chapter Text

Their target is so small. A singular Samson copter, making its way northwards. They can’t tell exactly where it’s going, although the direction is pretty damning; heading for the archipelago that makes up the home of the sea people. 

It would be funny, it’s tiny size, if Quaritch and the General weren’t staring at it so intently. Like they’re trying to blow it up with their eyes alone. Actually, that is kinda funny. He ducks his head to keep his smile hidden. 

They can’t destroy it, obviously. Because it’s a hologram, and he’s standing right in the middle of its flight path. Literally, one of the glowing orange blocks goes through his arm, and past his shoulder, trailing off in the middle of the ‘ocean’. 

They’d probably wreck the real thing if given the chance. The hate in their gazes is really terrifying in its intent. 

“Our scans picked up their transmission at eleven hundred hours yesterday,” Ardmore explains, flicking a finger at the console. For a few brief seconds, a static recording blasts through the briefing room, inaudible before it cuts out.  

Must’ve been when they were busy trying to obtain their…new…modes of transport. 

“Unfortunately,” she continues, “we lost the signal over the open ocean. Some sort of blocker they’d suddenly remembered to turn on.” 

“Damn,” Quaritch hisses. “Can we trace where they came from? If we can’t get Sully himself, then we could get his friends, and the remains of his…clan.” 

“If we could do that,” Ardmore tells him, with an unimpressed look on her face, “I would’ve deployed a squadron by now. The mountains still affect our technology. We could only get this reading because of their mistake.” 

“They might not be on that copter anyway,” Wainfleet suddenly pipes up from where he’s leant against the wall. He’s the only squad member allowed into the briefing due to his role as ‘right hand man’. The rest were dismissed to get some ‘real’ food. “If I know Sully, and his crazy ass wife, they’d be flying on ikrans .” 

“Good point, Corporal,” Quaritch says, like he didn’t expect a good idea to come from Wainfleet. “Could be one of their science friends.” 

“We can only gather where they might go from this estimated trajectory. Taking into account wind speed, and the angle of the rotors,” Ardmore says, gesturing to the flight path that trails off into nothing. “It’s rudimentary, hardly accurate, so if you have an idea, please, do share.”

Quaritch clicks his tongue in thought.  

He inches closer to the hologram so that his fingers graze through one of the boxes, allowing his thoughts to drift as, behind him, the adults trade ideas. 

Sully is a traitor. That much he knows, because every soldier and squad member hates even saying his name. Disgust and hatred isn’t uncommon when he’s mentioned, and once someone literally spat on the ground when they spoke about Sully. It was gone the next time he went through that corridor, but still. 

They want to find him as quickly as possible, then. To either arrest him, or take him out for his crimes against the company. 

No one’s specifically told him how he betrayed them, or why it’s such a big offence. No one’s told him much of anything, actually. 

Quaritch wants revenge. He’d have to be dumb and blind not to realise that. They were training his squad to be able to track Sully down by natural means, and although his motivations are a mystery, they must be strong enough to get a squad to do away with their norms. 

The feeling must also be mutual in his subordinates. 

He feels eyes on him as he trails the copter, walking heel to toe to look like he’s actually doing something rather than letting his eyes blur and turn into an orange blob of light. The heavy gaze turns away again. 

He wants to be useful. That hasn’t changed. But his own reasons have changed. The threat of the Head R & D scientist holds no strength anymore; he hasn’t seen them at all. They also can’t do any more damage, because he’s like an empty husk already. 

(What does he have that they could take away?) 

Instead, the want - need - to get back to the forest is what drives him. 

If he’s useful, he goes with the squad. If he goes with the squad, he gets to go to the forest. If he goes to the forest, he’ll escape and find a way back to that clearing. And the Na’vi, the one who knew him. 

That look on their face, the recognition, the surprise and the fear - not for them, but for him - has haunted him. He sees it when he blinks and when he tries to sleep. The hand reaching out, the colour of their war paint and clothes. The bow strapped to their back.

The sound of the grenade, landing in the damp mud between them.

He has to get back. Has to find them, needs to find them. 

“See anything?” the General suddenly asks, and it takes a second to realise she’s directing it at him. Seeing as he’s standing right in the middle of the map, staring at the copter’s hologram like he’s trying to figure out the meaning of the world. 

“Huh?” he says intelligently. 

“Looks like you’re onto something, kid,” Quaritch expands, and he frowns. 

He hasn’t moved. He’s still in the middle of the copter's flight path, so he inches out of it. Then actually looks at the thing as a whole. 

The ocean spans big and wide and…scary. There’s so much empty space with nothing but a few large rocks to break the monotony. What would happen if he just fell into the water? He’d be lost, or drift towards those islands. 

Speaking of…

He tilts his head, gets closer to the islands. Something about them…he’s seen them before. His heart rate increases with every step, and his palms turn sweaty. He doesn’t know where he’s seen them, but their shapes are too recognisable. 

He stands over them like a god. Stretches out a hand to brush a finger against an edge. 

“There’s so many of them! Like, billions and billions!” 

He jolts, snatching his finger back and glancing over his shoulder. Quaritch and Ardmore continue their discussion, gesturing at the copter, and the soldier at the console takes a sip of his coffee. 

“Not that many. You don’t even know how to count yet, so there’s probably only hundreds.” 

“That’s still a lot.” 

They’re inside his head, the voices. He holds very, very still, even though his eye begins to twitch. He can’t lose this one, he won’t. 

“Careful, you could damage it.” 

“Don’t want your grubby fingers all over it.” 

“There’s at least fifty islands in all, that one there–” 

He shuffles to the left, because this voice is so much older than the others. Wiser, like a commander. 

“--that’s the home of the deep sea divers. Their lungs are so large they can hold their breaths for nearly half a day!” 

His eyes widen as he stares at the smallest island. Surrounded by sea troughs, and valleys, it doesn’t seem to be able to hold more than maybe twenty people. Unless they also live in the deep sea too. He wouldn’t rule it out. 

“They don’t talk to people much, but they know the deep sea better than your mother knows the air currents.” 

There’s distant laughter. It warms his heart and twitches his lips. 

“What about that one?” 

It’s bigger, but shaped like a crescent. A thin strip of lighter orange must be a beach or something. The rest looks like it's covered in forest. 

“Lagoon dwellers. They take care of the coral reefs around their home and trade with the Tlalim clan so that other islands can reap the benefits of the plants.” 

“Why?” 

He stares at the island, at how distanced it is from the others. It could be completely self-sufficient if it wanted to. The reefs would have enough food to last them several lifetimes, and the currents surrounding them makes it difficult for infiltration. It’s also probably a really beautiful place to live in. 

“Community, and to allow others to prosper from their findings. And look–” 

He frowns; there’s nothing else there to see. 

“--that’s the route the balloons take. They’re the only clan that can reach them. Isn’t that cool?” 

“Tell us more daddy! More, more!” 

He winces against the sharp stabbing right behind his eye, but he uses all of his willpower to shove it back. Gripping tight to the memory. 

They sound so young, so innocent it’s squeezing the breath from his lungs. It’s soothing something he hadn’t realised was jagged and sharp in his chest. 

He stands in the middle of the islands now, and still Quaritch and Ardmore talk. 

They haven’t noticed him yet. 

“Alright, alright.” 

The chuckle is low and incredibly fond. He yearns to hear it again. 

“That one to your left–” his right, actually, “--that’s where the wind skimmers go to learn how to surf for the first time. The rocks surrounding the lagoon make really large waves, but it's a closed off space in case someone’s dragged out to sea.” 

“Can that happen?” 

Another chuckle, “Nah. Unless they went out without a spotter. Or their parents.” 

There’s a grumble, like the words are pointed. 

He trails his fingers along the edge of the island, and notices that yes, the rocks hem everyone in. Unless they deliberately went through, they wouldn’t hit the open ocean. Glancing over his shoulder, he waits to see if there’s been any change. 

Quaritch and Ardmore have turned away, like they’re discussing something they don’t want him to hear. 

“--clan, they’re central to the entirety of this ecosystem.” 

He grunts quietly at the next spike in pain and turns back. Shit, he’s missed something. What’re they talking about? 

He glances over the map, trying to figure out which island could be central, the most important. There’s a tiny one in the middle of the archipelago, but it looks like it’d be able to hold five people at best. 

“They have rock pools where they collect barnacles and seaweed and tiny creatures to trade with the Tlailim clan. They also have the strongest connection with the Spirit Tree, over there–” 

Nope, he’s completely lost. His fingers twitch badly at another spike, but still he searches. Maybe that one in front of his left hand? It looks big enough and kind of central, so he moves to it and tilts his head. 

“--also really close to the hunting grounds. Some islands send their younger warriors to learn their ways and to gain knowledge from the Ol–” 

“Spot anything, kid?” 

He startles, nearly jumping away from the map at the sound of Ardmore’s voice. She’s standing right next to him staring with a raised eyebrow. 

“Huh?” he says intelligently, still attempting to fend back the headache. 

She nods at the hologram. “You looked like you’d noticed something. Care to share?” 

“I–” he begins, gaze jumping to Quaritch. The Colonel isn’t going to step in anytime soon. Not if the suspicious gaze is any clue. Maybe he spent too long looking at the map. 

“I dunno how useful it would be,” he says hesitantly, thinking they’ll drop it and let him deal with everything. But Ardmore just shrugs. 

“We need everything we can get,” she says, and he panics. 

He can’t just– give them all this information. Who knows what they’d do with it? They could invade the islands and take the resources, or attack the balloons for information because they know where they’ll be. The idea makes his stomach turn and his headache inches its way up his forehead. 

Can he lie to them though? He’s kept crucial bits of information from them before, but somehow this feels bigger. It’s useful to them, important to their mission on Pandora, which increases the pressure.  

It makes his heart race. 

“Well,” he says, gesturing to the islands at the edge of the archipelago, “these islands here? They’re surrounded by strong air currents and are impossible to reach by anything other than sea.” 

She hums, but he can tell Ardmore’s interest by the glint in her eyes. “Mark them off, Private,” she calls over her shoulder, and a red colour suffuses the islands. “What else?” 

“Uh, these ones here,” he says, casting a hand over the lagoon, “they’re uninhabited, and completely exposed to the sunlight during the day. And those ones there, the reefs around them are dead.” 

“No one would try to build villages,” she murmurs as the red colour covers those ones too. “What about the islands further in?” 

“I don’t know,” he says. And it’s the complete truth. But she doesn’t look like she cares, staring intently at the archipelago as he just tries to stay on his feet. The pain comes in waves, he won’t be coherent for much longer probably. 

“What d’you think, Colonel?” she calls, pointing to the islands to her left. 

He’s distracted her, even if the information is false. 

As Quaritch comes forward, he steps back so that he can lean against the edge of the console, digging his palms into it to ground himself. The room tilts anyway, and he fights to keep his breathing as steady as he can. 

Both the General and the Colonel gesture at the map, figuring out the copter’s destination. Or arguing about their next move. His lips quirk at the idea of the squad learning how to swim; because there’s no other way to get across that stretch of ocean. 

He can’t focus on them anymore. This headache is bad bad. Like, a knife being driven into his eyeball bad. He can feel it working its way through the entire right side of his head, until it feels all tingly and weird squiggles appear in his peripheral vision. 

He might throw up. Or fall down. Or both, his body hasn’t really made up its mind with how much it's swaying. He peels a hand off the console and raises it a little. His fingers tremble.  

“Hey,” he says. It sounds like he’s whispering, but he knows he’s not. He can feel the vibration of his voice, it’s just… distant. “Can I go?” 

Ardmore waves at him distractedly, Quaritch glances at him, but it’s all the dismissal he needs. Slowly separating himself from the console, he bats away the soldier’s quiet concerns to make his way out to the corridor. 

It’s only when the door behind slides shut that he leans against the wall. Pressing a hand against it and shivering at the cold. If he opens his mouth even a little bit, he’s going to lose his lunch all over the floor. He hates the feeling, clenches his jaw against it until his molars creak under the pressure. 

He slowly shuffles along as gently as he can, every step rattling the muscles and bones in his body, aggravating the headache. 

The bright lights aren’t helping either, and the darkness of the floor looks like a lovely place to sink into. The pain has transformed from a knife digging into his eyeball to a sword sawing its way through his skull. Constant, painful, he can’t escape from it. 

Hell, he might not even make it back to the barracks like this. 

He does, but it takes what feels like an age, reaching their temporary digs right next to the airstrip in the time it takes for his knees to threaten to give out and the headache to become a migraine. 

The squad’s pod had been since given to new recruits fresh off the transports who need to be trained. 

“Keeping seven of you in a facility that houses double that amount is just not maintainable,” the quartermaster had told Quaritch that first time they’d returned from an expedition to the forest. “General’s orders, Colonel.” 

He leans his head against the door and fumbles for the airlock. 

The others hadn’t been pleased with the change, not only because it drew them away from the other SecOps, but because it was right next to the airstrip. Not very many of them have been getting any sleep. But right now, stumbling into the cool darkness of an empty barracks, it feels like the best place in the world. 

He can’t stay upright. Those voices are still rattling around in his skull, setting his head into vibrating something fierce. 

“What about that one–” 

He winces, and digs both hands into the sides of his head. It hurts! 

Hurts.

Hurts. Hurtshurtshurts why can’t someone helphim–

Pain radiates up his knees, but it’s secondary to the blade sawing through his head. Has it reached his nose yet? His other eye? He can’t tell. Half his head might be on the floor and he wouldn’t notice; every single synapse is just telling him it hurts. 

Distantly, coolness seeps into his forehead and his elbows. He must’ve sunk to the floor, which would be embarrassing for anyone to walk in on. 

“--home of the deep sea–” 

“Fuck,” he chokes out, digging his fingers into his skull. Any other part of him refuses to move. He can’t even flop over sideways because his stomach turns at the thought of the vibrations that would rocket through his body from the impact with the floor. 

The memory has made a home in his head, but infuriatingly, it’s just out of his reach. 

The voices - like the Na’vi in the forest - are familiar. He realises this and he groans through another wave of pain. Really familiar. Like, they’re ingrained in his ear drums and he’ll never get rid of them. 

He knows them, has known them for years, but he can’t remember them. What they look like, who they are. And every time he tries, something else shoves them away. Or it shoves him back. 

It doesn’t want him to know about them. And fighting just makes everything worse. 

At some point, the pain dies just enough to let him lean against the frame of his bunk. He still can’t open his eyes fully, or move anymore unless he wants to lose his lunch, but he’s at least a bit more comfortable. He doesn’t know how long he’s been on the ground, and he really couldn’t care as he keeps his head down and his breath as steady as he can. 

His whole body is shivering, his jaw is still clenched. Tears make their slow way down his cheeks as the voices taunt him. 

Why is this one so intense? He wishes he could go back and walk away from the map as soon as Ardmore had asked him about it. 

As soon as he has it, he shoves that thought away. 

He doesn’t hear the door opening, or the footsteps on the floor, so he jolts in surprise when something soft falls over his head, immediately bringing him warmth. 

It’s the blanket from his bed, the one that still smells of the regulation laundry detergent. A hand falls on his head next, patting it twice before drawing away. 

He knows by the silence that it’s Mansk. Everyone else would either ask him questions, or rib him for (apparently) palming off training to sit for hours doing nothing. Instead the blanket is just tucked closer around him, and the footsteps out of the room are soft, quiet. 

His heart squeezes in his chest for a moment, but it’s swept away by another harsh shudder rattling through him. Right in tandem with a spike of pain. It’s less intense than the last, but the migraine’s not finished with him yet.  

At some point, could be minutes, hours, or days later, he drags himself groggily out of the pain with everything kind of intact. Peeling his eyes open to the dimness of the night cycle is all he can manage before he feels exhausted, but he’s moving. 

He also notices that someone tucked a pillow underneath his head. His fingers bump against it as he reaches, slowly, carefully, for the datapad that’s sitting on the box next to his bunk. 

This memory hasn’t disappeared. He doubts it ever will, with how tightly he’s holding onto it, but he needs to get it down before the details fade. 

In his official document, he writes that he heard voices, and that they caused a migraine so bad that he had to abstain from all other squad activities. He gives no more detail. 

In his private notes, he gets down everything he can about the islands, and the voices. Until he’s wracking his aching head to see if he missed anything. 

Once that’s done, he puts the datapad down before the throbbing in his eyes get any worse, his head following into the itchy pillow. He wonders idly as he drifts into some kind of sleep, if his brain has leaked out of his nose yet. 

Later, in the light of morning but way before any of the others can string together a coherent sentence, he sits and stares at his datapad.

He’s tried to be as detailed as he could, describing movements that felt so natural when he held a knife or climbed a tree that he’s waxing poetic about the feeling of the bark under his fingers. The “Monkey boy” memory is so long it takes up nearly a quarter of the page, and that’s just to explain what he was doing before it happened. 

He stares until he can see the shape of the paragraphs behind his eyelids when he blinks. Infuriatingly, none of them match. Putting them together doesn’t create any kind of picture, even though his brain is insisting otherwise. Like it knows what piece he’s missing but won’t tell him. 

All he’s coming up with are possibilities, and there’re too many of them to keep track of properly. 

Everything’s so tangled, a massive ball of confusion that refuses to move from where it’s constantly pressing down on his stomach. 

It gets to the point where he gets so annoyed he tosses the datapad onto the box again. The noise aggravates the others, but he doesn’t care. 

“Someone’s grumpy,” Zdinarsik says, smirking around her toothbrush when he glares at her. He won’t be able to stop himself if she tries something. 

“Z-dog,” Lopez says warningly, “leave the kid alone will ya?” 

She tuts dismissively, but listens to her teammate and ducks back into the tiny bathroom they have to use in the temporary digs. No one says anything about how he slept on the floor, even though he groans when he gets up. They’re too busy preparing for the mission assignment. 

They end up in the briefing room again, the map of the archipelago glowing just behind Ardmore’s shoulder. He avoids looking at it, focusing instead on the fraying edge of her hat. He knows what’s coming. 

“You’ll be heading out at eleven hundred hours,” she says, “to recommence your search for Jake Sully. The Colonel and I have decided that the training you’ve received is sufficient for your set mandate.” 

There’s an atmosphere that he doesn’t like seeping from the other squad members; if they were allowed to, they’d probably be grinning and high fiving each other. He keeps his own expression neutral. 

“You’ll report to Captain Mick Scoresby of the SeaDragon to search the outer islands of the archipelago,” she says, gesturing to the map. “Connecting with the CetOps allows the squad to utilise the resources at their disposal. You are to bring Jake Sully back to Bridgehead. Alive.” 

There’s no alternative. He can tell in the look she gives the squad members. 

“You’ll be travelling by ikran to reach the SeaDragon,” she tells them. “That is all.”  

The rest break away, Lopez and Prager practically bounding down the hallway as the squad trails after. 

But a hand lands on his shoulder before he can follow them. “Kid,” Ardmore says, “a moment?”

“Yes, General?” he says, swiveling on his heel. 

“I hear you’ve done some good work on the expeditions,” she states, holding out a hand. “May I see?” 

He blinks, and then hurries to unclip his datapad, handing it over without hesitation. “I’ve not remembered anything concrete,” he admits, “but whatever I have, it’s all noted.” 

From where his hands are tucked behind his back, he crosses his fingers. 

“Hm,” she says quietly, eyes flickering over his notes. “And this is everything as it happened?” 

“That I could remember,” he says, covering all bases. 

“Good, very good,” she mutters, handing the datapad back. “Keep doing as you have, kid, you’ve done good work.” 

“Thank you,” he replies, although it’s a bit hesitant. 

“There’s one more thing you could do for me, kid,” she says, and ah, there it is. 

Although he has no reason to, his shoulders hike upwards.

“The man we’re searching for is incredibly dangerous. Unpredictable. He’s escaped from his home turf, but we can’t confirm if he’s made allies wherever he’s ended up.” 

“We know,” Quaritch adds, “that any approach from us will result in aggression, from Sully, his family, and any clan he’s harbouring with.” 

He really wants to narrow his eyes. He really wants to, because looking at this now, they’re not being subtle, or especially sneaky. There’s a massive bit of information they’re leaving out here, but he smooths out the bridge of his nose consciously. 

“What do you need me to do?” 

“We can assume that he could try to get to you as a way to get to the squad,” Ardmore suggests. “Given your unique circumstances, he might see you as a weak spot in an otherwise impenetrable defense. Try to capture you as a bargaining chip.” 

The fear mongering is so obvious it’s nearly cringey. But he widens his eyes appropriately. Because what if it’s actually true? From what he’s heard of Sully, anything could be possible when it comes to him. 

“I would suggest that you remain on the SeaDragon during any excursions into the archipelago. To avoid detection, and for your own safety. Those allies of his might be asked to do the dirty work for him,” she says. 

He can feel the metaphorical bindings clamping around his wrists. They might as well chain him to the deck of the ship, or keep him in a cage. 

“Of course,” Ardmore says, and he jolts at the slight pinch to her brow, “that is up to Quaritch’s discretion. Some external influence might be what you need.”

Judging by the tension of Quaritch’s jaw he’s not too sure about that. 

“Any interaction with Jake Sully is prohibited,” Ardmore suddenly commands, her gaze flinty and cold. “That isn’t up to anyone’s discretion but my own. He is dangerous, but above all a traitor. I’d hate to discover what he could do with you– your…datapad.” 

He does narrow his eyes this time, but not enough to be noticeable. “Yes, General,” he says, allowing for a tiny bit of hesitancy. 

“Good,” she says again, and then tilts her chin towards the door. “Best go prepare your things, kid. You depart in an hour.” 

