(Avatar Odyssey is a text based, interactive fan-game where you play as... Yourself! Romance characters, choose sides, make decisions. With expanded world-building and high stake moments, only you can dictate Pandoras future)
Synopsis.txt
In a fractured Pandora on the brink of war, you play as a high ranking senator whose ship crash-lands in the Metkayina's reef. Wounded, separated from your crew, and stripped of your political identity, you’re forced to ally yourself with the reluctant Na'vi while trying to complete your impossible mission--Ease tensions between Na'vi and mankind, and uncover what the RDA is really planning for Pandora.
"Would you like to choose this file?"
*Yes. *I'm going to move on.
Information.txt
Long form series with multiple chapters
"Would you like to choose this file?"
*Yes. *I'm going to move on.
Information.txt
Small bites on how different characters might react or be in different scenarios.
You guys might have been wondering where this hoe of an author is. For good reason too. Life decided to throw me some MAJOR curveballs, mainly my computer breaking.
Which wouldn't be so much of a problem. I have my docs and works saved, plus in my OneDrive so they were okay. What wasn't okay was my Avatar Odyssey game/fanfic.
That's what made me stop posting.
I had roughly 120k words for chapter two. Really good, proud work, but that fanfic was saved into that specific computer with no account tied to it and I lost it all.
I literally cried so much. I cannot tell you how demoralizing, angry and stupid I felt. I only have certain rough drafts of it saved, all at sporadic parts. I couldn't return without feeling angry, and still I do not have money to afford getting a computer, which I use to write. (Watch write fanfics with a candle and quill-)
I was thinking of using my colleges laptops but they're day-to-day usage and not: "Bring it home." And fanfics, despite my speed, take far longer then two hours.
(I know I have my phone but idk why I just CANNOT get into it).
Anyway. For sure Avatar Odyssey is likely cancelled. I cannot bring myself to write without getting angry. I ignored this page due to it too. Even now, I'm unsure if I'll be able to continue posting fics since I literally have no means to write, and if I do, I'd likely spend 20-30 minutes since I still need to do homework (damn you Canva).
I'll likely make a quick summary of what was supposed to happen for Avatar Odyssey since I was so freaking proud of it and so devastated that no one but myself, got to read and enjoy it. :(
I've also read all your guys messages rn! You guys are a dear and I love you all, and I'll answer them I promise. But yeah. Right now all fanfics are postponed :(
hiii!! i was wondering if you could maybe add me to your tag list just for everything? thank you!!
Of coirse beloved, I missed this but I recently uploaded The Match and Baby Blues to my page. If I saw this earlier id have totally added you to the list :((( sor sorry
WOAHH, 2 fics in one day?!? Thank you kindly, author. 🩷🩷
And, please don't rush yourself-- take all the time you need. Life happens and no one is going to fault you for that!
Thank you thank you!!!
Don't worry I'll let you guys know when life happens. Like I said in other posts updates will be weekly instead of three days now 😔✋ likely posted every Sunday now. Though for this week you guys will get the final three days post for The Match and Baby Blues part two!
I thought it wasn't fair to post one over the other since technically you guys waited for Neteyam crumbs, but The Match technically won the poll for what came first. Because of that, I decided to just update both 🥳🥳🥳
It was supposed to update earlier but life caught up and I had to try rushing in formatting and such. Call me a perfect procastinator though cause I managed just in time!!!
(Recom) Lyle Wainfleet x varang little sister. Let’s say that while miles is with varang, Lyle slowly finds himself with varangs sister. Sister is the same way as varang just maybe more calm. Some smut maybe? Just let me know if you’re not gonna write this so I can ask someone else
Hey, just a word of advice (and I mean this very politely) it's good manners to usually greet whatever author you wish to request, and to check if their requests are open before sending one in.
It can also be considered a bit rude to mention asking another person for your request if the current one is unable to. It can feel almost exploitative! Im glad you seem to have taken an interest in The Match, but if you want more content alike it, see authors who have him listed in their request rules! (That are open). Or better yet, write it so it encourages others to want that content!
HELLO DUM-DUMS, I did it. I ACTUALLY COMPLETEED TWO NEW WORKS YIPPEEEEE
There was a reason for my silence, sorry guys XD Both works are around 20k, so I had to try finishing 40k. I know you guys might appreciate frequent drops but for this case, and especially because we reached 2k followers a bit ago, I wanted to do a double release!!!
