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.