He never thought he’d feel safer than he had within the cargo hold of the Kestrel. Surrounded by clouds and the wind and holding onto a stable piece of equipment. 

And yet, here he sits. In the saddle of an ikran, holding onto the back of Quaritch’s vest and feeling safer and more confident than he had in an inanimate object whose sole purpose was to safely transport people from one place to another. 

It doesn’t make sense. And he’s been digging around in his head to find anything that could explain to him how, but he’s come up empty. 

He’s also given himself a small migraine. Which is not fun. He’s been grumbling and sighing quietly for a good few minutes to see if any of his discomfort will even be noticed.

No dice. 

The ikran they sit on is too placid and behaving itself to make the flight enjoyable. It probably wouldn’t even dive for fish if the food flew right up next to it. He could blame the green collar wrapped around its neck, but that doesn’t feel right. It’s too convenient. It hadn’t even snarled when the thing had been put on, even though the one next to it had nearly taken Quartich’s arm off. 

“Stop shuffling, kid,” Quaritch calls over his shoulder when he tries to turn in the saddle. 

He wants to see if any of the other ikran are playing up, but all he gets is a glimpse of glassy yellow eyes and a tight formation before he turns around again. 

His heart squeezes hard in his chest. Outwardly, he pastes on a bored expression. Inwardly, he’s screaming. 

Time passes, but it feels like they’ve gotten nowhere. The stretch of ocean underneath them is still blue, still expansive, and still the only thing they can see for miles. There’s no change, and they’re too far apart to rib the others for entertainment. 

So, because he’s bored, his headache is starting to get on his nerves, and he wants to push buttons while flying thousands of feet in the air, he asks a (really stupid) question. 

“How’d he die?” he asks.

“Huh?” Quaritch calls over his shoulder. He can’t hear him over the roaring winds. 

“Your son,” he says, “you said you had one. How did he pass away?” 

Quaritch’s whole body tenses, causing the ikran to croak. Then Quaritch is turning around so quickly that it shifts the saddle. Only a little, but it catches him off guard. He wobbles, and slips down towards the water, yelping, his heart shooting into his throat. 

“There are times,” Quaritch says, with his arm wrapped around his waist keeping him from falling to his death, “when you can ask such questions. Now’s not one of them.” 

Quaritch pulls him back onto the saddle easily. He digs his fingers into his vest in case anything like that happens again. There are more than a few snorts behind them, but he doesn’t dare turn around again. 

Something similar has happened to him before; he can hear a voice berating him in his head. But it’s too distant to hear the words. 

“Just curious,” he says, surprised that his voice doesn’t wobble. “Wouldn’t expect you to be a family man. How’d he pass away?” 

He’s pushing all the buttons now. But to be honest, he’s sick of being the one who’s analysed.

“Was it during a fight? Did he die of natural causes? Have they told you where he’s been buried?” 

“Kid,” someone hisses behind him. 

He leans forward in the saddle, craning his neck to get a look at Quaritch’s expression. It’s not what he expects. He thought there’d be some irritation, a bit of anger, and a lot of grief. That’s what’s meant to happen when you’re talking about a dead child. 

What he gets is a conflicted riot of emotion playing across Quaritch’s face. They’re too fast for him to distinguish, and have Quaritch’s jaw clenching as he stares out across the sea. He frowns at the Colonel, feeling what’s like the thousandth time that he’s missing something. 

And for some reason, when those acidic yellow eyes land on him, it’s like those emotions are his fault. Like he’s the cause, and the blame feels as heavy as the buffeting winds. 

“I don’t know,” Quaritch replies. “I was told he was sent back to Earth in a cryopod.” 

“But you can’t put babies in cryo,” he murmurs suddenly, and Quaritch jolts like he’s been stung by something. 

“What did you say?” Quaritch asks. 

He’s stared at with delirious hope, and more emotions that he can’t name. He shrinks, and tries to shuffle back into his seat. But Quaritch lets go of the ikran’s kuru, and grabs his shoulder instead. The nails digging into his skin remind him of the R & D Head Scientist. How they would stare at him, daring to be made to let go. 

“I- I dunno,” he says, squirming under the grip. “Just came to me.” 

“You sure?” Quaritch asks intently. “No memories?” 

“N-no,” he replies. The words had literally fallen out of his mouth instinctively. He’s not sure what else he’s meant to say. What Quaritch wants him to say. 

“Boss,” Wainfleet suddenly shouts, pointing to a small grey shape on the water. They’d reached the ship. 

Reluctantly, Quaritch turns back around, hissing under his breath as the ikran is directed down towards the water. 

He escaped from that interrogation only by coincidence. The relief is like a balm against his clammy skin, but it won’t last. 

The ship is surprisingly large, big enough to comfortably house a crew of about fifty people at least. It’s no simple fishing boat, that’s for sure. He peers at it as they get closer, curiosity burning the tip of his tongue at the smaller vessels tucked into the cargo hold. 

They land gracelessly on the ship’s flat top and he waits for Quaritch to dismount before jumping off himself. The metal is cold underneath his toes, but he simply works to counteract the slippery surface with his balance. Wainfleet’s ikran snaps at Quaritch as he passes. 

“Wainfleet, get control of that thing,” he barks, glaring at the dark blue ikran as Wainfleet apologises and yanks on its kuru. 

A man in a ridiculous shirt waits for them at the door to the ship’s control room, arms crossed over his chest and his mouth pulled into an unimpressed look. 

“You Quaritch?” he asks once they’ve jumped down to the decking. He’s got a funny accent, not unlike the Kestrel pilot’s. 

“Scoresby?” Quaritch asks, and the guy grumbles, sniffs, and then drops his arms to his sides.

“Guess ya better get in here. Wouldn’t want ya blown into the sea when my baby gets moving,” he says, yanking open the airlock door. “And don’t,” he adds, pointing a stern finger at Quaritch, “even think of letting those flying things in here.” 

Quaritch leers at the guy’s back. “Aye aye, cap’n.” 

Chapter Text

now?

They hadn’t been expecting this. 

To be honest, he wasn’t sure what they’d been expecting. Some hostility and questions, a lot of irritation and disappointment when they were found out. Judging parents watching them come home with slumped shoulders. Sadness at going back to the village empty handed. He expected to be dragged back to the village if they were found out at sea.  

They couldn’t have expected this. 

This being burning homes, screams, blood seeping into the deep blue of the sea.  Outright hostility. A head of blonde hair glinting in the daylight. 

The barrel of a gun pointing at them. 

This wasn’t even a possibility, or a thought; that they’d still be on the island when they got there. Even though they left as soon as they heard the rumour. 

It’s a bad thing, and a good thing he knows. But before he can unpack whether it’s more one than the other, he opens his mouth to shout a warning. 

Because that soldier is definitely pulling the trigger. 

THEN

They’re led into the bridge of the ship without any fuss. The door opens, they step into the airlock, and the door closes again. With a hiss, the chamber depressurises and Captain Scoresby removes his exopack, storing it away. 

The others grab their masks from a pocket in their vests, and he hurries to remove his pack before the inner door is thrown open. One of the straps gets caught in his hair and Ja has to help him get untangled. 

Even though it’s the captain coming inside, no one stops working. The pilots remain in their seats, easing the ship up to full throttle and making it jerk beneath their feet. They shout at each other, a whole cluster of them crowding the controls, watching the pilot ease them into the sky. 

The navigators bark out directions and adjustments, while more soldiers hurry around the main console set in the middle of the bridge with busy intent. They’re dressed differently to the troops he’s seen, the deep blue of their uniforms matching the ocean outside.  

If this was Bridgehead, and it was Ardmore, every person would’ve stopped immediately and stood at attention before the door had even closed over again. Holding perfectly still until she gave the word to return to work. 

He peers around Quaritch’s arm at Captain Scoresby with some curiosity. The guy isn’t even annoyed he’s being effectively ignored as he steps around a navigator. 

He even pats one on the shoulder, ribbing another as they go past. It’s really weird, but the relaxed atmosphere around him is still commanding. The way he leans his hip against the console shows that he owns this ship. 

“So,” Scoresby says, eyeing them up, “I’m told you’re the asshole who’s commandeering my ship.” 

“That’d be me,” Quaritch says as the rest of the squad spreads out through the bridge. “I suppose you’ve already been briefed?”

They’re uncomfortable, everyone’s uncomfortable; the crew because their space has been invaded, and the squad because they’re being judged even as they just stand there. It’s not obvious on anyone’s faces, but the tension is thick enough for him to almost touch it.  

“A recon mission, right?” Scoresby continues, and around them, the crewmembers come to a slow stop. Some swivel around in their chairs to watch. “You’ll have to specify the details, if you can. We were only given a short briefing.” 

He can’t work out if that’s actually true, or if it’s a power play. Glancing between the two men he waits, watches, just like the rest of the bridge. The rumbling of the ship's engines cuts through the silence. 

Quartich flexes the muscle in his jaw, and keeps firm eye contact as he lifts the small mask hanging loosely from his neck. One deep breath of recycled Pandoran level atmosphere hisses through the bridge and he lets it drop again. 

“We’re on an assignment to search for the traitor Jake Sully,” Quaritch says. “Our orders come directly from General Ardmore, stating that we’re to search the archipelago and bring him back to Bridgehead alive for questioning.” 

Murmurs ripple through the crew, and the corner of Captain Scoreby’s mouth twitches. A quick glance at Quaritch confirms; power play. 

“It is then up to the General what information she wishes to…extract from Sully,” Quaritch says, “to locate the rest of the insurgents. My squad is only to neutralise him for capture. Your support is appreciated, as is the use of your ship, but for you and your crew, this is a non-combatant assignment.” 

“What about those kids of his? And his wife?” Captain Scoresby asks. 

Sully’s got kids?

“We weren’t given any specifics,” Quaritch says, the tone of his voice turning his stomach badly. “But I don’t doubt that there will be some…aggravation and aggression in our attempt to capture him. If they attack the ship, then what you do is not in my jurisdiction.” 

The twitch becomes a smirk spread across one side of Captain Scoresby’s mouth. His gaze is flinty though as he asks, “So we’re to be your transport, then?” 

“I suppose, yes,” Quaritch replies.

There’s a weighted pause. Someone behind him shuffles on their feet, a navigator silences a notification on their datapad. But otherwise, they wait. 

“Well,” Scoresby suddenly says, righting himself and turning to the console with vigor, “let’s hope it doesn’t take too long to find him. I have a quota to fill y’know?” 

“No, I don’t,” Quartich mutters, but Scoresby is too distracted to hear him. 

A map of the ocean spreads across the console, an exact copy of the one that Ardmore was staring at, only smaller. His head thumps ominously. With a few flicks of his fingers, Scoresby enhances the image of the archipelago, and steps back. 

“Our target,” Quaritch says before Scoresby can even ask, leaning both hands against the console, “is this whole area here.” 

Quaritch gestures to the islands in the middle of the archipelago, sweeping his fingers over at least fifteen masses of land. 

He stares at the Colonel’s side profile, fighting to keep the relief from his own expression. The misdirection worked. Although it’s not entirely a good thing because they’re going after the other islands anyway. But some of them are safe. 

Scoresby hums in thought. “That’s a lotta land,” he says. “I don’t got all the time in the world to search for this bloke.” 

“According to General Ardmore, you do,” Quaritch comments, and the Captain gives a derisive sniff.

“Well Doc, you know those waters better than anyone,” he says, “whatta we got?” 

“Some Metkayina,” another guy says, directly across the console from the Captain. He’s been so quiet, nearly everyone jolts when they suddenly notice him. “A few Ta’unui. A lot of ground to cover as you say, you’re talking about at least fifty villages. If not more.” 

“I’m sorry,” Quaritch says, “who’re you?” 

“Ah, I’m uh– Ian Garvin,” the man says, holding out a hand to shake. “Resident specialist on Pandoran marine life and biology. I’ve heard a lot about you, Colonel.” 

“And I’ve heard nothing of you,” Quaritch says, staring at the guy until he’s shuffling nervously, dropping his hand to his side. “Fifty villages, a hundred, doesn’t matter. We’re ordered to find Sully, so we’ll search ‘em all.” 

“Ah, but that’s the thing,” Garvin interrupts, fiddling with the controls until a few of the islands span the entirety of the console. He presses a few more buttons, and large strips of blue colour the waters around them. “See these?” 

Garvin flounders and carries on before the unimpressed stare gets too much. “These are the rips and tides that surround these islands alone. They bring the much needed resources to the villages, like fish, seaweed, minerals, that sort of thing. They’re also incredibly strong, too powerful for even this ship to handle at its top flight speed.” 

“So?” Wainfleet suddenly cuts in. “That’s what the ikran are for.” 

Someone, either Lopez or Prager, gives a soft ‘hoo-rah’, which doesn’t sit well with the crew. A few even roll their eyes. 

“But y’see,” Garvin continues, adding another strip of blue, “that would be great in theory, but even the wind and air currents around here are temperamental at best. You’d need decades of training with your mounts to get to the islands without falling off.” 

Quaritch heaves a sigh out through his nose, then says, calmly, “Then why don’t you work with the Captain to charter a course for us that avoids both of those hurdles?” 

“Well,” Garvin says hesitantly as the Captain begins to protest, “it would take a few days at least, to account for weather changes and such–” 

“And that’s days I don’t have, mate,” Scoresby says, tapping the console hard. “I have quotas to fill, Tulkun to hunt. I can’t be sending my ship off through the whole goddamn archipelago chasing rumours.” 

“So then,” Quaritch asks quietly, the muscle in his jaw jumping violently, “what do you want to do?” 

Scoresby gestures to the map again. “Search the islands that we can reach easily first. If the bugger isn’t there, then we can discuss going further in.” 

His heart plunges to his stomach as Quaritch thinks, tapping a finger against the console. He feels sick.

Scoresby's hand had pointed at the ones he’d saved. He finds himself under the Colonel’s gaze for a moment, and he tries desperately to not let any of his emotion run riot over his face.  

“From what the kid told the General,” Quaritch finally says, “there’s little chance of Sully being in any of the outer islands. I’d prefer if we avoid wasting time by searching empty land, or trying to get to inaccessible places.” 

Subtly, he breathes a sigh of relief. But it’s caught in his chest as soon as he releases it, because Garvin turns a frown on him that reeks of suspicion; pinching the corners of his mouth, narrowing his eyes. He works hard not to shrink under it. 

“That’s another thing,” Scoresby says, distracting Quaritch, “who’s the kid?” 

“The kid’s with us, as a sort of…educational asset,” Quaritch tells him, and Lopez snorts behind him. “He’ll stay on the ship when we search for Sully, but he’s part of our squad.”

 “I don’t have daycare facilities y’know. I can’t just babysit a kid while you go waltzing off to who knows where,” Scoresby argues, and he bristles. 

“I don’t need a babysitter,” he grumbles, folding his arms against his chest. No one hears him though. 

“The kid will stay on the ship and keep himself out of trouble,” Quaritch says. 

“But why is he here with you? And not educating the other recoms back at base?” Scoresby asks, insistently. 

“That’s on a need to know basis, Captain,” Quaritch says dismissively, already turning back to the console as if the issue is resolved already. 

Although Scoresby grumbles loudly, he lets it go. 

Garvin doesn’t. His suspicious stare hasn’t let up, instead it’s intensified.  

“The southern isles would be the best place to start,” Garvin says without lifting his stare. “Less likely to face any strong air currents, and there’s a cluster of islands that make one community, so you’d be axing out five islands in one swoop.” 

“How long would it take us to get there?” Quaritch asks, and immediately Scoresby is clicking his fingers. Calling over a navigator to fiddle with the console. 

Again, that nonchalant attitude towards his crew comes off as dismissive, and yet the navigator works quickly and diligently and then steps back again. There’s loyalty there, and a lack of fear. It’s jolting, realising the difference it makes between the Captain and the General. 

“Two shakes of a lamb’s tail,” Scoresby replies, the grin on his face condescending enough to make Quaritch scowl. “If you want to get settled down in your bunks–” 

“No,” Quaritch cuts in, wresting back control, “I think we’ll wait right here. You said it wouldn’t be long, and I’d prefer if we were ready to get started immediately.” 

Scoresby’s scowl deepens, but it's replaced by a nonchalant smile that doesn’t seem right; too big. “Righto then,” he says in that strange accent, “make yourselves comfortable.” 

Because the bridge is too small for the squad to stand up comfortably, Prager, Lopez and Ja end up sitting against the wall, their legs tucked so they don’t trip anyone up. At some point, they yank out a pack of those colourful cards they’d been playing that first night. They catch the attention of the rest of the crew, and more than a few of them look longingly at their little huddle. 

Must be a popular card game. 

Zdinarsik takes point at the window, shoulders a little hunched as she leans against the swell of the bridge wall. She only moves to work her gum between her teeth and let her tail twitch, but he can tell by the position of her ears that she’s listening to everything happening behind her. 

Wainfleet and Quaritch stay at the console, deep in conversation as Scoresby tries to interject about his ship’s mandate and quotas, whatever they are. Mansk is hovering over the pilot’s shoulder, watching quietly as they direct the ship over the sea, his sunglasses perched on top of his head. 

He goes instead to the few screens mounted on the navigators’ tables, staring at the amount of information splayed across them. Some of the graphs and masses of data he can’t understand. But the chart of the sea currents surrounding the archipelago he recognises, tracing one of them idly as it swirls around a large island and flows out to the open ocean. Suddenly, the distance between them and the archipelago seems huge. 

Someone clears their throat and steps up beside him. He recognises the green vest and the voice, and tenses immediately. 

“Could you give us a minute?” Garvin asks the navigator to his right, a bit hesitant. One glance between them and the navigator is standing, taking their cup of coffee and moving to the next observation table over. 

He keeps his eyes on the map, even though his muscles shake under the tension and Garvin shuffles on his feet a few times. He can’t move away, not without making himself more suspicious than he already is in Garvin’s eyes. He feels like he should be making some distance anyway, but then that’d draw attention from the rest of the crew. 

So he stays, waiting for the guy to scrounge up the words, or the courage to talk to him. 

“I wanted to introduce myself properly,” he finally says, sticking out a hand. “I’m Ian Garvin– but you…already knew that.” 

He glances at the hand, and then presents his own, wincing at the tight grip. 

“What’s your name, kid? Quaritch didn’t mention it,” Garvin asks, after pumping his hand a few times. 

He has no idea what to say. They’ve just referred to him as ‘kid’ and nothing else. Which would be demeaning if he knew his own name. 

Subtly, he glances over his shoulder to see Quaritch still concentrating on the map. Beside him, Wainfleet is getting a little irritated, like the lack of any concrete plans is the end of the world. He can tell by the quick lashing of his tail. 

“If it’s ‘need to know’ then don’t worry about it–” 

“No,” he murmurs, cutting Garvin off and turning his gaze back to the map. Means no one but the biologist sees his frown when he adds, “I don’t know.” 

“What?”

“Nothing,” he says, because Zdinarsik turns her head from where she’s been staring at the sea. Her gaze lands on his for a few seconds, eyebrows scrunching until a shout from Lopez draws her attention. 

“Cheater!” he exclaims, pointing a finger at Ja’s smug face. It says something about their training and assimilation that Lopez is letting his tail swish as it wants to. “That round doesn’t count.” 

“Oh really?” 

With a chuff, Garvin comments, “That lot are loud. I dunno how you’ve handled being with them for so long. I’d get a headache.” 

He doesn’t correct him, just hums and turns back to the map. It’s familiar now in a way it wasn’t spread out like a hologram. If he blinks, he sees the shadow of a hand pointing to one of the land masses at the edge. 

“--deep sea dwellers–” 

He winces against the sharp spike rattling against his skull, and shakes his head to get rid of it when it lingers. Beside him, Garvin shuffles again, and clears his throat. 

“So,” he begins, keeping his voice low, “how long have you been assigned to this squad? Records state it was created about ten years ago.” 

He’s being scrutinised again. The gaze is heavy and rakes over every part of him. He just turns his head to watch Garvin. 

“But that wouldn’t be right, you don’t look any older than sixteen.” 

Does he? Huh, well that kind of answers a massive question. 

“Must’ve been a recent change of orders,” Garvin considers. “But then what you're wearing is beyond regulation. I haven’t encountered anyone with tattoos that detailed in a long time.” 

He glances down at his arms and legs, his chest. He’d always thought the stripes were made from some type of paint, reapplied every few days. The ones spanning his stomach have grown fainter, and a few on his hands have disappeared entirely. 

He also nearly takes offense about his clothes. Nearly, because Garvin jolts when, behind them, Scoresby exclaims something about being in charge of his own ship. He glances back in curiosity, but Wainfleet’s back is blocking his view so he can’t see anything. 

It kicks Garvin into gear, his suspicious look in full force. He moves to box him in, one hand pressing against the navigator’s desk, the other pointing subtly at the map. However, the navigator glances at them, and he feels Zdinarsik’s eyes on him again. So, not very subtle. He doesn’t tell Garvin that. 

“I wanted to talk to you,” Garvin begins, pitching his voice even lower. He gets the feeling that he’s not usually one for small talk.  

He says nothing, just tilts his head. 

“About the–” Garvin jabs his finger at the map. “About the islands? Quaritch told the Captain that you told him that they’re the least likely to be harbouring Sully because there’s nothing there.” 

Well, he didn’t exactly say that. 

“Which is entirely untrue,” Garvin mutters, “and they’re the few of the highest candidates which are likely to hold a wanted criminal. Hell, the deep sea dwellers would be perfect because they could outfit his family in a nice pod in the ocean and no one would find him for years.” 