Speaking of which, I am so annoyed at Tumblr. Once again Im gonna have to split the work since its too long, which is so unfortunate. (Although it might be a blessing since I feel like some parts are rushed).
Which, by the way if anyone knows how to circumvent it, please help since I've seen authors post 20k+ works on here and I'm dying XD
Anyway, ince these two are done, I will continue focusing just on MTSLTF Chapter four! Updates will now be weekly (hopefully) and I'll catch up on my inbox. I had to ignore tumblr to get this stuff done.
The next chapters will be released in three days, just until I finish with CH4 of our beloved MTSLTF
Anyway. A word of love and thanks for you guys (read below), but if you want to skip that and just read the works... here it is!!!
The Match - Varang x Reader (plus Lyle x reader)
Baby Blues - Neteyam x reader
I went through a lot this month, but mostly last month. And the echo's of all that was negative had transpired into February. Even now, I still feel it. But what kept me motivated not only to write but to continue writing for this fandom was all of you.
The sweet and kind words from total strangers, alongside genuine concerns; never did I think I'd touch and gain a community of such individuals. All of you deserve love and happiness, and while we do not know one another, I am glad to have found a space on the internet that I know will support my ideas and endeavors. So thank you all, and have a wonderful valentines day.
In honor of all of you, my followers, my dum-dums, my frequent ask-boxers, are these two Valentine Specials. I hope you enjoy them!
You've spent years grieving a body that wouldn't cooperate and a dream that kept shrinking. Now you have an avatar, a working womb, and one very willing best friend. The arrangement is simple: Neteyam needs to give you his sperm. Except Neteyam hasn't been simple about anything involving you in a very long time—and you're a woman who has grieved infertility so long she's forgotten she's allowed to want love too, and Neteyam's a man who loves you so much he'll degrade himself just to have a fraction of himself be yours.
Warning- masturbation, infertility, alcoholism, talks of insemination, unrequited feelings, aged!up Neteyam, f!Reader, human-to-avatar-reader, childhood friends to lovers, slight!angst
A/N- In honor of all my followers and readers who are always so patient and so loving. Please enjoy!
Part Two Coming Soon
There was something particularly cruel about Pandora—a reminder of all the life the Great Mother provided. The smaller betrayals. The way moss threaded through steel, reclaiming what humanity had stolen. The way life erupted from every crack and crevice, lush and green, as if Eywa herself were showing off. Eywa, mother to all.
Eywa, fertility. An endless, mocking well of it.
And you couldn't get a single fucking sperm to take.
"I'm sorry, Y/n."
Norm had a look. The kind reserved for delivering bad news, and for you, he wore it often enough that you'd memorized the exact angle of his brows, the way his mouth thinned.
He was in his human form—thank Christ, because you couldn't look at him otherwise. Not in his avatar body, not with his two children running around blue and beautiful and perfect.
Jealousy would seethe beyond words. You knew it would show in your face. You knew it already did, and that made it worse.
"We tried everything," he added, softer now. His hands fidgeted with a data slate that showed infertile, infertile, infertile, infertile, infertile, in—
“Thank you.” You swallowed something bitter, and turned, fingers finding the knuckles of your opposite hand. Standing felt like an admission of defeat, but sitting felt worse, so you stood and walked and—when did you reach your room?
You weren’t sure, just that… well—
The dream was dead.
That's what you told yourself, anyway. Repeated it like as you walked back to your closet, as you lay in bed staring at the ceiling, as days bled into weeks. The dream is dead. Move on.
It was something you'd grown to be fine with, in theory. Something you could walk through and exist despite, the way you existed despite a hundred other losses.
Orphans existed, after all. Sweet girls and boys who needed homes. The dream didn't need to die, just expand. Shift sideways into something different but still good.
Except finding an orphan was a lot harder than you'd initially thought.
Most from the initial wave were like you and Spider—fathers and mothers who'd fought and died during the Battle of the Hallelujah Mountains. By the time you were grown enough to handle a kid or two, most orphans had already been absorbed. Family-friends. Extended clan. A real community, the kind that didn't leave cracks for someone like you to slip through.
Spider would scold you for the phrasing, remind you the Na'vi way was better, that their systems of kinship were what you should aspire to. Easy for him to say. He'd been the outcome of that specifically, gotten folded in despite what he thought.
The Na'vi thought so too.
Any Na'vi orphans were immediately relocated to another clan. Not that you blamed them. What could you offer a child who'd grow tall enough to look down at you by age eight? How could you strip away their heritage, their language, their birthright?
So maybe the dream expanded more and more, stretching farther and farther until you were left with crumbs.