So they can live underwater! That he’s gotta see. 

Garvin presses his hand against his forehead, which creases under the strength of his thoughts. “But then, why would you not say that? Why lead them away from those islands specifically?” 

Garvin looks up, still with his knuckles pressed deep into the wrinkles at his forehead and narrows his eyes further. “Unless, you’re doing what you can to protect a little of the sea people’s safety by giving them misinformation.” 

He blinks. Garvin blinks. 

“Why?” Garvin asks, like it’s the most complicated question in the world. “Why risk your safety for the sake of theirs? Why lie to save a few villages from being searched? When being discovered could get you sent back to Bridgehead?” 

He watches as a myriad of emotions flick across Garvin’s face. 

“Unless, there is no threat of punishment,” Garvin comments, but then he shakes his head. “No, no one’s above reprimanding, even a kid. But then, even still, the only reason to impede the mission like that would be to keep innocents from being hurt in the search.” 

Garvin groans, and digs his knuckle against his skin so hard it blanches. It’s like he’s warring with himself. 

“This is– what the fuck,” Garvin says finally. “Is it because it’s the right thing to do?”

It’s not that difficult to understand. He wanted to keep the islands safe so he just…gave the wrong information. Now Quaritch won’t search them, because he doesn’t know they’re actually full of people, and very easy to access. He needed to keep them safe, so he did. 

What’s so complicated about that?

Garvin sighs, pushing away from the console as he says, “Christ, I need a drink.” 

He watches Garvin leave the bridge, waving away Scoresby’s prodding questions as he goes into the airlock and disappears. He frowns once the door closes over. 

“What did you say to him, kid?” Zdinarsik asks with a leering grin. “Must’ve been really terrible to send him running.” 

“I didn’t say anything,” he snaps back. He shoves away from the navigator’s table and heads to the front window. There, Mansk only glances at him so he settles for a quiet moment to watch the sea. 

And definitely not think about the indecision plastered over Garvin’s face, or the possibility that the marine biologist could rat him out. Even though it hangs over him like an impossibly dark cloud. 

-

The first time he’s left behind on the ship, he spends the majority of it on the bridge, waiting for updates, following the navigators to watch them work, and giving nearly every crewmember a headache with his questions. Now that he’s gotten over his initial wariness, he has to know everything. 

What can he say? They’re in a  big ship that can float and hover above sea level, how can he not ask questions?

That first time, he’s there to watch the squad return empty handed. The shadows of their ikrans darting across the cresting waves outside, the clack of their claws against the roof and the thud of feet as they jump from their makeshift saddles - company made and designed from blurry photos of the Na’vi riders. 

Quaritch practically storms in, demanding Scoresby gets them moving with a thunderous look. It hadn’t gone well, and although most of the crew members look away nervously, a few of them are quite pleased. Their smug grins are kind of difficult to hide, even if they quickly turn back to their work.  

Quaritch looms over the console for a few moments, or looms as best he can while tilting his head to avoid cracking it against the ceiling, and gruffly points at the next island. 

He can’t tell if it’s an intentional choice, or done in the heat of the moment. Scoresby’s complaints are ignored either way, and Quaritch goes stomping back out again. Joining the rest of the squad waiting outside. 

So it definitely hadn’t gone well. And he’s not even allowed to even hear about it, which is really annoying. He clicks his tongue against his teeth and then (not so) subtly presses his nose against the window. 

The thick metal walls and howling winds steal the words from Quaritch’s mouth, but it’s obvious by his body language that he is pissed. His tail lashes, nearly knocking against the metal rail behind him, his ears are pinned back, and his hands cut through the air with jerky movements. 

The squad are attentive, nodding, not even cutting in as they usually would. It goes on for a good while, until the land mass behind them has disappeared, and even then Quaritch is still going with the same amount of energy he had when he started. 

“That is the look of a man who hasn’t gotten what he wanted,” Scoresby suddenly comments, and he jolts so badly that he takes a few steps away from the window. 

“And I bet,” the Captain continues, leering through the window, “that if the next island gives similar results, he’ll chuck all his toys out the pram. What do you think, kid?” 

“I don’t have an opinion, sir,” he replies, and Scoresby sucks his teeth disbelievingly. 

“You don’t have an opinion,” Scoresby says quietly, the corners of his eyes pinching. “What do you have then, kid? Do you have an identity? Or are you some kind of pet they drag around everywhere?” 

He flinches, taking another half step backwards as his…everything…smarts. 

The smile on Scoresby’s face is triumphant, and he can’t say anything to stop it. Around them, the crew continues to work, but within him it’s silent. Deathly so. It gives Scoresby’s words a place to bounce around, until it’s the only thing he can think of. 

It hounds him throughout the day as the ship works through a sudden thunderstorm and out the other side. He stays safe and dry and warm on the bridge, keeping out of the way as best he can and watching the next island get closer. 

Eclipse arrives before they do, and they drop anchor for the night with little ceremony. Just a small dip within the entire ship and they’re sitting on the sea’s surface. 

He doesn’t get much sleep even though Quaritch orders all squad members to bunk down for the night. He spends it curled on his bed, arms clutching his datapad close. 

“What do you have then, kid?” 

I have memories, he thinks, battling against an imaginary Scoresby. He shrieks it at him, so loudly the smug smile drops off the Captain’s face. He shoves his datapad in the guy’s face. I have people who know me, maybe even care for me. That’s so much more than you. 

Imaginary Scoresby smirks again, and presses against his datapad until it falls to his side. “Oh yeah?” he says. “Then where are they? Not here, that’s for sure.” 

No, they’re not here. They’re not here, and he can’t remember them, so he might as well be as useful as a pet the squad drags behind them. A dog to perform tricks, or a wily stray cat they can’t get rid of. He can’t be useful here, not sequestered on the ship, not even while trying to find Sully. 

So no, he doesn’t get much sleep, but it’s not really like the others have the chance to care. Quaritch has them up and leaving for the island as soon as the day brightens. 

But as he watches the ikran’s shadows disappear again, some of his resolve returns. If he can’t be useful outside the ship, then he could find out everything about it so that he can be useful on the ship. It’ll also keep him out of sight of Scoresby, whose leering eyes follow him as he makes himself scarce as quickly as he can. 

As soon as he breaches the airlock door, his mask snug over his cheeks, he’s buffeted by the wind. It nearly knocks him against the door again, his quick reflexes saving him from a nasty bruise on his side from the handle. Glancing behind him gives him a glimpse of the four rotating fans at the back that propels the ship, their air pressure and the sea air causing a roaring racket. 

Hair whipping against his mask, skin raising in goosebumps, he hurries for the metal staircase down, getting out of the wind tunnel and breathing a sigh of relief at having something else keeping him upright. 

In flight, the top of the ship is closed over, keeping the smaller vessels housed in the cargo bay safe. He can imagine if it didn’t, the crab submarines and diving equipment would’ve been lost to the ocean as soon as they lifted off. 

The roof darkens the main deck, and while the high quality floodlights do their best to fight back, some of it still remains in shadow. 

Giving him perfect places for observing. 

He’s careful on the slippery staircase, avoids the massive puddle of sea water and darts behind the rudder of a crab submarine as a group of crewmembers strut past. They don’t see him, so he’s quick to follow. 

He’d rather not spend the time he has wandering aimlessly, so, who better to give him an indepth tour than Scoresby’s own people? 

It’s a good plan, in theory. But, he soon finds out three corridors in that they’re not heading anywhere exciting. The crewmember’s chatter about food should’ve clued him in, but it’s only when he hears the clatter of cutlery that he realises they were headed to the cafeteria for their break. 

He pauses with his back pressed against the end of the corridor, swearing quietly at his own stupidity as they slip inside. He glances inside, and then dodges past the door before being noticed. At least, he hopes so. He’s not sure if he was meant to stay on the bridge, but all this creeping around has adrenaline rushing through his veins and he’d hate to be sent back.  

Down further he goes, through the well deck, and into the maze of corridors and rooms that make up the living quarters and storage spaces. It’s under sea level, he can tell because he has to yawn to pop his ears. Down here, he can remove his mask, and he wipes the back of his wrist against his forehead. 

How anyone can stay down here for too long he’s no idea. He can feel the crawling, shiver inducing touch of fear against the back of his neck, thinking about everything that sits just above his head. 

He’s glad their bunks are just off the main deck. 

There’s not as much noise on this level as there is up top. Makes him aware of the distant ringing in one ear that he has. Wiggling his finger doesn’t get rid of it, but he can’t make his footsteps any louder to distract himself. He doesn’t have to anyway, the sound of muttering and the clinking of glass catches his attention. 

It’s Garvin, hunched over a lab table and stirring a bright yellow liquid in a weirdly shaped glass. The heating apparatus-thing underneath makes it glow, the colour reflecting off his goggles and making him look almost bug-like. 

He’s unnoticed at first, but when he leans around the door frame to get a better look inside, Garvin startles in surprise. 

“Ow, shit,” Garvin hisses when the edge of his knee hits the table, his hands flailing towards the equipment on top of the table as if to hide it. He pauses though when he sees who it actually is. “Oh.” 

“Sorry,” he says, taking a step backwards, “I can–” 

“No!” Garvin says, using one hand to adjust the angle of the flames and the other to beckon him inside. “It’s fine, I thought you were– someone else. Please, come in.” 

As he steps over the threshold, a stool is unveiled from underneath a pile of (real, actual) books. A pile of notes is pushed to the other side of the table too. 

“Can’t be too careful with this sort of stuff,” Garvin says once he takes a seat, turning down the heat on the apparatus and moving it so that it’s not so intense against their skin. “What with…everything.” 

He can feel the look on him as he glances around the room, but he doesn’t know what Garvin’s alluding to so he just hums quietly. Like he completely knows, yep, totally. 

It looks like a regular laboratory, with posters and notes splayed across the board over Garvin’s desk and shelves full of more books. There’s a pile of ration bars on another table tucked at the wall, and a spare labcoat hung over a chair. Notebooks, proper notebooks lay next to the ration bars, a couple of the pages covered in crumbs and illegible notes. 

It’s the bright yellow stuff that’s stored in a sealed crate by the door that piques his interest. The same as the liquid bubbling merrily in the glass. 

“What is that stuff?” he asks, pointing to the glass. “You don’t…drink it, do you?”

Another look is pinned to the side of his head; it makes him want to squirm in his seat. Like he’s being labelled dumb the more questions he asks, even though it’s impossible not to. 

“You mean– you don’t–” Garvin cuts himself off, the look turning into a frown so strong it almost brings his eyebrows to the bridge of his nose. Quietly, he mutters, “What have they been telling you?” 

Nothing, he’d like to say, but the guy’s standing and grabbing a canister, placing it down on the table with a dull thud. 

“This,” Garvin says, gesturing to the thing like it’s the bane of his existence, “is amrita. A liquid that I discovered while dissecting a Tulkun, coincidentally the same day the top brass were asking for a report on our findings.” 

He pauses, and the look on Garvin’s face is curious. Bitterly reverent. 

“It’s my most notable and famous finding in all my time studying these amazing creatures,” Garvin continues quietly. “But also the reason for all this.” 

He waves a hand around the room, but he gets the feeling it’s alluding to the whole ship. 

“It’s why we’re able to think about populating this planet in the first place because not only does this baby cost millions of dollars a pop,” Garvin says, tapping a finger against the canister, “it can also stop human aging. Practically in its tracks.” 

He stares at the canister with newfound curiosity. “How?” he asks, bending at the waist to nearly press his nose against it. Garvin chuffs a laugh that doesn’t sound at all amused. 

“Wish I knew,” he replies. “Any common, industry proofed experiments on the stuff yields nothing. We’ve had it in our possession for eighteen months now, and still only know how to refine the stuff. Its composition is a scientific mystery that will never be solved in my lifetime.

“It’s my sole purpose for being here,” Garvin mentions, shuffling in his seat. “And the cause of my raging alcoholism.” 

He reaches underneath his desk, fiddles with something and comes back up with a bottle, taking a swig before tucking it away again. So he literally needed a drink. 

He wrinkles his nose at the bitter smell, but asks over Garvin’s appreciative noise, “Is your job to research it?” 

“No,” Garvin says once he’s swallowed fully. “No, I’m to farm it from the Tulkuns Scoresby catches. ‘S why such a big box of it is in here, it’s the next shipment.” 

His stomach rolls, and he clenches his jaw. Don’t be sick, he begs, please don’t be sick–

“Yep, I’m expected to watch the very things I’ve dreamt of studying be slaughtered, and then step into their cooling corpses to harvest a mere five percent of their complete makeup and then refine it for human use,” Garvin laments, unaware of how he’s swaying on his feet a little. “Makes me think I would’ve been better being a botanist. At least their research wasn’t butchered and farmed for parts. This–” 

He taps his finger against the glass, the liquid still bubbling away. 

“--is just for my own entertainment. To try and see if I can change its chemical or anatomical makeup. No luck so far.” 

“Why do this at all, if you hate it so much?” 

Garvin sniffs, and takes another swig of his drink. “Because it’s funding what little research I can do,” he says. “A tiny bit of my soul is sold every time I hand over another one of those canisters. But I gain it back every time I’m allowed leave on base, where I can continue diving into this…fascinating world. But I can’t do one if I don’t want to lose the other.” 

“Then why not fight back?” he asks. Garvin’s laugh is condescending, but he says over it, “No, I’m serious, go against their orders, don’t farm the amrita and see what happens.” 

Garvin keeps laughing until he chokes on his own saliva, or a bit of his drink and stops to cough. “Not everyone’s as brave as you, kid,” he says once the fit has ended. “I’d love to shove it in Scoresby’s face, throw my resignation on Ardmore’s desk and just leave. But I can’t. There wouldn’t be anything for me back home, I’d be known as the man who discovered Earth’s next hot commodity and treated with awe or disgust.” 

“You’re just choosing to hide behind an excuse,” he argues back, although even to himself it’s not quite right. He presses on anyway, leaning his hands against the desk and staring at him. “You don’t compare someone’s sadness to yours, or their pain, so you shouldn’t do the same with bravery. How you express it is the choice you have to make.

“You don’t need to put things on pedestals that aren’t there.”  

He should drop something on the ground. Like a microphone. 

Even Garvin’s stunned into silence, blinking at him a few times until he takes off his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. “You make it sound so easy,” Garvin groans. 

He shrugs, and then because Garvin can’t see him says, “Because it is. I’ve decided to keep those islands safe and I have. You can decide to not harvest the amrita. Just make the decision, and it’s done.” 

“Do you have any self preservation in that tiny brain of yours?” Garvin asks. “Don’t answer that.” 

“It’s also called being assertive,” he adds, pushing up from the stool to leave Garvin to his obvious mental crisis. “You should try it sometime.”

A sudden screech catches his attention before he can even cross the threshold. It’s followed by the dull sounds of claws against the main deck above their heads. The look Garvin aims at the ceiling is nervous, his fingers shaking as he slips his glasses back onto his nose. 

“I suppose,” Garvin mutters, “there’s no time like the present.” 

Garvin doesn’t sound very convincing. He doesn’t expect him to follow at all, but then the laboratory door shuts behind them and Garvin’s suddenly taking the lead through the winding corridors. He has to jog a little to catch up. 

The determination carries Garvin all the way to the bridge. Then they both get a sense of the atmosphere and the biologist deflates. Visibly.

He can’t really blame him, the tension is enough to make his own shoulders rise as they step through the airlock door. Right into a heated argument. 

“--got quotas to fill! I can’t just be running around the archipelago doing bugger all when I have execs breathing down my neck–” 

“I don’t give a damn about your quotas! Our mission is to find and capture Jake Sully, and because this ship has been assigned to us as our transport then it’ll be that way until we find him–” 

“Right well, you might need to put your mission on hold for a little while for us to get back to ours,” Scoresby spits back, his eyes wild and a vein at his temple pulsing. “I refuse to have my license revoked because you delayed me.” 

Quaritch makes a dismissive noise and throws his hands up in the air. Not too high though, because the ceiling really is too low down for his Na’vi body. 

“What’s…the problem?” Garvin suddenly asks, drawing everyone's attention. 

“This bastard,” Scoresby begins before Quaritch can even open his mouth, “wants us to investigate another bloody island in the wrong bloody direction to the Tulkun’s migration. Only for it to come up empty and to set us back a few more days and cause everyone a very bad time.” 

“It’s not empty,” Quaritch argues back with feeling. “It’s just that the natives can’t seem to speak plain English, and our datapads aren’t fast enough to translate so we get nowhere. Those bastards could be pointing us in the right direction and we’d have no idea.” 

“So then why not use the kid?” 

He feels his heart leap into his throat and his frown gets so fierce he can nearly see his eyebrows. He cuts a confused, and slightly betrayed, look at Garvin because huh? How and why is that an option? 

“From what you’ve told us he’s got experience of the Na’vi way in spades. Surely that means that he too has a grasp of the language.” 

That’s news to him.

“At least, enough to understand rudimentary sentences and words, no?” 

“The kid stays on the ship for his own safety,” Quaritch argues. 

“You have the tracker on him, don’t you?” Garvin cuts back. “And surely with seven highly trained guards no one would dare touch a hair on his head.”

For a final, targeted blow, Garvin crosses his arms over his chest and says, “Or do you doubt the ability of your own squad, and by extension yourself?” 

Quaritch leans back a little, considering. And then, he commandingly points a finger at the map and says, “Set course for this island. I want us there by this afternoon.” 

“If this doesn’t work,” Scoresby practically growls, “then I’m taking back control of my ship, and doing my job Quaritch.” 

“Fine by me,” Quartich replies with a confident smirk. Then, his gaze drifts, and the smirk turns into a leering smile as he says, “Kid, get your big boy pants, you’re playing negotiator.” 

He has a chance to sloppily salute, before he’s chasing after Garvin’s retreating back out the airlock door. 

Chapter Text

The wind nearly knocks him over when he throws open the door. A combination of the engines kick starting and a sudden gust buffeting against every part of him. Sea spray splatters against the glass of his mask, and he has to grab hold of the railing to keep his balance. 

“Woah!” he can’t help but shout, palm smarting against the wet metal. He goes to call Garvin’s name, but he finds the biologist waiting for him at the next landing, leaning against the railing casually. Only his fingers tapping against his arm and the glances he’s sending down the staircase gives him away. 

“What the hell, man,” Spider demands, striding down the stairs. “What was that?” 

“What was what?” Garvin asks, shrugging his shoulders. 

“That!” he exclaims, flailing his hands towards the bridge door. Garvin’s gaze flickers down to the main deck, two flights below, and grabs his wrist. He doesn’t have a chance to complain before he’s yanked over. 

He tears his arm back, about to rear on the guy and complain, but Garvin shakes his head and squeezes his wrist. The thumping sound of boots reaches his ears, and a patrol of crewmen pass underneath the staircase. 

They go unnoticed, but if he’d spoken, the crew members might’ve glanced up. 

“That, was doing what you told me to do,” Garvin murmurs. “Making a decision to do something–” 

His wrist is squeezed harder as a certain glint colours Garvin’s eyes. 

“--for a good reason,” Garvin finishes. 

There’s a pause as he lets his brain try to figure that out. 

“Huh?” he finally says when it skips over the idea too many times and tumbles down a dark hole. “How does that make any sense? You just volunteered me into a mission that I have no business being in. How's that good?” 

Garvin says, “I believe you have every business being a part of that mission,” so sure of himself that it doesn’t allow for any further argument. 

“Think about it,” Garvin continues when he gapes. “You are the most capable person on this ship to ensure that the recoms get the information they need and no one on the island is harassed or injured.” 

“How’d you figure?” he asks. 

Garvin scoffs, and stares at him, incredulously. “It’s pretty damn obvious.” 

He bristles, finally yanking his arm away. “Well, consider me dumb and explain it to me,” he says.

Garvin waves at his entire being like it’s an answer. “You’re their best opportunity at being safe,” he says. 

“You said that already.” 

“Look at you!” 

“Stop being vague,” he demands, and with a furtive glance over his shoulder Garvin steps closer. 

“Allow me to spell it out, then,” Garvin says. “Your traditional clothes, your beads, and the stripes allude to some sort of respect? Towards their culture. Or some kind of infatuation, at least.” 

He hadn’t really thought what he looked like was out of the ordinary. He just feels comfortable as he is, and any consideration for the uniform the others wear makes his skin crawl.   

“They would be more comfortable speaking to you than they would a soldier looming over them with a gun in his hand,” Garvin finishes. 

“Why?” 

“Well, would you talk to Quaritch if he demanded it? While shoving something possibly dangerous into your face?” At his wrinkled nose, Garvin says, “No I wouldn’t think so.” 

“But they can’t understand them,” he argues back, feeling the blood rushing through his veins. Beneath their feet the floor lurches, the ship lifting off the sea’s surface. “That’s their whole problem. Even if the people talk to them there’s still going to be a language barrier.” 

“And you think it’ll be a problem for you?” Garvin asks. 

“Uh, yeah,” he says instinctively. 

But then, he pauses. His forehead crinkles as his brain trips over his own words. Some part of him had said no. Some deeper, instinctive feeling had scoffed at Garvin’s thought that it would be difficult for him to understand. 

The silence stretches for so long that Garvin says, “Do you?” 

How he asks pisses him off, blandly, without any force or insistence. It’s the nonchalance of the thing that makes him clench his hand into a fist. 

“I don’t know,” he murmurs. It’s too quiet, and the way Garvin leans in - patronisingly - with a hand cupped around his ear has his blood boiling. 

“I’m sorry,” Garvin says genuinely, “I didn’t catch that–” 

“I don’t know!” he growls back. 

Garvin has to raise his voice over the raging wind as he asks, “What do you mean, you don’t know?” 

A strangled sound escapes his throat. He’s not gonna get away with not saying it, is he? Can he even say it? Is there an unspoken rule he’s missed that prevents him from saying it out loud?

“I don’t–” he starts, then growls at himself and says, over the wind that’s starting to push against him so hard it might throw him down the stairs, “I don’t remember!”

The blood drains from his own cheeks. He can tell because Garvin’s eyes grow wide. But that’s a minor detail. He turns his head to look at the entrance to the bridge, willing it not to open. Not to let Quaritch come storming out to yank him away. 

He stares long enough to make his eyes water. 

His arm is grabbed and his heart launches into his throat. But it's only Garvin wrapping his hand around his wrist to start dragging him down the stairs. He has to watch where he’s going; the steps are slippy and wet but he can’t. Physically, he can’t tear his eyes from the bridge. 

Time doesn’t seem relative. Going down the stairs takes hours for him, but it was probably seconds in all. His neck strains but he barely lets himself blink. 

Every glare of light on the windows sends his heart further up his throat. Until they’re in the grasp of the main deck and he can’t see it anymore. Only then, when they’re tucked into a corridor, does he realise how loud and panicked his breathing has gotten. It sounds like the wind as it whistles through his mask. 

For a moment Garvin flounders and flaps while he keeps hyperventilating, stumbling over words and placations until he slumps against the wall in exhaustion. 

Then, Garvin places his hands on his shoulders. It doesn’t do much, in fact it kind of does nothing for him at all. But Garvin takes great comfort from it, taking a big breath that he wishes he could take, and then pinning him with a look. 

His heart lurches for a different reason. But through the panic, he can’t tell why. 

“Okay,” Garvin says, keeping his voice low as if anyone on the empty deck will wander past, “let’s just take a second to calm down. Here–” 

He grabs his hand and places it against the collar of his shirt. 

“--time your breaths to mine,” Garvin continues. “Can you do that?” 

As if to spite Garvin, his breath hitches. It only happens once, because he wrestles with his lungs to take back control. Until he’s at least able to take a breath to his full capacity. 

“Good,” Garvin says. “I want you to concentrate on what’s around us. Five things you can see?” 

“You,” he says, shakily. “Badge. Deck. Submarines…stairs. Walls.” 

“Four things you can hear?” 

“Wind. Mask,” he forces out, keeping a grasp on his lungs. “Breathing. Engines.” 

It keeps going until the thumping of his heart stops feeling like it’s trying to escape his ribcage and he can at least keep himself kind of upright. He expects Garvin to drop his hands then, but they stay firmly on his shoulders. They actually feel kind of…nice. 

“Alright,” Garvin murmurs. “Calm?” 

He nods, pleased that it’s not shaky. He licks his lips, and suddenly finds he's desperate for some water. Too bad they’re nowhere near the cafeteria. 

“When you say you don’t remember–” Garvin begins, but he interrupts before he can stumble through. 

“I mean it,” he says. He feels sweat break out across his back, and fervently glances down the corridor. The main deck stands empty.  

“Not even your name?” Garvin asks, trying valiantly to keep his shock and pity from his voice. He shakes his head this time. “Wh–how? A person doesn’t just forget everything. At least, I don’t think so.” 

Garvin reaches up as if to press his fingers against his forehead, and then realises he’s wearing his exopack and drops them again. “Does Quaritch know?” 

“It’s why I’m assigned to his team,” he says. “Something about using sense and muscle memories being key to bringing my memories back.” 

“In a completely basic way that makes sense.” Garvin taps what little of his chin he can reach. “It’s like using music therapy for Alzheimer patients.” 

He has no idea what that means. He just nods as if he does.

“And can you?” Garvin asks. “Remember anything?” 

He clenches his jaw and thinks of keeping everything a secret. He doesn’t know who on this ship he can trust, if anyone, let alone Garvin. And he’s kept these flashes to himself for so long it feels like pulling teeth just opening his mouth. 

But then, who else can he trust other than the marine biologist? At least Garvin has alluded to some kind of remorse to his actions. That counts for something. 

“Bits and pieces,” he manages. 

He reaches behind to drag his datapad out from its small bag. He couldn’t carry it everywhere, and at least it gives him a place to put his spare exopack. Turns out that the briny, salty air makes the filters work a lot harder and use more battery. 

“Sometimes it’s voices, once it was just a feeling of a knife in my hands,” he explains, flicking through his notes but not handing them over. Garvin frowns over what little he sees anyways. 

“But nothing concrete?” 

“If I push to try and remember more, it’s like it’s pushed out of my reach and I get–” he waves a hand around his hair, “headaches. Bad ones.” 

“Well that’s not unusual,” Garvin murmurs, tapping the bottom of his chin again. “And have you asked the Colonel? Searched the RDA records?” 

“For what?” 

“I dunno. Reports on raids, the Colonel’s logs for any clue on where they found you. Any mention of a teenager living on base,” Garvin says, a little exasperatedly. Before he can protest, Garvin’s eyes widen a little. “Or maybe you couldn’t look. Not enough time when your commanding officer is moving you around so much.” 

“Would it even help?” he asks, unable to keep his voice completely neutral. 

“Gotta try everything, right?” Garvin bites his lip in thought; obviously tapping his chin isn’t enough. “What’ll definitely help is getting you off this ship.” 

“But then what?” he asks, and Garvin frowns. 

The wind whistles and roars, flapping mooring lines and tarps which don’t do a very good job of keeping the submarines covered. But then Garvin’s grabbing his shoulder again. 

“There’s a data terminal in my lab,” he says, “try and find as much information as you can. Anything at all that might help. I’ll stall Quaritch and meet you there. Okay? We can at least attempt to piece together what happened to you before you’re thrown into the fire.” 

It’s giving him direction. A tiny, little branch of hope, but a branch nonetheless. 

“Gotta try everything,” he says, and the smile from Garvin has no right to be that prideful. Not like the dude came up with something groundbreaking. 

They split off, Garvin heading back up the stairs as he turns towards the twisting maze of corridors. He remembers how to get down to the lower levels, it’s just the winding corridors he’s a bit nervous about. How easily he could get lost down there.  

By the time he’s found the lab, they’ve reached cruising speed. The ship bounces less over the cresting waves, and the constant drone of the engines has died to a rumble. From here, he might even call the sound distant. 

The data terminal is thicker than a normal data pad. Makes sense, considering the amount of information it must have to work through. There’s a keyboard attachment, but he disconnects it for ease of use. When he settles down, it opens easily. And he winces at the cluttered screen that greets him. 

“Jesus.” 

Being a scientist's data terminal Garvin has access to areas of the system his data pad couldn’t even touch, once he’s able to find them. Log books, reports, even a live stream of the camera systems in the main lab in Bridgehead. 

He taps on the icon for the logs, and finds the ones he’s looking for easily. The folder marked ‘Col. M Quaritch’ is a dead giveaway. 

The documents stretch back so far his finger hurts from scrolling halfway through. There’s a gap of about sixteen years, and below the first of the new batch of log recordings is a separate folder completely. 

“For recom,” he reads thoughtfully, but scrolls past quickly; he’ll come back to that. 

There are written reports, wildly varying in length and tone. There’s one that waxes poetic for at least 5 paragraphs about the savagery of the forests outside the base - which had been noted was written while Quaritch was high on pain meds - and two entries later there’s only a single line of how a Doctor Augustine has a stick so far up her ass that it could probably be seen from her throat. 

A few familiar names pop up throughout. Quaritch begrudgingly compliments Wainfleet on his leadership at one point. Zdinarsik gets a brief mention, but other than that there’s a lot of talk about Sully. 

The hatred is strong enough to make him feel uncomfortable, so he skips any logs that have Sully’s name in the transcripts after a few too many. 

At one point, they get more sporadic, sparse and without a lick of detail. Like Quaritch is distracted, but also obligated to note down something. Literally; at least two of them are a singular sentence stating that he spent the day inspecting his troops.

The dates don't give any hint; there’s no ongoing conflict that would keep him away. And it lasts for weeks, if not a couple of months. And when it gets back to normal, it’s with a short evaluation of Sully. 

He does spot something though. A recurring Lt. P. S features heavily with the detailing of training regiments and patrols. At first, he thought they were a part of Quaritch’s troops, but that group has always remained as just the Colonel and Wainfleet. 

Looking up the initials gives him a load of possibilities; who knew that the initials P.S were so popular? Or that so many of them achieved the rank of Lieutenant in so many departments. 

He’s not even sure why it caught his attention, just that his brain won’t quite let it go. 

The recorded logs, the ones where Quaritch is sitting at his desk and talking at the camera, are some of the more…chilling. There’s a sort of laser focused, sharp determination in every word and facial expression. 

He clicks on one, and Quaritch speaks about an offensive against the insurgents. It makes him shiver and feel sick. The Quaritch in the video doesn’t even think of them as his opponents, more dismissive nuisances that’ll be dealt with. 

Another, the Colonel is obviously just out the medbay, the side of his head taped up and his jaw tense. Quaritch doesn’t blame anyone for the injury, doesn’t even go into detail about how it happened. He just says that he’ll need to prepare the new recruits better for the savagery of the world outside and leaves it at that. 

It’s intimidating, and illustrates that if he was given the chance, Quaritch could be as terrifying as General Ardmore. If not even more so. 

In comparison, the Quaritch he knows is almost tame, and when he finally dives into the folder marked ‘for recoms’ he sees why. The Quaritch that he knows has the memories of his human counterpart but none of the experience. The grit and hard edges aren’t there yet, although with the way things are panning out, they might not be too far behind. 

Once he’s exhausted Quaritch’s files, there’s not many other places he can comb through. And he feels dumb inputting ‘kid with memory loss’ into the search bar so he deletes it before he can even press enter. 

“Found anything?” Garvin asks when he steps into his lab. He has to hop over the crate of amrita, but then he’s leaning over to peer at the datapad. “Huh.” 

“I thought,” he explains, “that Quaritch might’ve made a report about finding me or something. But he hasn’t written or recorded anything since he was a human.” 

“I suspect that’s because the General has his squad moving around so much, it gives him barely any time to make them,” Garvin replies, pushing his glasses higher up his nose. The lenses flash in the light of the datapad, hiding his expression. “Unsurprising.” 

“I dunno where to search next,” he says, unable to keep the shakiness of doubt out of his tone. 

“It was a long shot,” Garvin adds, drawing back again and rubbing his chin. “But then, this is just the logs. May I?” 

He gladly hands the data terminal over, and watches as Garvin’s far more experienced fingers flick through the many different screens. Not even the cluttered home screen trips him up. 

“Do you remember how long it’s been since you became aware?” 

“Uh,” he says intelligently, and finds himself thinking back.  It’s not been long, but then it’s not been less than a few weeks. “Three months, I think.” 

“And were you in contact with anyone else in Bridgehead apart from Quaritch’s squad?” 

Hands and nails digging into his arm, intense eyes and even more intense questions. Feeling like a bug pinned under a massive paw. He shudders at the memory, and manages to nod when Garvin raises his eyebrows at him. 

“Yep–Yeah,” he forces out, clearing his throat when it closes a little. “The R & D Head Scientist. They were the first person I talked to, and kept making analyses on my progress. I think part of the reason why Ardmore sent us into the forest was to get me out of their hands.” 

Garvin hums. “I know them. Not well, but their reputation precedes them.” 

Isn’t that a bit of a chilling thought. The look on Garvin’s face also chases the shudder up his spine. Until he’s sure the sweat on his back is dripping onto the stool he’s sitting on. How worried should he be that someone like that works for Ardmore? 

“Let me just…” Garvin trails off, and again his fingers go at the screen. The tap tap tap of his blunt nails bounce off the walls and break up the monotonous growl of the engines. 

He has nothing to do other than wait, eyes skirting along the contents of the table in front of him. The beaker containing the boiled amrita sits against the wall, still glowing and still bubbling merrily over the small flame underneath. 

Nothing’s changed even though it’s been over a steady stream of heat for what must be hours, and he leans forward to watch a few bubbles rush up the side of the glass. 

“Ah hah,” Garvin suddenly says, but when he turns to look, he’s still tapping away. 

He reaches instead for one of the books stacked to his left. It’s weird to feel actual paper beneath his fingers, to be able to turn the page. It must’ve been expensive with the protective cover and spotless quality. 

The carefully annotated notes alludes to the many times it’s been leafed through, and he finds himself carefully leafing through the pages on marine life. It’s all so colourful, every animal unique and completely different to the few he’s seen on land. The sea creatures are more streamlined, compact. Like they’ve been pressed flat by the pressure of the ocean water alone. Some of them are smaller than his pinky finger, and others are larger than the SeaDragon. 

The pages on the Tulkuns are the most obviously well loved. The corners are worn to near splitting, and the spine is cracked so that the two page spread of the creature can be laid flat even when held. Faint notes have been scribbled in chicken scratch along the margins, and a few features have been highlighted enough for the colour to bleed through to the other page. 

There’s no mention of amrita, but the book goes on for at least three paragraphs about the creature’s ability to connect with the Na’vi, and their memory capacity. If he wasn’t on the ship, he’d love to meet one. 

The chapters split a page each into a singular ocean biome, going into so much detail about their culture that it has hardly any time to cover the animals and plants that help the clans. 

Although, the page dedicated to the deep sea dwellers is nearly blank. Makes sense, considering they don’t have the technology to access their village. 

He’s turning around to ask if the RDA has ever even seen them, or if Garvin thinks their technology will improve enough to even get a glimpse. But a strangled noise interrupts before he can open his mouth. His eyes widen. 

Garvin’s still staring at his data terminal, but his cheeks have gone suddenly white. A trail of sweat works its way down his cheeks, his eyes wide. Not with shock or disgust or anything like that. But horror. 

It darkens the pupils,  dilates them until they’ve swallowed up any other colour. It also tightens the edge of his jaw so hard that he can hear Garvin’s back teeth creaking. 

“What?” he asks, but when he stands to look, Garvin raises the data terminal a little higher. He scowls, “What’s wrong?” 

He tries to get closer but Garvin turns away, hiding the screen from him even as his next breath comes out shaky, the rest of the colour leeching from his cheeks. 

“What is it?” he asks, desperate, two seconds away from ripping the thing from Garvin’s hand to see what’s got him all upset. The guy’s practically curling into himself to keep it hidden. “You found something? Did you find my file? Because whatever the Head Scientist wrote–” 

“No,” Garvin suddenly says, spinning back to slap the data terminal back on his desk. It’s gone dark. “No, nothing like that. Just…something irrelevant, some dissection thing. Turned my stomach.” 

It’s a complete lie, and they both know it. But there’s something tenuous about Garvin’s expression, and he’s not willing to poke. 

“Okay,” he murmurs, backing away a little when Garvin hurries to the desk and closes his book. 

“We need you to get off this ship,” Garvin says, urgently. “I don’t care how you do it, whether it’s sneaking away from the invading party, diving into the sea or hell, kicking Quaritch in the balls and running away. You can’t stay here.” 

“We already said. But all those ideas have no chance of succeeding,” he retorts. “I’d get five steps away before being hauled back.” 

“Then cause a distraction.” 

He laughs, because Garvin says it like it’s the easiest thing in the world. And the desperation is now yawning wider than it has before. 

Before he can even retort, the engines begin to wind down, and the shipwide alarm that signals their descent back into the water rattles his skull. 

He feels sick. He’s sure his own cheeks have gone very pale, but he has no time to try and get control of his stomach, or his nerves, because Garvin’s herding him towards the door. 

“No time to try and think of a plan,” Garvin says, pausing at the end of the corridor outside his lab and checking for any patrols. 

There’s no one else around; they’re all prepping for the ship to land. Garvin does it anyway, and then presses a hand against his shoulder. Except this time it’s sweaty and cold, rather than warm and grounding. 

“Just try and find some way to escape, I can try and lead them on a wild goose chase trying to find you.” 

“Why? What did you see?” he demands, but Garvin shakes his head before the question is even fully out in the open. 

“Not something for kids to see,” he says, before hurriedly glancing down the corridor again. “Not in your…condition.” 

“Condition?” he mutters to himself, a bit offended. He may not have memories, but he’s not exactly a weak little thing. “Why get me off the ship then, if you think I can’t handle whatever you were looking at.” 

“It’s called being assertive,” Garvin says with a smile he’s never seen before plastered across his face. It’s entirely cheeky and reaches his eyes far easier than the grimaces before ever have. “You should try it sometime.” 

-

He finds himself sitting in front of Quaritch on his ikran this time. Seems he’s learned from that almost death experience, because the Colonel’s arms bracket him either side, the distance between them so small that the heat of his breath grazes the back of his neck. 

No longer can he twist and see anything behind him, all he’d get would be the forest green of Quaritch’s vest. He can glance either side of himself, catch a glimpse of Wainfleet and his murderous ikran and Zdinarsik on the other side with her gun already in her hands. 

It’s constricting, but he doesn’t have any room to argue. Literally and figuratively. 

“Don’t think you’ll be able to explore by yourself kid,” Quaritch suddenly says, snapping his attention forward again. There’s something about his tone that raises his hackles. “You stick close to me, and leave the rest of the operation to the others.” 

“I’m not dumb,” he grumbles, but then winces when one of Quartich’s hands wraps around his arm and he’s made to look up. “I hear you.” 

“Do you?” Quaritch demands. “We’re going into an extremely dangerous and agitated situation. Any wrong move could tip the people into a fight, and the way we are they’d have us outnumbered.” 

If he didn’t know any better, he'd say Quaritch was worried under all that hot air. 

“I get that,” he says, wresting his arm out of Quaritch’s grip. “I’m the one they could take. I’ll be a good little shadow and won’t say anything.” 

His words don’t help the tension, he can see it in the hand that boxes him in again; the tightening of muscles as the other is lifted to fire off a set of signals too quick and complicated to understand. It’s not for him though, because Zdinarsik smirks and peels away, and Wainfleet dips to take point behind the Colonel. 

“You’ll make sure you don’t,” Quaritch says, “unless I tell you. We don’t chit chat with the insurgents. We interrogate, ask where Sully was last seen and leave. Simple as.” 

His stomach twists at what Quaritch’s not saying. Because there’s no way it’s simple as. 

But he doesn’t say anything else as they continue through the sky, the outline of land masses coming into view slowly. Below them, the sea roils and rages, the many twisting turning currents churning the water until it’s angry enough to spit at them. The ship would’ve never been able to get through that, not without exhausting its fuel supply. 

Even Lopez, having taken point where Wainfleet was, glances down at it and whistles, impressed. He looks up and smirks when he notices he’s being watched, and points down at the water. 

“Wouldn’t want to get lost in that,” Lopez says, the smirk widening when he breaks eye contact. 

“Ah come on,” Prager suddenly quips, from behind, “you’re a good swimmer, why not take a dip?” 

“Stay focused,” Quaritch calls over the wind before Lopez waves his squad mate away, and the silence covers their group. 

They’re close enough now to be able to make out a village. Or, what might represent a village in Na’vi culture; from the sky, it looks like a collection of woven huts spread out across the sand. They’re weirdly shaped, tapered at the end like a rain drop would be, connected by walkways and supported by the bending branches of trees. The shadows of Zdinarsik and Mansk’s ikrans hover over it, although neither riders are sitting in the saddles. 

“Down!” Quaritch suddenly shouts, and he’s nearly thrown backwards with the abrupt change in direction. His back presses against Quaritch’s chest, and the wind whistles in his ears as they plummet.

They get closer, close enough to see the people, gathering on the beach looking wary as Mansk and Zdinarsik herd them forward. They get closer, and he suddenly gets a weird feeling. He clenches his fingers against it, nails digging into the meat of his palm, but it doesn’t help. 

It makes him want to run back to the ship. To get out from Quaritch’s grasp and take that swim back to safety. 

It settles in his stomach like a stone, sends adrenaline racing through his veins as he realises he really, really doesn’t want to be here. He wishes Garvin hadn’t pushed him to do this. He’ll blame him if he gets back onto the ship. 

When they reach the shore, Quaritch pulls sharply against the ikran’s tentacles, causing it to shriek and pull up. Its wings stir up the sand, so obviously an intimidation tactic that he’s completely surprised when it works. A couple screams echo over the sand, but they’re silenced by a sharp bark from Zdinarsik. 

Quaritch jumps down first, and then tilts his head for him to clamber down too. The sand unbalances him; it feels weird under his fingers and toes. When he stands, Quaritch is already ordering the rest forward. He scrambles to keep up, but stops when he passes the yawning entrance of a hut. 

The fire pit, the sleeping bag things and blankets surrounding it, and the obvious way it’s a family house causes a painful spike. Other than rubbing his eye with a knuckle, he doesn’t show it, just takes it in before jogging after the others. 

If he’s going to attempt to get away, he needs to not be distracted. That means ignoring the huts, and the people now on their knees, arms behind their heads as they cower from the electric prods and guns being jabbed at them threateningly. 

“Search the area,” Quaritch says, “see if you can find any mention of Sully or anything suspicious.” 

“Got it,” Lopez says, and he and Prager jog towards the main clump of huts. More screams and cries rattle his eardrums as they begin to tear out belongings and throw them to the ground. 

Mansk and Zdinarsik stay on crowd control, threatening anyone who even rises on their knees. He shivers at the tension, the danger, and, strangely, the sight of pained yellow eyes.  

His stomach clenches around the stone and another rush of adrenaline enters his bloodstream. How can none of the squadmates connect the hesitation and turmoil in his expression to the clouds above them? It’s like his emotions are manifesting them. 

Yet, they keep going. Great. 

He doesn’t want to be here, but he also shouldn’t be here. It could be because he doesn’t have any cover. He could be spotted by a Na’vi and his usefulness for Jake Sully could be plastered across his forehead. 

Take me, I’m the weak link. 

But it also could be something completely different. This oil slick, greasy thing feels ingrained. Years old, and it’s not just because of him. The Na’vi around them, their skin is eerily different to the squad; lighter blue, their tails flatter and hands wider. 

Someone screams, and he flinches at the way the voice cracks in pain. The Na’vi falls to the ground, Zdinarsik growling down at them from above, the butt of her gun pointing at their head. His stomach twists. 

Maybe if he was more like the others, more emotionless, this would be a lot better. Actually, he’s really starting to think that running into the sea would be better than staying here. 

“Have we located the village leader?” Quaritch asks, and Mansk silently points to a big guy just to the Colonel’s left. Yellow eyes meet, and the defiance and anger in the leader’s gaze makes his stomach squeeze tighter. 

Quaritch paces forward, his hand dipping into his pocket for his datapad. 

He says something to the leader, shaking the technology in his face but between the crashing sea against the sand and the shouts it’s impossible to hear what’s said. The leader shakes his head, and Quaritch shoves the datapad’s screen closer. 

There’s a weird snap, completely out of place, and he finds Zdinarsik’s eyes on him. Her jaw works the gum in her mouth even as she keeps the gun trained on the Na’vi below her. She tilts her head, eyes narrowing like she’s assessing. Is his face giving away what he’s feeling again? 

Shit. 

“Kid,” Quaritch suddenly says, one hand beckoning him over. He can’t refuse, not yet, but he makes his steps as small as possible. Drawing out the inevitable. “Where is Jake Sully?” 

A sudden crashing wave covers the leader’s words, but Quartich’s jaw is clenching in irritation. His ears are pinning back, and the hand that had beckoned him is suddenly clenching his shoulder - now in reach - and dragging him over. 

“Translate,” Quaritch says, and he scowls in confusion. Nose wrinkling, eyebrows dragging down towards his nose. 

Translate what? Quaritch’s own words? How can he do that if the Na’vi still doesn’t understand English? Has Quaritch lost his mind finally? He’s about to open his mouth to argue back when Quaritch growls it again. 

“What?!” he asks, glancing frantically between the leader and Quaritch, but the other guy stares incomprehensibly. Of course. 

“Translate,” Quaritch growls, trying to intimidate as he shoves his shoulder forward. 

Translate what? he wants to scream. There’s nothing to translate, Quaritch is the only person talking to him. How can he–

“That is a forest clan member,” the leader says, slow and pronounced over the crackling of flames. “They do not come here. Please, tell him!” 

Oh.

His breath practically stalls in his chest. 

He sways. The ground has fallen out from under his feet, but he can feel the sand under his toes. His eyes stay locked on the leader– the Na’vi staring at him, desperately. Hopefully. 

How– what?? 

The world around him is cracking, parts falling away as he scrambles to hold onto them. He can hear it because it’s thunderous, like a great tree falling in the forest. But no one else can, because they can’t see it. 

He wants to scream. He needs to be sick. Needs to demand how he can understand the Na’vi leader, when two minutes ago he was not able to speak anything other than English. 

His stomach rolls and clenches around the stone inside himself when -  instinctively, impossibly - not only does he understand Na’vi he can speak it too. Apparently. An apology is forming on his tongue as easily and fluidly as English so he must be able to. Maybe it’s his second fucking language he’s no idea. 

Is he asleep? Is this a dream? Was everything a dream? What does this mean for who he is? Was he not a part of the company? Did he live with Na’vi? 

What about the one in the forest, would he have understood if they’d actually gotten a chance to speak? 

His hand shakes when he tries to reach for his hair, blood roaring in his ears as he dips his gaze. Watching his own chest heave with his hitching breaths. His shoulder is grabbed again, and he’s shaken. 

“Time to prove you’re useful, kid,” Quaritch barks, hard and commanding. “Translate!” 

Right, he needs to do that. Prove he’s of value to the squad, useful to them. Able to do something other than stand there and stare. If only that glare wasn’t burning into him, and the other set of eyes weren’t looking at him like they’re pleading for help. For mercy. 

Suddenly he’s being pulled in two ways, by invisible forces. There’s black spots encroaching on what he can see, the rushing water is synonymous with the roaring of his blood, the seabreeze turns the sweat on his back and forehead cold and he keeps swaying. 

He needs to prove that he can do something, prove himself so that he doesn’t get tossed aside. Please, let him do this. 

He doesn’t want to be here, shouldn’t be here, the sea is looking real inviting what little he can see. But he doesn’t know where else he should be. Doesn’t remember so this is his only option. The only path, with the glare boring into him from above and the safety of the people around him in his hands. 

Shit. Shit! 

“Colonel!” someone, Wainfleet, shouts, and he takes a sudden harsh breath. “Bogeys incoming. From the South.” 

A woman, one he hadn’t noticed really, sobs. “Thank the Great Mother,” she says, yelping when Lopez jams an electric prod into her side. The leader shouts at him to stop, but he can’t do anything, tied up as he is. 

He can see the shadows of the new arrivals, getting bigger as the seconds pass. There’s two of them, but it’s two more than they expected, flying in on ikrans. He glances between them and the Colonel, and watches as indecision, and all manner of other things pass through his gaze. 

Until Quaritch’s gaze hardens, and the stone in his stomach suddenly drops to his feet. 

“We’re done here,” Quaritch growls, snatching his arm in another tight hold. “Burn it down.” 

He’s dragged along as Zdinarsik smirks and Prager belts out a “Yes sir,” and he can’t stop stumbling in the sand as they turn to the huts. Yanking out small contraptions from their vests which belch fire and cause the people to scream. Not in pain but in fear and aching sadness.  

He trips and is yanked back upright by his arm, his shoulder burning. Another hut is aimed at, and desperately he glances behind him. At the shadows of the bogeys which get close enough for him to make out their silhouettes. 

Two ikrans, two riders, both pointing at the village. 

No. They’re closer now that he can see that they’re not pointing at the village, or the screaming people, or the bright hot flames licking against the huts and consuming them within seconds. 

They’re pointing at him. Shouting something he can’t hear over the destruction and the screams that rattles his bones like he’s just fallen from a tree and collided with the forest floor. 

That oil slick feeling comes back again, but it’s focused on the fingers burning against his skin. On the hand dragging him away. The oil slick grazes against the hole left behind by the stone, against the smoldering, ripped edges and it ignites. Floods his veins with adrenaline that burns hot and quick. 

And for once he fights back, rather than obeying orders. 

He scrabbles against the fingers, tries to pry them off when they tighten. Scratches at the palm that could easily encompass the width of his arm with all the ferocity he can manage. But they tighten, pressing until his skin turns white and he hisses in pain. 

He tries to wrench his arm away but he hasn’t the strength to pull it out. His fingers tingle as the circulation is nearly cut off. 

One thing his sudden betrayal does? It catches the Colonel off guard. 

The yelp of surprise and pain is a shock, because he’s never heard anything like it escape Quaritch’s mouth. It encourages him to keep going, even though the Colonel’s head snaps around like a branch slicing back into his place. The cold glare is as intimidating as ever, turning him rock solid as Quaritch plants his heels. 

He pulls harder, feeling the sweat between Quaritch’s fingers make his grip slip. The Colonel’s hand moves an inch, but then he’s taking a step and reinforcing it again. Erasing his hard work in a second. 

He’d blame the adrenaline, but he knows that the hiss that escapes his mouth - animalistic and ferocious - is completely instinctive. It battles Quaritch’s glare, which is clouded by too many emotions he can’t name, and goes head to head with the snarl pulling against the Colonel’s lips. Like they’re fighting to see who can be the most intimidating. 

He couldn’t care less about Quaritch’s emotional turmoil. What he needs to focus on now is getting as far away as fucking possible. Maybe towards the bogeys who’re getting really close now. 

Maybe they’re his other option. 

“Colonel!” Wainfleet shouts. 

He hisses at him too, ignoring the way he jolts backwards and says, “Holy shit.” 

He can only fight one person, not an entire fucking squad don’t call anyone else over! 

Around them, the villagers have started shouting to the incoming ikran riders for help, for the squad to leave, for peace until suddenly Zdinarsik gets impatient and fires a couple shots into the sky. It doesn’t help at all; the villagers only shout and scream more, crouching towards the ground. 

He flinches, and turns wide, scared eyes towards Zdinarsik. She wouldn’t actually shoot them, would she? She’s smirking even though Wainfleet is berating her. He feels sick again at the sight. 

The shots also startle the ikran around them and above them. They screech in surprise and flap their wings and the tenuous control the squad had on the situation begins to fall apart in earnest. 

He tries yanking again, prying a finger off with everything he has before Quaritch tries to stop him again. He keeps fighting even against the pathetic reprimand, giving in to the need to break away from the idea of being useful, obedient. Giving in to his body’s want to get away. Right now. 

“Orders, Colonel,” Wainfleet shouts again, reaching for a pocket in his vest and kicking up more clods of sand as he lifts his weapon to his shoulder but doesn’t take aim. 

He struggles harder as a magazine clicks into place, snarling and hissing at anything that moves around him. He must look absolutely feral to everyone else, but those aren’t blanks, they’re actual bullets. 

“Colonel, orders!” 

Quaritch is hesitating, unable to take his eyes off the ikrans approaching, but also not releasing the grip on his arm. Just as he doesn’t have many other options, neither does the Colonel. Whatever he does could end up with someone getting hurt.

It just depends on which side. 

Taking advantage of the hesitation, he gives another heaving tug and wiggle against his arm, heart lurching when it slips a lot more than it did before, until the nails dig in. 

Quaritch’s hand is wrapped around his knuckles; one final yank and he’ll be free. 

“Strike ‘em down,” Quaritch shouts, and his stomach plummets as Wainfleet’s mouth stretches into a feral smile. “We’re moving out.” 

“No!” he shouts, struggling, yanking, pulling. “Let me– go!” 

The sand is slippy under his feet. There’s no traction, no grip. And his heart starts straining against his ribcage when Wainfleet lifts his gun towards the sky. His shouts get desperate, because they know him! They called to him, pointed at him he needs to find out why and they’re about to get killed–

Wainfleet’s finger squeezes the trigger. 

But he was right. His hand needed one more good pull and suddenly he’s scrambling over to Wainfleet. He’s pushing down against the barrel of his gun, but still he’s too late. 

The gun goes off, the second loudest thing he’s ever heard - the grenade takes first - and the recoil nearly knocks him away. 

Both riders are still flying towards them though. He wrenches his eyes open to see them, now so close he spots how young they are. But the gun did go off so who–

“Lopez!” 

Oh. Shit. 

Chapter Text

They’ve put him into an empty hut. 

Pod. 

Thing. 

One of the woven homes which had looked so cosy when he’d peered inside. This one’s pit in the middle is empty of any firewood or flames, and the wooden pole that acts as the central support looks brand new. No marks or soot stains. The woven floor underneath has no give, in comparison to the walkways outside. 

Maybe it’s not new, but it definitely hasn’t been lived in. The outer wall had looked worn, as if it’d battled through many stormy nights but there’s none of that on the inside. The floor is spotless of any scuffs, there’s no evidence of patching, nothing. Like it’s been frozen in time at the moment it was made. 

It’s at the very edge of the village, neatly tucked away in the arching roots of the trees. Perhaps it’s too far from the rest of the community to feel like a home, or it’s intended as a quiet room. He can imagine people coming here for a nap, or for a bit of peace. 

There’s just one small thing that’s derailing that idea; the door can be closed from the outside. Counterintuitive for a quiet room, and a living space. 

Also, he’s trapped. Again. No ties on this side of the door means he can’t open it even if he wanted a bit of fresh sea breeze. 

He hasn’t tried anyway. The last thing he wants is to seem suspicious by attempting to get out. He’s stayed right where he sat down at first, up against the wall facing the entrance with the woven pattern of the wall pressing into his back. Digging his fingers into the threads to keep the panic from eating him alive. 

To be honest, anywhere he sits might look suspicious. Considering he’s now their…prisoner? It might be weird for him to act extra defensive but then it also could be weird if he was completely relaxed. 

The whole situation is causing his head to hurt for the thousandth time. The headache has taken permanent residence right behind his eye. Scarily, it’s almost a comfort, this dull throbbing that keeps coming back like an old friend coming to visit. 

He shudders, shakes his head as gently as he can and readjusts so that he’s slumped more comfortably against the wall. 

The last he saw of anyone, he’d been shoved inside, and the flap had been closed over and tied shut. The feeling of someone’s hand against his shoulderblade still tingles if he shifts it, even though they hadn’t meant it to be harsh. Since then, time has passed strangely, because he can’t tell how much he’s missed. 

The only bit of light he’s getting is whatever’s able to seep through the gaps in the walls and floor, and the flap which glows a faint orange colour. An hour must’ve passed at least, maybe two considering the shadow just outside the flap has gotten a bit long where it stretches across the floor. It feels like an age. 

The shadow, the person they’ve put on guard, hasn’t moved much. They’ve shuffled a little on their feet sure, and adjusted the grip on their weapon - a spear, he thinks. But they’ve yet to be changed over, and they must be bored out of their skull by now. 

And at least three people have passed by the hut. He knows, because of the quiet voices that had done little to tell him anything. 

These guys are being as careful as the RDA were, if not more so. Which makes sense; he has been in the company of their enemy for at least a month, who knows what he’s been conditioned to do?

He allows himself to scoff quietly, rolling his eyes and shuffling a bit more to get comfortable. He can see why they’d need the pallets laid out on the ground. There’s at least one frayed thread digging into his backside, and it’s not very comfortable. 

He gets their distrust, and stress, but really it’s not very necessary. It’s not like he’d want or try to run away. He has nowhere else to go, and if he tried to attack them, it’d be a surefire way to get himself killed. If not grievously injured. 

And besides, this sheltered, quiet place, is miles better than anything he got with Quaritch and his squad. 

Yes, he’s on his own, he doesn’t know what’s going to happen to him, and he might die of boredom in here. But he’s warm, kind of comfortable, and without the constant threat of having to prove himself useful. No one’s expecting anything of him.  

At least, not yet. He might’ve missed something on the flight here. He might’ve missed a lot actually, being partially out of it at the time, barely able to stay on the ikran let alone try and pay attention to what was going on around him. 

Even though he’s being kept in the dark - literally and figuratively - he’s keeping his own cool about the unknown that’s surrounding him. 

He jolts at a sudden, persistent beeping, stomach dropping when he glances down at his exopack still strapped to his waistband. 

The light is starting to blink at him. Still green, but it’s already losing battery. And this was the spare that he’d changed out back on the ship. Back when he thought he’d need to if he was going to be literally running away. Stopping mid chase, with a bunch of murderous recoms on your tail, to make sure you can breathe didn’t seem conducive. 

He’d brought another with him, he’d made sure of it, so why–

He stops rifling through the small pouch that had carried his datapad and now stands empty, and stares at the opposite wall. 

“Shit,” he whispers. The other one that had probably fallen out of his pouch when Quaritch had been trying to drag him back to the ship. 

Swallowing the next crest of panic doesn’t work as well as it had last time. He feels it, lodged between the knobs of his collarbones like a stone. Making him feel like he can’t take a full breath without it hitching on the way up. 

His fingers glance against the cold metal of the exopack, and for once his impulsive thoughts barge through his rational ones to plant themselves right between his eyebrows. 

Would it really be so bad toj just yank it out? Or even lift the edge of his mask away from his chin? It would be so quick, so easy…

Violently he slams both hands against the floor with a muffled thud and concentrates on the wall as he forces his heart and his breathing back into normal rhythms. 

“It would be very bad,” he whispers to himself. “Very, very, very bad–” 

The shadow shuffles again and he cuts himself off. Staring at them in case they actually come in. They don’t, only moving their spear to their other shoulder before they settle again. 

If he asks, would they even know what exopacks were? It’s not a necessity so it would be really surprising if they did. But then again, his life has been full of surprises recently so he can’t rule it out. 

Would they feel obligated to help even if he did ask though? 

Another chill rushes up his spine and makes him feel sick. 

The woven floor next to the entrance depresses, the threads creaking quietly as another person joins his guard. By their shadow, they’re smaller, if only by half a head. He could even guess that the two outside might be the same age. They’d probably tower over him though. 

He watches as they greet the guard at the entrance genially, and the other guy’s shoulders relax. Only a tiny bit, their spear is still held upright. Still on high alert. 

Over the calming sound of lapping sea water that surrounds him, it’s impossible to make out their conversation. There’s no raised voices - they stay at the same volume the whole time - and no waving arms or pointed fingers. He kind of wishes one of them would at least get annoyed so they’d get louder. 

He doesn’t move, just watches from his slumped spot against the wall as they talk. If he moves, they might remember he’s there too and stop talking. So he

He suddenly itches for something to do. If only he had his datapad to keep the boredom from turning his brain to mush. It’d been taken away from him before he’d been pushed inside; yanked from his pouch before he had the idea to grab it. 

They won’t find anything on it, and they won’t find his documents very entertaining even if they understand English. Not unless they like reading the fractured memories of a guy with generalised amnesia. 

One of the voices becomes stern for a second, rising above the noise of the sea before dipping again. He stands quietly so that his knees and ankles don’t pop, watching intently. 

The HUD on his mask blinks about his low battery, but he ignores it. It’ll last for a bit longer. At least until he can find someone to ask for another. Someone he can trust. 

Outside it’s getting interesting, the arms finally flailing at each other, voices rising in volume. One stalks closer to the entrance. He can see their toes peeking out from underneath the flap, but their arm is grabbed. Sharp comes the other voice, commanding like an older brother.  

He tenses, fists clenching when the shadow of a hand reaches forward to lift the cover and the voices snap at each other one last time. 

Shifting on his feet, he watches as someone comes in.  

THEN

The sound a body makes as it lands on hard packed sand is a lot more muted than he expected. 

Lopez’s knees hit the deck first, eyes wide and sightless, a bloom of blood growing over his vest, before the rest of him flops forward. Sand kicks up where he falls, and the gun tumbles from his fingers, but other than that it is a quiet fall to earth for someone so big. 

“Lopez!” 

Quaritch’s bark certainly isn’t quiet though. 

If he didn’t know better he’d say Quaritch was worried. 

The collapse of Lopez’s body snaps everything into motion; the villagers scream and panic as the pool of blood seeps into the sand, turning it a rusty red. Some take advantage of the distraction by shoving away the other squad members and snatching their weapons. The surprise wears off too quickly though, and it turns into a stalemate. 

“Orders, sir!”  

It’s taking all of his concentration to fight against Wainfleet’s far superior strength. His hands and arms shake with adrenaline and strain, sweat beads on his forehead, and yet a small flicker out of the corner of his eye distracts him. The riders have stalled in the air at the gunshot. They’re out of range, but seem wary. 

The distraction costs him. And Wainfleet suddenly moves. 

Cold plastic bashes into his ribcage as the searing hot barrel of the gun presses against his shoulder. He yelps, and tries to adjust his grip when his elbows and wrists bend at uncomfortable angles to keep hold of the gun. Wainfleet shoves harder, and his fingers loosen. 

Teeth creaking under the strain of his tensed jaw, he fights to keep hold. But everything works against him, and the sand slips under his toes. He flails, but ends up on his ass, even though he’d tried to grab hold of Wainfleet’s vest to stay upright. 

All the air rushes out of his lungs on impact and he wheezes. 

Through the ringing in his ears, he hears Quaritch finally call out orders. The pop pop pop of gunfire terrifies him, and he heaves up onto his elbows. He’ll never forgive himself if a villager gets killed because of him

His head aches, but he pushes through it to see who’s being fired at. His heart flying into his throat at the sight of nearly every member of the squad taking aim at the sky. 

“No,” he tries to say, but his lungs still haven’t recovered, so it just comes out as a short wheeze. 

Zdinarsik, Mansk and Prager fire off multiple rounds, providing cover so that Ja can reach Lopez without getting killed himself. The medic skids to the body’s side, ripping open one of his many pockets with one hand while working to get Lopez onto his back with the other. 

Above, the ikran riders bob and weave through the air, doing a really good job of dodging the spray of bullets coming their way. Almost like they’ve done this before. They won’t be able to keep it up for long; their ikrans already look tired. 

“No,” he tries again, heart shooting into his mouth at every bullet that comes close. 

There’s too many for the riders to dodge, any second now one of the squad members will get a direct hit and send them tumbling into the sea. A part of him screams at the idea, and the adrenaline rush that comes with it causes goosebumps to rise along every inch of skin. 

He finally gets his feet under him, about to come up swinging, aiming for Wainfleet, when the guy suddenly takes notice of his movement. The gun is pointing at him again, the barrel glinting in the light. His collarbone smarts, the burnt skin pulling with every shift of his arm. 

“You.” 

Wainfleet’s never been this angry. To be fair, he’s only ever seen a smirk splayed across the guy’s face. But it looks like he’s just crossed over the line of pissed into the roaring flames of rage. “You, little shit–” 

“Wainfleet!” Quaritch barks over the gunshots. 

It doesn’t register, the guy stalks forward, and he scrambles backwards desperately. The loose sand does nothing to help his escape, sending him back to his hands and knees. 

“You killed Lopez!” Wainfleet shouts, like he cares. He didn’t actually think the squad cared about each other; it was more a friendship built on convenience. He didn’t think there would be this much in Wainfleet’s emotional range, his eyes practically burning with fury and anguish. 

The shouts and screams of the villagers have become desperate, reaching fever pitch in volume as they do what little they can. Now that he’s listening properly, he can understand them too.  

They’re not yelling in fear, or demanding that the squad leave. As Wainfleet gets closer, he realises that they’re crying out for him. 

“How dare you aim a weapon at a young one–” 

“--filthy violent demon, leave this place!” 

“He’s just a child!” 

“You were the one to shoot your comrade!” 

Above it all a powerful voice calls for peace, but it’s too late to try and gain control of the situation. 

He keeps scrambling backwards, his wheezing breaths hitching and his eyes burning with tears. It’s all gone so wrong so quickly.

“Wainfleet,” Quaritch barks again. The guy’s feet stall momentarily. “We need the kid. Don’t do anything rash.” 

“Sir–” 

“That’s an order!” 

“I didn’t kill him,” he finally manages to force out, pulling himself up into a crouch. 

The gun’s barrel rises with him, trained on his forehead with expert precision. He holds out his hands, fingers coated in sand. “You were the one who pulled the trigger.” 

Wainfleet snarls. “Bullshit.” 

“They’re getting closer!” 

“Damnit!” 

“You know I’m right,” he says, heart rate kicking up a notch. “I just shoved it down, you were the trigger happy bastard who squeezed the trigger. Maybe you should get that violent tendency checked out.” 

Wainfleet’s upper lip pulls back, showing a sharp canine.

“I know the R & D Department would love to get a look inside your head,” he says as the villagers keep trying to vainly shout at Wainfleet to stop. “Although they might not be able to figure out much because your brain is the size of a pebble.”

“Little shit–” Wainfleet snarls, lunging forward. 

“Bogey! Bogey! Three o’clock–” 

The warning comes a second too late. Or maybe just on time. 

Wainfleet’s about to grab his wrist, he’s flinching away to avoid it, one arm up to swat at the guy’s face. He sees the moment Wainfleet notices, eyes widening in surprise before he’s backpedalling, gun coming up but too late. 

A spray of bullets land in the sand between their feet in an arc. 

Wainfleet stumbles with a loud “fuck!” and he’s ducking away from any more possible bullets, curling into a ball with his hands above his head. 

A rush of wind lifts his hair and he opens his eyes just in time to see another ikran making a pass overhead. It shrieks, claws opening to take a swipe at Mansk as it goes before arcing up into the sky to turn around. 

“Sir!” Zdinarsik shouts from where she’s pushing herself onto her feet. “Sir, it’s him it’s–” 

Another rattle of gunfire cuts in, but he knows who it is. The pure look of hatred on the Colonel’s face is pretty hard to misunderstand as he glares at the sky. 

The squad is in pretty bad shape; Ja is still crouched over Lopez trying to patch him up, and the others are ducking for cover. 

Sully’s above them with a firearm; he has the advantage here even though he’s only one man. Zdinarsik is the only one with a good angle for a shot, but with the way his ikran’s circling it’d be pretty damn impossible to get a good hit. From here, he’s the predator, and they’re the squealing prey. 

Around them, the village waits too, just about every tail on the island flickering agitatedly. 

“Fall back,” Quartich barks finally. “We can do no more here.” 

The squad is reluctant at first, but they lower their guns slowly as Sully hovers above them. Watching. 

“Colonel–” 

“Bring the kid,” Quaritch adds, cutting across Zdinarsik and barely even glancing at him when he begins to stalk away. 

His adrenaline surges at the same time that Wainfleet’s mouth curls into a smile he really doesn’t like. 

No. He can’t miss out on another chance, he won’t. Not again, when everything is so close. Not when escape is literally being handed to him. If he went back, he’d go insane and tear up the bridge, or try to escape and get thrown into one of the rooms within the bowels of the SeaDragon.

If staying means getting through Wainfleet, actually fighting him, he’ll do it. His hands clench into fists as his feet shift, his lip twitching. If only he had one of their knives…

Above, Sully’s ikran shrieks, its shadow darting across the sand with all the speed of a bracing wind. Right towards them. Another spray of bullets forces Wainfleet to jump back a few steps, yelping.

Wide eyed, he watches as the ikran wheels around, coming in for another pass. Is he…no, couldn’t possibly…

When Wainfleet reaches for his arm, another round kicks up more sand. He swears when some gets in his eye, and a bubble of incredulous, amazed laughter works his way up his chest until it escapes his lips with a snort. Wainfleet lowers his arms and glares.  

Another step forward, and another spray nearly hits his toes. 

Over the noise, Quartich barks, “Leave him. Fall back now, Corporal.” 

Wainfleet growls, glares one final time, but then leaves. Just…walks away without trying again. His heart feels like it’s going to beat out of his chest as he stands perfectly still, rooted to the ground. If he moves, the dream will crack in two he knows it. 

The squad picks themselves up as best they can, with sand pressed into the zips and pockets of their vests and trousers, and Lopez slung over Ja’s back.  They head for their own ikrans without any more fighting.

Overhead the other ikran riders hover in the air, watching as the squad takes off. He doesn’t even dare blink as they launch into the sky without even a look backwards. 

And it all suddenly fades into the background. Like his brain just decides that nope, that’s enough for him today. He’s done; checked out. He doesn’t even have the energy to fight it off, he just gives in. 

Through the hard packed sand, he feels the vibrations of the three riders landing once the squad become tiny pinpricks. He doesn’t react to it, doesn’t even move as the squad disappears from view.  

He’s surprised it’s taken this long for him to check out. Maybe it was by sheer force of will that he’d stage conscious for so long, the adrenaline doing its best to keep his head up. 

It’s nice this immediate quiet. Sort of. Falling into the background as the world continues without him works for the time being. 

His legs shake, and he gently lowers himself to his knees, like Lopez. Except, he’s not dead so the rest of him stays upright, sand digging into his skin as he just stays there. 

If he turns his head a little, he can see the ikrans where they’ve landed on the beach. Passively, he notices their pretty colours; a light blue and a dark sort of green, with speckles of orange and red across their wings. Their necks are bare of any sort of collar, gazes alert and cautious. Strange, he thought all ikrans had some kind of halter so their rider could control them…

The riders dismount with a fluidity the squad couldn’t achieve even if they had decades, although interestingly they too find the sand hard to walk over. Well, run across; sprinting as soon as their toes hit the ground. 

Wow, they’re really booking it to get to him, huh. But, he’s not even going anywhere so it’s kind of pointless. They’re using up energy they might need later with the speed they’re sprinting towards him. 

And they are gunning it for him, kicking up clods of sand and stumbling onto their knees when it causes them to trip. The villagers draw closer, helping hands reaching for them, worried eyes glancing between him and them. 

That should be weird, right? The desperation plastered across their faces? He’s not really sure…

They’re a lot younger than he expected, although he can’t exactly tell by how much, given the only people he’s spent time with are adults. But these guys aren’t the full nine feet of height. If anything, they might be a head taller than he is when he’s standing. Maybe a little bit more. 

They’re getting close enough that he can make out the details in their features and expressions. Both look like they’re about to scream, or cry. 

Should he flinch, pull away? A part of him really wants to, the muscles in his legs are tensing. But then, they relax, and he doesn’t even jolt when his skin tingles at the first touch. 

It’s kind of like someone’s put a blanket over his head. Everything is muffled, noise, touch, even smell. He watches as one of them places a hand on his shoulder, his arm, his head, and the other grips his hand like he’ll disappear and he barely feels the way it burns. 

They’re talking to him, hurriedly, but he can’t hear them. He can’t even dredge up the energy to shake his head; it feels too heavy. His unresponsiveness causes more worry, and the grip on his hand grows tight enough to break through the blanket. His fingers twitch. 

Their voices get louder, but he still can’t understand them. The bubbling frustration that rises from his stomach almost breaks through too. But the sudden hand on his other shoulder - much bigger than the other two - startles it away like a spooked animal. 

The adrenaline kicks in again, and suddenly everything comes flooding back. Noise, smell, touch, it’s too much! He slaps away the fingers holding him steady and scrambles backwards. Until he slips, heart thudding desperately against his ribcage as he falls again. 

He didn’t even notice the other Na’vi coming up behind him. The village leader, now with his hands held out in an attempt to placate him. Wide, blue eyes staring at him. 

Shit, now the muffled noises have been replaced with his blood thumping in his ears; he can’t hear anything else. His fingers are shaking too, he watches them with distant fascination. 

One of the younger ones approaches slowly, cautiously. Staying close to the ground with a hand out to him at all times. Like he’s a spooked animal, or a ticking timebomb. 

There’s movement, just over the other one’s shoulders, but he’s too distracted by the hand reaching for him. The fingers are more elegant and thin than the squad’s, but not without callouses. They’re trembling a little, not as bad as his own, but enough that he can see it. Why are they scared?

When he glances up, the look he gets is earnest, if a bit glassy. Like tears are being held back. Heart panging at the sight, he easily slots his hand between their fingers, startling at the strong grasp as he’s heaved to his feet. He thought he’d panic, but that same distant calm falls over him again, even though his heart is still trying to make a valiant escape.

When his arm is tugged gently, he follows willingly. His blood is still thrashing in his ears, but it’s died down enough for him to be able to hear the crashing waves on shore instead.

This amount of adrenaline for a prolonged amount of time must not be very healthy. Should he say something? 

More movement draws his attention to the ikrans and their restless fluttering wings. They’re leaving already? He stalls for a second, and this time he’s not yanked any further. His companion stops too, glancing back with a confused frown on his face. 

He suddenly, and intensely, feels the heavy weight of every pair of eyes on him; the villagers watching them. They’re no longer afraid, some have even begun trying to smother the fires that threaten their homes. But still, they watch. 

They’d been trying to help him, even though their lives were in danger. Even though he’d done nothing for them. 

The sand crunches underneath his feet as he turns, and immediately his gaze is caught by the leader. He’s a lot taller than he thought, and without a frown marring his face, a lot younger. His knees are dusted with sand and, already, his split lip has clotted over. 

The leader helps the woman next to him to her feet, delicate, wide hands grazing along her shoulders and her head. Where bruises are already starting to bloom. 

He can feel his knees shaking again, but he pulls back his shoulders as much as he can, and through the muffled rushing of the blood in his ears he forces his mouth to move. 

I’m sorry, he says, unable to hear it through the ringing in his ears but taking comfort in the way his chest vibrates. Shaky and hitching as it goes, once he’s started he finds he can’t stop. It spills out of him like a rush of water, his cheeks turning cold with tears. 

I’m sorry. 

I’m sorry I’m sorry 

I’msorryI’msorryI’msorryI’msorryI’msorry–

Sorry for bringing the squad to them. 

Sorry for letting them get hurt because he wasn’t fast enough, wasn’t good enough. Wasn’t able to remember anything so that when it came time for him to do his job he failed. Epically. 

Sorry for getting their village destroyed, sorry for causing so much fear and terror. 

Sorry for being there, if he hadn’t been put on this mission Quaritch would’ve been met with the same language barrier and he would’ve given up and left. Or he wouldn’t have, and all this would’ve happened anyway but worse. Much, much worse. 

He feels when his knees give up on him. He becomes weightless, the only contact he has with the ground disappearing as he tips forward. His eyes are open but he’s not seeing the floor rush towards him. It’s all blurry. 

He’s breathing, he can feel it, he’s just not taking anything in. Like something’s wrapped around his chest, and the closer the ground gets, the more he regrets not sitting down. Black spots crowd his vision as his oxygen levels get close enough to tip him into unconsciousness. 

His landing is going to suck. 

He can’t even bring his hands up to break his fall, they’ve become limp wobbly things that won’t even twitch. If he’s lucky, he’ll only hurt his face when his mask collides with the sand–

Oh. 

There are sudden, intense points of heat against his torso. Arms, hands, keeping him from faceplanting. They’re so gentle that his breaths hitch again, a distant whining noise irritating him to the point that he wants to snap at it to shut up. A few seconds later he realises that’s him.  

The arms wrap around his chest in an approximation of an one armed hug as they lift him away from the ground. He’s nearly small enough to be tucked against the person’s chest, although they save his dignity and put him back on his feet, keeping one hand against his shoulder so he stays upright. 

He startles when another touches his hair. It pulls back as quickly as it got there, and he whines again. 

It was so nice. And warm, come back, he wants to say. But his brain to mouth filter has currently failed. So he just tilts his head in the direction the hand came from. Something melts from his back and shoulders when the fingers return.  

Has he really been this cold the whole time? This tense? How has no one noticed? Surely his fingers have been trembling this whole time, his shoulders up around his ears for weeks. 

The body that’s keeping him upright shifts so that they can lean back a bit. He reaches for the wrist connected to the hand pressing to his shoulder, digs his fingers in when they start to pull away further. Another hand pats his own, like it’s reassuring him. 

Distantly, above his head, he hears a chuckle, but he has no remaining energy to be able to turn around and glare at them. He only has enough to lean his forehead against the person’s collarbone, his toes pressing into the sand as the warmth on his shoulder becomes his one anchoring point. 

And then his whole body goes lax. 

He lets the blanket draw over his head fully, lets other people make big important decisions while he just doesn’t have any thoughts. He’s happy as he’s carried on someone’s back to the ikrans, placed onto a saddle and shuffled so that his spine presses against a broad chest. 

And then they’re taking off. 

He knows they’re flying because the wind beats against his skin, although it causes minimum shivering because of the burning heat behind him. 

They’re leaving the island behind, he realises. Shouldn’t they help with the clean up or something? The overwhelming exhaustion suffusing his body flicks the thought away like an annoying bug. He doesn’t have the brain power to control his own body, how would he be of any help?

By the rumbling against his spine there’s talking, but they could be spouting the secrets of the whole universe and he wouldn’t know. Or care. 

He doesn’t move when one of the riders draws level with them and waves at him, a big goofy smile showing off their white teeth. He just blinks slowly, even as they laugh, worriedly. 

He would smile back or do something - because his chest squeezes at the sudden look on their face - but he doesn’t have the energy. 

He blinks, and they’re gone anyway. He couldn’t call them back even if he wanted to. 

As they fly, further than he’s ever gone on the back of an ikran, the sea below becomes a lighter colour. The islands are clumped together, and with a tiny, insignificant jolt, he realises they’ve flown into the middle of the archipelago. 

There’s no way the SeaDragon would be getting in here quickly, or easily. The waters they’d have to navigate would take months. And that’s if they can even find him. 

So from Quaritch, for now, he’s safe. 

But they fly in further, for longer, until finally they begin to descend and everything that happened next leads him to…

Now. 

Right Now. 

Where slim fingers are pushing back the flap that separates him from the outside world, and he’s shoving himself upright to seem kind of attentive. 

He winces, blinks, and lifts a hand at the sudden beam of light that whacks him in the face. 

The person stepping in swears quietly and lets the flap drop. Darkness falls, but it only takes a few blinks, and his eyes adjust. 

The guy’s smile is as bright as the light outside, but it’s the fact that he actually looks happy to see him that punches him right in the gut. The gleam in his eyes, the wideness of his grin, and the completely relaxed body language. It’s so…wholesome. He shouldn’t deserve such a look, right? 

Right??

“Dude, you actually stayed,” the boy says, stepping away from the entrance and crouching at the edge of the dead firepit. 

He frowns a little. Where else was he meant to go? 

“I wanted to bring you to the others right away, but Tonowari is extra cautious, and dad’s being such a kiss ass he agreed to put you in here. Something about playing by their rules.” 

“I don’t mind,” he says quietly, but the guy scoffs. 

“Are you kidding? Bro, I’d be going absolutely batshit by now,” the boy says, waving him away a bit dismissively. “I’m surprised you haven’t tried to escape yet. But if we’re gonna stay here, Dad says rules are rules. And until you’re not a ‘threat’--” he uses airquotes and everything, “--here’s where you have to stay.” 

He’s similar to the Na’vi he encountered in the forest, in that he has the same deep blue colouring and dark hair. The stripes that decorate every bit of skin are…similar to the faded ones imprinted on his arms, legs, and chest; same colour and shape. He fidgets a lot, with his hands, the band wrapped around his arms as he sits idle, glancing around the pod with a judging look on his face. 

He feels his brow scrunch a little, but the boy’s attention comes back to him and he lets it drop. 

“It won’t take long for Dad to convince them, and then you’d be outta here and coming back to our pod,” he says. “It’s been so long, and we have so much to catch you up on!” 

Movement and a clearing of a throat from outside catches their attention. The boy turns his head, checking on the shadow outside. He turns it back too quickly for him to notice anything other than the beads woven into his hair, which click with every movement. 

“Good,” the boy murmurs with a cheeky smile, “we still have some time. Don’t worry, Aonung’s cool, he’ll tell us if someone gets close.” 

The boy shuffles, like he’s restless with the amount of energy stored under his skin. “It’ll take a whole day to tell you about everything. Maybe it’s a good thing you’re stuck here.” 

His shoulder is pushed, playfully, although he doesn’t feel very playful. In fact…

Is it just him, or is this boy acting really, really friendly? Like, not in the overly friendly way that would give away a trick or some kind of manipulation, but in the way that you would if you were talking to someone you joke around with often? It’s genuine in a way that can’t be faked. 

Does this boy know him? 

“Did– Were the–” the boy stops himself with an irritated noise, ears flickering before he gains a more focused look before starting again. “You weren’t hurt, were you? By the RDA?” 

What they both considered hurt at this moment varies a lot. So he just shakes his head, because the headache that had been a temporary comfort is growing into a nuisance the longer he hangs around the boy. Less a blunt butter knife, more a sharp hunting blade stabbing his head. 

“Good,” the boy says with a huge sigh of relief. “We– I mean, Kiri, was really worried about you. From the stories we’ve heard you could’ve been really hurt–” 

He doesn’t hear the rest of that sentence. The stabbing in his head becomes insistent. He winces, and his fingers twitch. But if the other boy notices, he doesn’t say anything. That gaping feeling in his heart is back again; he’s missing something.

“--and when we saw you with Quaritch, we we’re–”

The boy cuts himself off again, but this time it’s because his voice is shaky with anger. He jolts out of his headache at the feeling of a hand landing heavily on his shoulder.

Wet, golden eyes stare at him intensely enough to make him squirm. Like the boy’s thinking that if he takes his eyes off of him, he’ll disappear into thin air. The hand on his shoulder tightens its grip until it’s painful. He actually hisses, and it’s snatched back. 

“Sorry, sorry,” the boy says, his hands held out in front of him. 

His shoulder burns. He wishes he’d actually kept it there. 

“We’re just…really happy you’re here,” the boy says, turning away to (not)subtly wipe his nose and eyes with the back of his hand. He clenches it when he puts it back on his knee, barely hiding the shake. He laughs, and says, “I had to fight Kiri to be the first one here.” 

And there goes the headache again. It’s a bad spike. He reaches a hand up to rub his temple. It does nothing but distract him as the boy keeps talking. It’s matching his heartbeat now, a near constant stabbing that’s really similar to the headaches he gets when he tries to remember. 

They’re linked, the headaches and his memories. He’s known for a while, but he’s yet to figure out why. 

“She was desperate to talk to you,” the boy continues, and he blinks to drag himself out of his thoughts, “we all were. I’m kind of lucky in that I had some shit on Aonung, so he let me in on the sly.” 

He leans over, and sure enough, the flap is open slightly, and the guy – boy – is peering at them. The angry, annoyed scowl that appears when he realises he’s being watched makes it seem like the boy has his darkest secret, and he’s trying to kill him with his glare along

“Don’t worry about him,” the boy says, dismissively. “Aonung’s actually not that bad. Once you get over his more annoying traits.” 

The other boy clicks his tongue and turns around, letting the flap drop. 

“How is he…” he trails off, because there’s no way someone so young could be trusted with guard duty. Even if it’s an easy job. 

“Allowed to do that?” the boy finishes for him. “Something about his responsibilities as the Olo’eyktan’s son. Needs to learn responsibility or some shit.” 

Olo’eyktan, he mimes the word, rolling it around his tongue and feeling how eerily easy it is. 

He jolts, but not because the boy tried to hold his hand or anything. They’ve not spoken English once this whole conversation. The words have flowed through his brain to his tongue as easily as breathing. He doesn’t have to concentrate on syntax, or grammar or any of the kind of things you have to remember with a second language. 

“How long have you been here?” he asks, just to hear himself speak again. The stops and starts should be tricky for his human tongue, but he jumps and skips over the words so easily he can’t help the small twitch of his lips. 

The boy is giving him a weird look now. And he thought he’d been doing so well. 

“Since…you were taken,” he says slowly, like it’s obvious. “We left the forest and came straight here. Dad says it's the only island that could provide us with enough protection from Quaritch and his cronies.” 

He’s right. But that’s not what his brain latches on to. 

“Taken,” he mutters, for once cursing how keen a Na’vi’s hearing is when the boy’s ears twitch. 

“Yeah, taken, captured. Kidnapped,” the boy says, leaning over so that he can’t escape his bright yellow gaze. He’s staring so intently it makes him break eye contact. “You were kept with the RDA for like, three months.” 

The confusion in his expression turns into fear as the boy says, “Oh no no no, don’t tell me they stockholm syndrome-d you? Dad told me about that once, it’s really creepy. You do know they’re the bad guys right?” 

He’s grabbed his shoulders again, two seconds away from shaking him before he shoves his hands off. 

“I do know they’re bad,” he says grumpily, crossing his arms.

The boy’s smile pours back onto his mouth, like his annoyance is funny, and comforting.  

The boy shakes his head, and says, “Still the same.” 

Consciously, he drops his arms, and turns his own expression into something teasing. “So that three months. What’ve you done, lazed around doing nothing?” 

“As if,” the boy squawks, shoving his shoulder again. “When have I ever done nothing?” 

The banter feels good, natural, and the laugh tumbling off his lips genuine. He tries to retort, but nothing comes. Just the pulse of his headache and the empty space between his ears. The blank spot in his heart widens further. 

“There’s no chance to do nothing anyway,” the boy says, not catching onto his turmoil. “There’s something to do almost every day. If we’re not fishing, we’re hunting, or weaving nets. We go swimming, diving, Tulkun spotting–” 

He swallows against the ball of sadness that reminds him it’s there, right between his collarbones. He hopes Scoresby hasn’t managed to force Quaritch into letting him keep filling his quota. 

“--But I think what me and Kiri really want to show you is the–” 

This spike is too big to not flinch. It’s like someone’s pushing that hunting knife into his head until it's up to the hilt. It burns so intensely that the noise that escapes him stops the boy.  He reaches up a hand to dig his knuckles into his skull. 

“You okay?” the boy asks. 

“Kiri?” he says instead, and there must be enough of a question in his voice for the boy’s frown to go deeper. 

“Yeah, Kiri,” he says, slowly, like he just didn’t hear him the first time. 

His heart is starting to thump hard against his ribcage. Like it’s knocking against the bones to ask to be let out. His breathing too is getting faster, he can see the warning symbol flash at the corner of his HUD. He’s really trying to remember this time, he really is. 

But all he’s coming up with is–

Monkey-Boy!

“Who’s Kiri?” he asks, and it feels damning. It is damning, because the boy’s eyes go so wide he sees their whites. 

But interestingly, he doesn’t immediately panic and demand an answer. Instead he leans back and shouts over his shoulder, “Aounung, find my Dad!” 

There’s a small retort, something like, “I’m not your errand boy–” but the ringing in his ears makes the rest disappear. 

Aonung is cut off anyway by the boy shouting at him to– “Shut up and just do it! It’s really important!” 

The shadow dithers for a few seconds, but then the spear is tossed into the other hand and the kid storms off. 

The hissing of his mask is getting too fast, but he’s able to keep some focus on the boy. He should really ask about that spare exopack now, shouldn’t he? 

Oh, the boy’s speaking again. 

“--gonna be okay. We’ll figure out what’s happened,” the boy says. “Why don’t you know Kiri?” 

“Can’t–” he forces through the thinning passage in his throat as his headache suddenly decides his head needs to be stabbed again, “--Can’t remember.” 

It burns like fire. He’s surprised his brain isn’t seeping out of his nose yet. 

“What do you mean?” the boy asks, and he tries to give him an unimpressed look but it doesn’t really work. “Do you know me? What’s my name?” 

The boy’s so worried and desperate, his gold eyes boring into him again with a tiny bit of hope setting off their colour. It dims really quickly when he manages to shake his head. 

“Dunno,” he says through his gasping breaths. “Dunno– your name. I’m sorry–”

“Hey, no, it’s okay–” 

“It’s not!” he exclaims, slamming his hands against the woven floor and coughing. The headache is encompassing his skull now, he can barely keep his eyes open. 

It hurts. 

“I don’t know who you are– can’t remember a Kiri– I don’t know my name–” 

He’s properly panicking now. His breaths fogging the glass of his exopack, his chest heaving around the insistent banging of his heart, his palms getting all sweaty and clammy, tears streaming down his cheeks. 

It takes a second to realise the boy’s shouting at him. 

“--course it’s gonna be okay because we know your name Spider–” 

For a second it doesn’t register around the ringing in his ears. If it wasn’t for the way the headache suddenly ebbs and then flows again he wouldn’t have noticed. 

“What,” he says, head shooting up so quickly his neck cricks and his brain sloshes against his skull. “What’d you–” 

“Spider,” the boy says again, his big, warm hands grabbing his shoulders. “Spider. Spider–” 

“Spider,” someone else says, a man hurrying into the pod. 

Everything freezes. And shifts just the tiniest bit to the right. 

It's like a lightning strike has cleaved him in two, energy rippling over his skin as his headache reaches new heights.

“Oh,” he murmurs, eyes so wide and unblinking they’re starting to sting. 

The guy takes the quiet moment to crouch at his side, the boy shuffling to make room, his hand slipping down his arm to grab his wrist. 

Is that–

“Me,” he whispers, a few more tears trailing down his cheeks. 

“Yeah,” the boy murmurs. 

A hand cups the back of his neck, and he finally blinks at the touch. 

“Um,” he says, about to protest the proximity when an incessant, terrifying beeping fills his ears. “Oh.” 

He glances down. The exopack’s light is now red. Deathly red. 

So that’s why he wasn’t breathing right. 

He looks back up again. “I might,” he says, finding it hard to get the words out, “need another exopack. If you have any?” 

He doesn’t remember if they answered. 

He doesn’t remember anything really, because a sudden, all consuming darkness sweeps over him and he falls into the calm embrace of unconsciousness. 

Chapter Text

He awakens, slowly. 

He chuffs a tiny laugh as his body becomes aware because that sounds like the beginning of a really dramatic story. It comes out as barely a huff, his breath bouncing off his mask and swirling around his mouth and nose. 

Only his mouth and nose though. 

Frowning, he reaches for his face. Tries to, at least, but at first only his fingers twitch. A few more, and he’s exhausted but his hand is finally airborne and headed for his nose.

There’s something weird about his mask, and he wants to adjust it. Maybe the rubber seal got shifted while he was asleep, and the squad member meant to watch him didn’t notice. It’s a bit uncomfortable against his cheek, and actually, the bridge of his nose too now that he thinks about it.

A hand suddenly wraps around his wrist, and guides it gently back to his side. He scrounges enough energy to whine, tugging it back. He wants to move it not take the mask off, he’s not suicidal. 

Above him, someone clicks their tongue, and the hand holding his down presses it down into the floor. 

“Stubborn child,” a woman mutters, the warmth around his wrist pulling away. 

He doesn’t recognise her voice, but she sounds a bit fed up with him already.  

He attempts to open his eyes, but it feels like they weigh a ton. He barely manages a flicker, and his eyelids protest. But he is stubborn, so he fights until they slit open. It does nothing, because everything’s blurry and weird, and he feels a bit dizzy. They slide shut again, but not before he frowns so hard that his mask shifts. 

His nose scrunches further, and the discomfort gets worse. Like something’s digging into his nose. 

He finally pries his eyes open, and has enough energy to blink a few times. Then he scows in confusion. He can’t see the HUD of his exopack, it’s not there. In fact, the glass panelling isn’t there at all. 

Normally, he would panic, but he’s still breathing so he doesn’t. He just lifts his hand again, and feels around its rubber edge. It barely comes up to the bridge of his nose.  

“You are to keep that on,” the woman says, sternly, bright blue hand easily pulling his away. He turns his most innocent look at her, and falters. 

She looks like the woman from the island, the one who had a bruise decorating her right temple. Same light blue skin, same coloured eyes. Dark hair braided away from her face, but with a shell laying against her forehead, and different tattoos framing a different shaped face. 

“Do not try to argue,” she says. “It will not work.” 

As if her words alone should be enough to stop him, she leaves his side. Heading instead for the basket resting against the wall of the pod.  

He shuffles, trying to command his muscles into movement so he can take a look at where he is. There’s a disconnect or some kind of miscommunication because an overwhelming rush of dizziness shudders through him, and he flops back down again. 

As unconsciousness snatches him away, he swears he hears the woman hiss something about the stubbornness of teenagers. 

When he next opens his eyes, it’s a lot easier, and faster. 

It helps that he doesn’t feel as groggy, more aware of the mask on his nose and the quiet movements of the other occupant. 

“That is keeping you alive,” the woman practically barks at him when he shifts the mask so it’s not digging into his skin. She’s sitting at the firepit, stirring something into a paste and giving him a very stern, serious look. 

He swallows. 

“It is uncomfortable,” she states, and his head bobs, “but your…exo-pack, will take some time to get fixed.” 

It’s one of those oxygen masks that are connected to a small tank. They usually cover the nose and mouth, which must be why his cheeks feel itchy. When he glances down, he follows the tubing to the tank, and takes his hands as far away from it as possible. 

He remembers being told about them at one point, maybe when they’d been prepping to go into the forest. They’re a lot less robust than the exopacks, but last longer when the person wearing it stays idle. The tank powers the mask; no need for changing a battery pack every few hours. It’s a lot quieter too. He takes a big breath, and doesn’t miss the obnoxious hissing. 

The woman suddenly stands, the spoon tapping the edge of her bowl as she steps around the firepit to get to him. Elegant, even with her pregnant belly, she places the bowl down once she’s settled on her knees to hold her empty hands out to him. 

They’re so long. He stares at how her pinky finger joins seamlessly with her wrist. 

“I will help you sit up,” she states, snapping his attention away from her hands. “You will not try on your own.” 

“Y-Yes ma’am,” he manages to rasp out. 

Her brow wrinkles a little, but she places one hand on his shoulder, the other on his arm and helps him up. She’s not gentle, more efficient and her grip tells him she takes no shit. 

He tilts to one side, body complaining at the change in position, but adjusts his legs and ignores the headache. He manages a smile when he’s properly upright, and manages to steady himself when her hands pull away. He’s so tired, but oxygen deprivation does that to a body he assumes.  

“Will you be able to drink?” she asks brusquely, and he manages a nod. 

In theory, he knows how to work around the mask. In reality? He’ll need to try it to find out, won’t he. 

He’s given a cup, which he has to hold with both hands because his fingers are still shaking. There’s the first problem. He frowns for a few seconds, then puts the cup down again. From where she sits, stirring her paste, the woman watches curiously. 

Maybe he should ask her to be ready with some kind of rescue mask. Or CPR, if she even knows what that means. 

When one hand grabs the bottom of his mask, his heart thunders against his chest, and the other grabs the cup again. It’s one quick movement away from death, but it’s as simple as breathe, pull, sip, and back on it goes. 

“Simple,” he croaks, taking a large shuddering breath, and holding it. Down comes the mask and–

Not simple. Definitely not.

He nearly knocks over the water as soon as the mask is down because his fingers grip it so hard that it slides between sweaty skin. Inwardly, he screams for breath, outwardly he tries to keep his body from panicking. He focuses on drinking the water instead. The bowl is in his hands, and he’s lifting it but it takes so long. His arms begin to shake when they reach the halfway point. 

It becomes a desperate few gulps before he’s dropping the cup on the floor and spilling water all over his knee. The mask is back over his nose and mouth then, and he’s dragging in that sweet sweet air like it’s the best thing in the world. 

Which, it is. 

Once the panic has dissipated, he smacks his lips at the taste. “Is it–” 

“Fresh water,” the woman supplies, back at his side with the same paste, the cup gone and a small cloth draped over his knee. Before he can ask, she gives him an unimpressed look. “We do not drink the ocean. It is a resource that is to be respected.”

There’s a few seconds of silence, and then he says, “It’s because it tastes gross, right?” 

She doesn’t deny it, but then she doesn’t react to the cheekiness in his voice. The water does very little to soothe his sore throat, but it does help him feel a bit better. The cloth is taken away, and the few droplets left on the ground are wiped off. 

“Sor–” a cough cuts off his apology. She eyes him, giving the paste one more stir before scooping some onto her fingers. 

“Hold still,” she says when it dies away, and his whole body tenses as her fingers get close to his skin. Through the mask, he can smell the faint bitterness of the paste. He shies away from it. 

“Do I have to?” he asks. 

If he was this petulant with Quaritch…well, he’d never be this petulant with the Colonel. He probably would be getting a piece of gauze and little else, suffering in miserable silence. 

“It will help,” she says, having probably dealt with whiny children before. 

He can’t argue further, instead sits and takes it as the stuff is smeared over his collarbone. The burn from the barrel of Wainfleet’s gun has burned off a layer of skin, and it smarts badly. He startles at it, the brief flash of hot fire that sends a shudder through his whole body. 

The woman pulls her fingers back immediately, still covered in paste. She watches, and waits, expression neutral. 

“W-What’s,” he says, forcing the words out from between his teeth as a distraction, “What’s your name?” 

Subconsciously, the knot in between his shoulder blades tightens, and his head pulses. Like it’s waiting for the perfect moment to become a raging migraine. He focuses instead on her fingers, the drip of paste slowly working its way to her wrist as it grows warm and malleable. 

“Ronal,” she says, once she’s able to get to his collarbone again, the smear of paste now cooling the pain. “That is my name. And yours?” 

He opens his mouth to say the same thing he’s told everyone these past few months, like a damn broken–

Spider! 

The headache suddenly rams into his neck and skull so hard it makes him dizzy, and he slumps towards the ground. A hand catches his arm, and his own lands on the woven floor, shoulders curved over as his eyes squeeze shut. He sees stars, and clamps his teeth together again as his head rattles and his wrist protests.  

The change in position makes his body angry, his chest shifting, and dislodging something in his lungs that he didn’t even know was there. He coughs, shoulders shuddering with the strength of the fit as the wo– Ronal’s hand holds the rest of his weight before he goes pitching to the ground. His throat must be really really dry, because that sip of water has done nothing. 

The pain from his headache isn’t the worst it’s ever been but it’s not nice. He can manage it, at least. At the same time, he fights back against the thing that seems completely against him remembering anything. 

He concentrates so hard around the coughing, and the pain, and the listing of his body, that he feels sweat drip down his face. It’s like fighting against one of the recoms, it’s so hard. But, amazingly, he’s able to keep his focus, dragging that name back from the amorphous black hole that’s taken residence in his brain and finally dragging it across his tongue and past his lips. 

It’s his damnit, and he’ll keep it. 

“Spider,” he gets out through his tense jaw, and just for good measure, he says it again. The headache rages, but he couldn’t care less. 

He did it. He did it! He could jump for joy, but settles for grinning like an idiot with his remaining energy. 

Ronal is staring at him, her expression unreadable, almost blank. They work together to get him back into a slumped seat once he’s able to keep himself upright, but still her warm hand remains on his arm. Just in case. He’s grateful; both for the support and the touch. He’s been so long without human contact that isn’t violent it feels…a bit weird. 

Like a brand burning into his skin. 

“That is what you are called?” she asks, once the coughing dies away. He manages a nod but even that aggravates so many things. 

He wishes he had his datapad. 

She picks up her bowl again, letting her fingers hover at his collarbone until he’s settled. The pain’s not as bad this time, but that might be because it’s only an uncomfortable pulling in comparison to the raging headache. 

“This will heal in a few days. You are lucky it is small,” Ronal says once she’s finished, wiping off her hands and eyeing him critically.  

“How did it happen?” she asks. 

Finally, a question he can answer easily. “A gun– a weapon, it was pushed against here,” he says, pointing at the smear of paste hiding the burn. “It was still hot so it burned.” 

She scowls, and smears on a tiny bit more paste for good measure. It’s such a simple, motherly gesture, and yet it’s like a punch to his stomach.

“What else,” she says curtly. When he blinks stupidly at her, she adds, “It is obvious you are not well. What else is painful?” 

“Uh…” he says intelligently, and she clicks her tongue. 

“I do not expect a list,” Ronal says, “but I would like to know if you are hiding a broken bone, or a wound that is currently bleeding.” 

He laughs, which catches in his ribcage and draws out another raspy cough. “Has that happened before?” he asks.

The smile drops from his face when she says nothing. Just reaches behind him to twist a dial on the oxygen tank, flooding his mask with oxygen rich air. It loosens a band around his chest he didn’t realise was there, making it easier to focus on other things.

Like how tired he is. 

Ronal narrows her eyes, like she knows he’s trying to fight back a wave of sleepiness. She probably does; actually, she totally does. She wouldn’t be helping him back down onto the pallet if she didn’t. 

His bones, muscles, tendons, everything sinks into it. His head throbs at the blood flowing to the back of his skull, his brain feeling like it weighs a ton. But then, his whole body feels like that. His eyelids are hard to keep open. 

“Rest,” Ronal murmurs when he struggles against their weight. “We will discuss when you can speak cognisantly.” 

Everything’s turning blurry, but he’s able to lift his hand a little when she starts to stand. “Wait,” he says, and surprisingly, she does. 

“Can you…” Wow, it’s really hard for him to make sentences right now. “Can you…please, remember…”

She waits, patiently, for his mouth to work around the words. Maybe she’s got kids or relatives the same age as him; no other adult has actually waited for him. Not that he can remember, anyway. 

“My name,” he finally gets out, so quiet she might not have even heard him. He can’t really check anyway. He’s dragged into unconsciousness again. 

He awakens abruptly. 

Eyes snapping open, stomach sloshing against the sides of his ribcage, something sour rushing up his throat as he flails upright to avoid it escaping into his mask. 

The blood rushes from his head to his feet at the abrupt position change, so he fights hard at keeping that little bit of food he’s eaten in his body, and keeping his brain from leaking out of his nose. It means he just sits and breathes. Shakily, in through the nose and out his mouth.

He hasn’t had a dream that vivid in a long time. He thought, like the other memories that’ve come to him, that it would slip through his mental grasp as quickly as it came. 

This is not the case. In fact, the blue tail he’d been chasing through the forest is burned into his eyelids, and his knees smart with the remembered pain of colliding with the thick tree branch underneath his feet. It’d been an explosion that had sent him stumbling, then rolling to the ground. The landing hadn’t been soft, his body is telling him that. 

He breathes against the secondary panic, head throbbing at the memory of a distant, familiar shout calling after him, even as the blue tail disappeared. His wrists are now free from the cuffs that had been wrapped around them, but they hadn’t helped his less than gentle landing. The skin smarts with phantom pain, but a quick swipe at it and it’s gone. 

Had they been the same as the ones Quaritch had packed into one of the pockets of his vest? A tiny part of him hopes not. The more logical part of him realises they were, and instead shoves the thought away before it can spiral. He doesn’t have the brain cells to spare anyway. 

A gentle clearing of someone’s throat, and he’s straightening up. Or, as upright as he can get. His head protests it, and the skin at his collarbone tugs. He hides the winces of pain with genuine curiosity as Ronal ducks into the pod, followed by a complete stranger. 

He’s tall, he notices first. Dignified. Those broad shoulders probably have no trouble carrying the weight of responsibility that surrounds him. There’s also a kind of gentleness in his blue eyes that offsets the stern leader vibes he’s getting, and with how close he stays next to Ronal, he guesses he’s her husband. 

“Spider,” Ronal says, letting go of the woven basket she carries to gesture to the man next to her, “this is my mate, Tonowari. Olo’eyktan of our village.” 

There’s too much information in that one sentence, and like any injured brain, his decides to focus on the easiest bit first. “Your mate? I kind of guessed,” he blurts out, voice raspy and catching against the back of his dry throat. 

The stern look that had been turning Tonowari’s eyes hard softens suddenly, his tail flicking in a playful way that betrays the crinkled press of his lips. Ronal’s chest rises a little, pride glinting in her own expression even as she busies herself with putting her basket down and settling herself on the ground.

Meanwhile, he presses a hand against the bridge of the mask, pressing it into the skin of his nose. “Sorry,” he says as his eyes widen, “that was rude, I didn’t mean– I mean–” 

“Peace, child,”  Tonowari says, waving him away. “We were complimented many times when we first came to be a couple at how handsome we looked together.” 

Ronal clicks her tongue, but doesn’t deny Tonowari, shuffling over to make space and avoid his hand when he tries to help her down. The light outside glints against Tonowari’s impressive necklace and the bright colour of the shawl around his shoulders. 

“Still,” he says, watching as Ronal lowers herself, and Tonowari merely watches her keenly, “I should know better.” 

“You are healing,” Ronal says in that brusque way of hers, tugging jars from her blanket and arranging them to her right, “you are allowed to not have control over what your mind wishes to say.” 

She reaches for the dried paste on his collarbone, using a brown, rough cloth to scrape it off and reveal the burn underneath. It’s a bit better than it was, but the irritation has shrunk into the shape of the actual wound. A long strip of red that looks exactly like the barrel of Wainfleet's gun. 

She doesn’t realise he’s staring at her, blatantly. Not just because of how careful she’s being with the wound, but because she remembered! 

Now he can too. 

“This is doing well,” she says, reaching for a jar and scraping free green gunk this time. It’s not smelly when she spreads it, but it's cold. “A few days and it should only be a memory.” 

“Oh,” he says, unsure if he’s even meant to say anything as she presses a thin, almost translucent leaf to the burn, “that’s good.” 

“My mate is Tsahik of our village,” Tonowari tells him. Instinctively, he knows what the word means, and the tiny drop of guilt he’d felt for using their resources grows into a raging river. “You are in good hands.” 

“Surely you have more important things to be doing than taking care of me,” he says weakly, not daring to move even though something screams at him to back away. He’s being a nuisance, a waste of resources– 

Useless. 

“You are injured,” Ronal says, sitting back on her heels and pressing her hands into her knees so she can stare at him, “which means you are important. I am Tsahik, I take care of those who are injured.” 

There’s no arguing with her, not with that tone, so he stays perfectly still as she twitches the leaf. 

“Is there anywhere else that I need to attend to?” 

His brain, maybe.  

“I just have a headache,” he replies instead, the words catching in his throat and driving out a dry cough. Her jaw tightens, and she turns her head to give Tonowari a look. 

There’s an unspoken order, because Tonowari grabs a wooden cup and fills it with water, then hands it to him carefully. His hands don’t shake under its weight this time, but his brain still screams for it.

It makes the cautious, careful way he removes his mask all that more torturous, but the cool feeling when he finally drinks that much more relieving. 

“When did this headache start?” Ronal asks, shuffling in her basket again as he finishes the bowl and replaces his mask. The muscles in his legs shake at the oxygen deprivation. 

“It comes and goes,” he says, truthfully tugging his mask down briefly to wipe off his chin. “Some days it’s really bad, and others I barely feel it. I can’t remember when it started.” 

She purses her lips, and lifts a glass container to the light that enters through the gap in the cover. The stuff inside glows bright yellow, like the amrita in Garvin’s laboratory. However, it’s thicker, and sticks to the sides of the glass. 

“Tonowari,” she says, “perhaps you should ask your questions before I attend Spider. I’m afraid that the best medicine for pain in the head is rest.” 

Ah, so this is an interrogation. Damn, he thought he’d left them behind with the RDA. 

Now that it’s mentioned, a tiny bit of him really does actually want to curl back up under the blanket pooling at his legs please. The pallet is really warm and cosy at his toes; he wiggles them a little to appreciate it. 

“If the boy believes he is up to it,” Tonowari replies. Two pairs of bright blue eyes look at him. Not with expectation but with complete and utter patience. 

He could cry. It’s why he’s able to actually sit up a little further. 

“I-I think I’m up for it,” he says truthfully. 

“Very well.” Tonowari settles on the ground fully, crossing his legs and laying his arms over his knees. 

Ronal simply rustles around in her basket again, glass clinking as she sets it to rights. A few of the glass jars disappear into the basket, and she lays out the rough cloth to fold, remnants of the paste still clinging to the fibres. 

“I would like to begin with what you can tell me of the humans, and their excursions into our territory,” Tonowari says, dragging his attention back. “They have never attempted to encroach, but they have grown bolder in recent months.” 

“It’s probably because of their tech,” he admits, noticing how both Tonowari and Ronal’s ears flicker at the unfamiliar word. “Their ships are capable of going over the water now. They travel at such high speeds they are able to avoid the strong currents.” 

“How?” Tonowari asks, a crease forming above his nose. 

“These big turbines they put on the back of their ships, they generate enough power and lift for the ships to float just above sea level. They’re not as easy to manipulate as the smaller aircraft,” he adds, “sir.” 

Tonowari’s ears flick. “Just Tonowari will be fine, for now.” 

That’ll take some getting used to. It makes sense though; he’s not part of the clan, so Tonowari is not his leader. He vaguely remembers something about names having power…

“What else can you tell us about these ships?” 

There’s a second where he wonders if he should be giving up this information so willingly, when he’d been so tight-lipped with Ardmore and Quaritch. There’d been a level of distrust with them, even when he’d first encountered the General. Some kind of base instinct that sent alarms blaring inside his skull. 

He doesn’t know what actually makes him give so easily. Maybe the stern way Ronal’s said he needs to be cared for. Or Tonowari’s polite, calm, patient nature. Or the large part of him that instinctively sides with the Na’vi, which is getting really hard to ignore. 

Whatever it is, he gives, the information spilling from him easily. He does his best to explain the workings of the SeaDragon with the small amount of information he has, the submarines in the hold, the weapons - or what little he’s seen.

By the end of it, Tonowari is scowling. 

“Is it possible the humans could use these ships to get further into our territory?” 

“I don’t think so,” he replies. “There’s too many factors against them, like the currents and the winds. They’d crash or capsize. Or run out of supplies and starve.” 

Tonowari hums an agreeable noise. “This is good. We had worried that their attacks on the eastern villages would spur them, make them confident.” 

“I was able to put them off some of the villages. In the west,” he tells them. They know which he speaks of, so he mentioned, “The humans think there’s nothing there to find. They’re more focused on inhabited villages,” he hurries to mention.  

Ronal and Tonowari trade a look, their ears flickering. 

“You know about them?” Tonowari asks. He shrinks under the sudden intensity, the flicker of pride dying as soon as it appeared. 

“I was told their village is deep under the coral reefs, and that they only use the island for storage and growing crops,” he admits, fingers picking at a small loose thread. His gaze lifts abruptly and he reassures that, “I didn’t tell them though!” 

Tonowari simply hums another noise, ears twitching in thought. 

When it’s clear her husband is falling into a silence, Ronal says, “We have heard rumours these humans have been hunting Tulkun far to the south. Is this true?” 

His stomach churns at the memory of Scoresby’s sneering face, his constant threats about his quota. The large hunting gear and subs that were obviously meant to do more damage than good. His eyes catch on the bright yellow liquid now sitting next to Ronal’s knee and his stomach rolls ominously. 

“Yes,” he barely gets out before Tonowari hisses quietly. Ronal’s hand clenches into a fist where it rests on her knee, and her ears press back against her skull but otherwise she’s quiet. 

He doesn’t think he can get the words out at this point, he’s so scared. Even though he had nothing to do with the Tulkun hunting, it’s people who look like him that’re doing something so horrible. Humans who are hunting animals far more intelligent than they could ever be. But he unsticks his teeth and tongue, and forces the words into sentences. 

“They’re being hunted for a specific reason too. The humans want a liquid that’s f-farmed straight from their bodies. They call it amrita,” he says, swallowing back the burning lump of bile inching up his throat. “It’s worth a lot, and fuels their whole operation. They don’t care how they get it.” 

Ronal’s eyes glisten with tears. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. 

“Did you witness this happen?” Tonowari asks through his own anger, and he’s quick to shake his head. 

“Quaritch had the entire crew too busy searching to be able to do anything else,” he replies. “And they’ll be more focused on regrouping than trying to fill a quota now.” He hopes.

Tonowari’s eyes narrow, considering, muttering to Ronal too quietly for him to hear. She frowns and says something back. He turns back to the loose thread he’s found rather than trying in vain to listen in. 

The secretiveness makes sense. He’s not to be trusted and probably won’t be for a long time. Besides, who’d vouch for an amnesiac human boy anyway?

“And the incursions into the villages?” Tonowari suddenly asks, voice raising with emotion. “Why the violence and destruction of homes? The harm of my people?”

“They weren’t able to get much information because they don’t know the language. And the tiny bit they do makes them sound like children,” he tells them. “They resorted to intimidation tactics to find Jake Sully, which hasn't gone well.” 

“That does not mean they will stop attacking,” Tonowari says. “What little we know of humans is that they are stubborn, and ignorant. Willing to go beyond limits that should not be crossed to obtain what they want.” 

He swallows against the bile, his stomach sinking along with it. Tonowari sighs, like the responsibility on his shoulders becomes too heavy. 

“They will kill,” Tonowari says. He flinches; it’s blunt and true. “They will burn down our villages, our history and kill our spirit siblings to get what they want.”

He bows under the weight of the words, his back folding and the threads of the blanket cutting into his fingers. 

“From what I have been told, you would be against that.” 

“Yes,” he says, his head snapping upright so quickly it cricks. He rubs the back of it as he says, “what they’re doing is wrong, and cruel. This is my h–” 

His headache spikes, and for a second his frustration and anger gets so much that he thumps a hand against the floor. He can’t even finish a sentence now? Is that it? Bullshit. 

“This. is. my. home,” he grits out, whole body quivering with the effort as his head thumps in time with his heartbeat. 

Ronal shifts, placing a steady hand against his shoulder. It’s a relief and a comfort, his body leaning into the heat of her fingers. The band around his chest tightens but he works through it, until he’s able to hear what’s going on around him. 

“Tonowari,” she says, voice steeped in calm and command. “The boy needs rest.”

Tonowari is silent, and when he glances up through blurry eyes his attention is snagged by his lashing tail. Shrinking, his gaze goes higher, but it’s not an angry look that meets him. It’s conflicted, his brow wrinkled with concern. 

The sound of rotor blades above them cuts the atmosphere in two sharply. His eyes widen in shock, and the cloth flutters with the sudden gust of wind. Betrayal and everything else churns his gut until he feels he’s actually going to have to pull down the mask to be sick.

Ronal’s hand tightens briefly, and when he looks at her she says, “It is an ally.” 

“Ally?” he asks weakly as the rotor blades get louder, closer. “But that’s–” 

“I did not expect for their friend to arrive so soon,” Tonowari mutters, and any possibility of an RDA presence disappears. 

Tonowari rises to his feet to secure the cover before it’s ripped off, leaving one side free. When he turns back, the smile on Tonowari’s face is comforting. “They thought it best that you be looked at by someone more…in tune with human physiques and needs.” 

A tiny dismissive noise escapes Ronal’s mouth, but she still keeps the jar of yellow liquid out of the basket. Her hand has slid down to hold his wrist, like she’s noticed how nice and helpful her touch is, even though it dwarfs his arm. Tonowari settles back into his spot and watches the entrance. 

Their little group hears the visitors before they see them. It’s difficult not to, with how loud they are; their voices, their heavy footsteps, the clatter of equipment. He feels his whole body draw tense, hand tightening around the blanket again. 

“--told you we needed that! The copter could’ve taken the weight–” one voice practically whines. 

“But we don’t know how it would’ve coped with the sand,” another argues back through the hissing of an exopack. 

He perks up in interest. A human on the side of the Na’vi? 

A dark blue hand pushes the cover aside, revealing a tall, thin faced Na’vi. He hurriedly produces a greeting even as he steps aside to let his companion in. 

“Olo’eyktan, Tsahik,” he says in accented Na’vi, “thank you for letting us visit your village again.” 

“I see you, Tonowari, Ronal,” the human says, speaking like he’s reading from a textbook. “It is good to see your faces again.” 

He knows when they spot him, because their faces flit through so many emotions so quickly it’s hard to keep up. But then Na’vi’s face finally splits into a happy grin, and the human looks relieved. 

“May we enter?” the Na’vi asks, and although Ronal’s glaring at them, Tonowari gestures them forward. 

They come clunking in, equipment rattling against their legs and bags slipping off their shoulders. They sit opposite Ronal and Tonowari, and when the human settles he places a warm hand on his other shoulder. Dark brown eyes stare at him, even though he’s offered a smile. 

“Good to see you, bud,” the human says, and he can’t do anything but nod.

Here’s another person who’s causing an itch somewhere he can’t reach. He does know them, but they’re too busy for him to ask their names, yanking out supplies and muttering between themselves. With every piece of equipment that’s laid out on the floor, Ronal’s tail twitches and her face narrows in disgust. 

“I am not needed here,” she mutters quietly enough for him to hear. He nearly gives himself whiplash with how quickly he turns his head. Tonowari lays a hand on her arm, and a silent word passes between them. She stays where she is, jaw clenched, and the tension in his neck releases. 

A pinch at his arm startles him, a needle dipping in and out of his arm as the human rattles off an apology. Long, blue, experienced fingers snatches it away before he can protest. 

Five fingered hands, versus Ronal and Tonowari’s four. Is this guy another recom then? He’s not nearly as uncoordinated but then…maybe. Or is there a human driving this body somewhere else?

“I just need to take samples,” the Na’vi says when Ronal makes a horrified noise. “We don’t know what the hell they did to him. This’ll tell us if we need to contend with any substances.” 

The Na’vi slots the vial into a slim white piece of kit. He frowns over it as his companion rustles in a bag for a bulky datapad and bright white squares. The human holds one at his forehead, and after a few seconds of silence he realises he’s being asked for permission. 

“It won’t be for long,” the human assures him. “Just a few minutes to analyse, then we’re done.”

“Careful, they’re itchy,” the Na’vi says once he’s nodded, pressing two white  patches onto his forehead. 

He’s right, they are itchy. He wants them off, now. 

The two of them bend over the datapad, pointing at the screen and muttering between them. At one point, the human scowls, the Na’vi swears, and beside him Ronal tenses. 

“Alright,” the human tells him, laying a hand on his covered knee, “can you tell us if the RDA interrogated you at all? And not just asked questions, but actually tried to get you to talk.” 

“Huh?” he says back intelligently. 

“Did they use any intimidation tactics? Did they cause any mental or physical harm?” the Na’vi clarifies, the light from the datapad casting shadows on his sharp jaw. 

He shakes his head slightly. “I’m not sure.” 

They go back to pointing at the datapad, and the concerned whispers are stirring up confusion until he feels sick with it again. 

“What?” he asks, when they take too long staring at the datapad. The stickers are getting really uncomfortable.  

“There’s a lot of heightened activity in the prefrontal,” the Na’vi says. “But there’s no visible effects.” 

“You think it could have been internal?” the human asks, and his headache throbs again. 

“I suggest,” Ronal suddenly says sternly, “that you ask your questions quickly. Your methods are doing nothing but agitating the boy.” 

“Apologies, Tsahik,” the human says, “we won’t take much more of your time.” 

At the incredulous look aimed at his head, the human elbows the Na’vi, who stifles a yelp before it can escape. 

He snorts quietly, and the fond looks he gets from the two of them makes heat rush up his neck to his cheeks. The urge to duck his head is strong, but the wires attached to the white stickers keep his neck straight. 

“One more question,” the human says, and by the way he leans forward it’s important. “How much can you remember before your time with the RDA?” 

Ah. So the conversation he had with that other kid hadn’t been a dream then. And the expectant looks he’s getting from Ronal and Tonowari…yeah, they have an inkling too. 

Time to come clean then. 

“Not a lot,” he admits slowly, carefully. “There’re bits that’ve come back.”

The tension rises exponentially. He compares himself to the epitome of a lightning flash. Quick and violent, leaving invisible shockwaves racing across the land.  

“Bits?” the Na’vi asks, and he nods.

“I wrote them all down on my datapad,” he says, and the human frowns. 

“Datapad?” the Na’vi mutters, and he goes to explain - maybe he could get it back - but the human interrupts. 

“You’re saying you find it difficult to recall them?” 

“Could be linked to a trauma response,” the Na’vi suggests. 

“That would be true if we were asking about the interrogation. Not his past,” the human replies. Warm, intense brown eyes pin him down as the human asks, “Can you tell us what happens when you try to remember something? Are there any effects?” 

“I get headaches, bad ones,” he says, gesturing at his skull. “And the memories…it’s like something in there is pushing them away from me. Like it needs to keep them hidden.” 

“And when you have remembered something, what were you doing?” the Na’vi asks, because the human has gone pale and silent. “Did anything specific trigger it?” 

“The forest,” he says, ticking off his fingers, “fighting. A map.” 

“Map?” 

“Of the archipelago,” he supplies, glancing at Tonowari and Ronal. “It was how I was able to put Quaritch off the scent.” 

“Damn bastard,” the Na’vi hisses, and in the silence of the pod, it’s much more than a swear but a promise. His ears are flattened against his skull and his jaw tense. The killing intent seeps off him. 

The human just sighs, like everything has become too exhausting. He reaches over and removes the stickers, even though his companion squawks at him. 

The human gently grabs his shoulder, and when their gazes connect he’s surprised by how glassy the other’s are. There are tears clinging to the edge of his dark lashes, and his expression is clouded over by anger. 

“Spider–” 

Right, that’s his name. He’s gotta try to remember that too without letting the headache empty his stomach. 

“--we shouldn’t have let this happen,” the human says. “We’re gonna do everything we can to help, okay? I’ll analyse the scans we’ve taken until the eclipse comes and goes.” 

“Please don’t,” he says. “You need sleep.” 

The human barks a laugh; it sounds wet. 

“But, bud,” the Na’vi says, and he’s getting emotional too; his tail lashing erratically behind him, “you need your memories back. We’ll work as hard and as long as we need to to get them back. Even if it means sacrificing a few hours of sleep.” 

He’s stunned speechless. Literally, blinking at the two of them like they shouldn’t exist. But they do. He can feel his eyes and nose burn with tears, but he ducks his head this time to hide it. 

“We’ll need to take an inventory of what you can remember–” the Na’vi begins, interrupted by Ronal pointedly clearing her throat and finishing with, “but of course, that can wait until you’re a bit more rested.” 

“I will tend to him until he is fit for your examinations,” she says sternly, and it’s enough to get the two of them scrambling for their equipment and bags. 

“I shall go with you,” Tonowari says, pressing up onto his feet. The two companions nearly trip over themselves to hold the cover open for him, but Tonowari turns back. There’s a paternal look, although he can’t figure out why it’s aimed at him.  

“I hope you rest, Spider,” Tonowari says. 

“Thank you s–I mean, Tonowari,” he replies, another wave of heat turning his ears red at the smile he gets in return. Then they’re gone, slipping into the bright light of the day and letting the cover fall behind them. 

It’s quiet, a lot more comfortable than the one that had fallen before. He focuses on staying upright as the silence makes him aware of the exhaustion dragging his shoulders downwards. It helps that the movement of Ronal’s fingers as she smears the yellow stuff on his forehead is so entrancing. 

“You will rest now,” she states, and then gathers up her things with brisk efficiency. “I shall return before the eclipse with some food, and we shall see if that ointment has not aided your headache. There will always be someone within earshot, so if you require something, you may call.” 

He’s about to say thank you when her stern gaze stops him. 

“You will call,” she says. “I shall not have you ruin my hard work because of your stubbornness.” 

“Yes, ma’am, of course,” he gets out, and then she’s gone too. Leaving him to the quiet of the pod and the gentle sound of the waves literal feet from his head. 

He thought, with the way the past few days have gone, that sleep would be an easy friend to welcome back. He’s exhausted, he can feel his bones sinking into the pallet beneath him, screaming for rest. And yet, his eyes aren’t heavy, and he ends up lying there for what feels like hours, staring at the woven ceiling, then turning over to stare at the metal oxygen tank. Then turning again to watch the light refraction of the sea on the pod’s wall. 

He gives up once the outside world gets too loud, sitting up with a huff and dragging himself over to the wall instead. He can hear the village come to life around him; voices calling out to each other, water splashing as someone hoots, soft footsteps as they walk past the pod. 

He gets now what Ronal meant. Her healing pod is right in the centre of the village. If he so much as whimpers, someone’s bound to hear it and go running for her. It’s a bit comforting, and a tiny bit scary. 

But, everything between his ears feels so busy that he doesn’t think about it much. Just twitches his fingers around the absence of his datapad. There’s been so much, he could probably fill a page or four. Maybe he can ask the human to find it; it had still been strapped to his waist when they’d flown here. 

There’s a sudden pattern of footsteps that’s too small, quick and light to be an adult. They race along the  side of the pod and he tenses, watching the cover. Someone’s going to burst in, and he won’t know what to do shit–

“Tuk!” someone else hisses, thumping after the other set of feet. “Tuk, Tuk, Tuk, no–” 

Somehow, they catch up before either could get through the cover, footsteps coming to an abrupt halt as a tiny shriek breaks the calm. 

What they probably don’t realise is that with the direction of the daylight, he can see their silhouettes perfectly; a child scooped up by a taller figure. Maybe a sibling with the way they’re able to boldly pick them up under their armpits and set them down again. 

“Why not?” a child’s voice asks, probably Tuk, sounding very upset. 

The other silhouette crouches, placing both hands on their shoulders. “We can’t go in to see him yet because he’s not up for it.” 

“Why?” the kid asks again. “He’s always been really happy to see us when he’s sick, we make him feel better! You’re just being mean ‘Teyam.”

“Ouch,” the other one, a boy, says, pressing a hand against his chest. “That–That really hurt you know? In here, that hurt really bad.” 

It doesn’t make the little one giggle. It was meant to, but it fell obviously flat. 

He gets up from his seat, wobbling on his feet, and inches forward. A shadow of a hand tries to tilt the kid’s chin up, but stubbornly it’s twisted away. 

“We might not be helping him this time, Tuktuk,” the other says, voice heavy with sadness. “In fact, we might hurt him more.” 

“What?” the kid says, little voice wobbling so much his heart squeezes and his feet stop. Someone needs a hug, really badly. 

“It’s beca–” 

“Neteyam! Good you found her,” someone else suddenly shouts. This voice he does recognise; it’s the guy from before. “Tuk, you know not to run off by yourself. If dad hears about this you’re gonna be in so much trouble.” 

“But–” 

“Guys,” someone else hisses, and he’s so close now that he can see the differences in hairstyles from their silhouettes, “you know all your really loud talking could’ve woken him up, right?” 

“Ronal said he looked exhausted,” the kid from the other day says. “I doubt even a thunderstorm could wake him up.” 

“Still, we shouldn’t be here,” the girl says. “Dad’ll skin us if we get in trouble with the Tsahik. We should go.” 

“I thought you would be the first one going to see him,” the other boy says. “I’m surprised you’re not storming in, he’s right there, and no one’s watching–” 

“Lo’ak!” 

“What? I’m just saying.” 

There’s quiet, and he tries to keep his breathing as soft as he can, setting the tank attached to his mask down gently. Being this close to the voices makes something in him loosen; he’s just happy listening to them, even if he doesn’t have half the context. 

“It’s killing me not to go in there and see him,” the girl says, voice pitched so low he has to strain his ears. “He’s been gone so long and he’s literally right there. But you heard what Max and Norm said. Lo’ak you’ve seen it.” 

He slowly reaches out a hand to grab the cover. He’s too curious not to see these guys. They sound like they know him, but much more than anyone else he’s encountered before, he feels like he knows them. 

“That’s not our Monkey Boy in there.” 

He freezes, and his breath hitches so loudly that it’s impossible they didn’t hear him. Their silhouettes go still, but the damage, or the deed, is already done. The words bounce around in his skill. 

Monkey Boy. 

Monkey Boy! 

It’s her. It’s them, it’s–

The cover pulls back, and he winces briefly at how bright everything is. When he adjusts, he raises a hand at the four kids staring at him, and wiggles his fingers. 

“Um. Hi?”