An insect. Macy.
That was the best you could get.
Six-legged. Beautiful in the way only a mother could see—which was to say, objectively ugly. She had the temperament of a career criminal and the loyalty of a feral cat.
She was your baby.
You'd fashioned her a little habitat from spare parts and mesh netting. Fed her by hand. Whispered to her at night when the lab got too quiet, and made her toys from whatever you could find.
Yeah, okay… so the dream fell apart.
But Neteyam was always sweet about it, at least. He'd crouched beside the terrarium, those golden eyes patient and warm, and asked what she ate. He just smiled that gentle, knowing smile and let you have it.
So, so sweet.
You heard a gentle knocking against the door.
The tweezers trembled in your grip as you lowered the live-feed into the tank. Your tongue pushed past your lips in concentration. Macy surfaced with that familiar urgency, her whiskers twitching as she nibbled. Then—and this was new—she patted the metal with one webbed paw.
“Oh, you’re learning manners! Good Macy!”
Another knock.
Harder this time.
"Y/n."
Your pulse stumbled. You pressed your palms together, fingers lacing tight. Please. You crossed your fingers against your thigh where he couldn't see. Please, please, please.
You crossed the room in three uneven strides and wrenched the door open.
Blue.
That was your first thought—just blue, filling your vision. Neteyam stood hunched in the doorway, his height forced into something smaller by the frame. His braids fell forward, obscuring half his face, and you caught the familiar beads and bone wrapped around each one.
Behind his back, one hand cradled something small. You caught the edge of it: pale petals, the faint glow that meant munx, the flower you'd asked for. The one that might—might—tip the odds in your favor.
He'd found it. He'd actually—
But then your gaze lifted.
His face.
His ears lay flat. His mouth worked soundlessly for a breath before he managed, "I…" A shake of his head, slow and defeated. "I'm sorry, Y/n." He brought his hand forward, presenting the box you'd given him days ago—the one meant to carry the sample.
You took it. The weight felt wrong. Too light, or maybe too heavy; you couldn't tell anymore. Defeat was already seeping in, familiar as old bruises. "What happened to it?" Your voice came out steady, you’d learned not to show it in your face.
Neteyam's jaw worked. He shook his head again, ears twitching in that particular way that meant frustration directed inward. "I don't know, Y/n." His gaze dropped to the box, then away. "During the delivery it…"
He trailed off.
You didn't wait. Your thumbs found the lip of the container, prying it open with a soft click that sounded too loud in the space between you. You looked down.
That cheeky little shit.
Your breath caught. You stared, then looked up sharply, eyes wide and wild.
Not one sample.
Several.
You jumped onto him.
It was girlish, sweet. Your arms wrapping around him until your face pressed full against his stomach. Then, with the softest sound he laughed. "O-Oh!" His hands fumbled, one settling atop your head in a clumsy pat. "Is this enough?"
"More than enough!"
You tilted your head back, eyes wide and shining, and pretty in the way that made his heart stutter and trip over itself. His smile too—what a shy thing it had been—melted into something softer and harder. An ache, he’d describe it as.
His thumb grazed your skull. He just looked at you, drinking in every fleck of color in your eyes.
Say something. Tell her.
"I wanted to—"
"How did you find so many anyway? I thought these were rare!"
You let go. His hand hovered where you'd been, still outstretched. He didn't blink for a long time, eyes gone wide, mouth fallen into an unmistakable pout. "Oh… uh…" His fingers curled inward, dropping to fidget at his sides as he shifted closer.
"I heard Norm mention these only grow in the Hallelujah Mountains, where the—" The words tumbled out as you turned away, already carrying the case to your workbench. You extracted each blossom with the carefulness suited towards something less botanical and something more divine. All the same to you—gods and plants. You always managed to pray for fertility with either, anyway.
You didn't see the way Neteyam's shoulders fell. Didn't quite catch the soft sigh that escaped him either.
"Well," he said at last. He smiled when you shot him a playful glare. "they are hard to find—for humans. But a Na'vi knows." He tapped his temple, took a pull from his oxygen mask, and settled into a crouch beside you.
He wouldn't tell you it had taken three days nor would he mention the way his calves had burned climbing ridge after ridge, or how the wind had nearly swept him off a floating peak twice. Wouldn't say that rare was an understatement.
"You sound smug," you murmured, not looking up. Your fingers worked the seal on the container, careful.
"I am smug. I did something impossible for you." He controlled the twitch of his ear. He hoped to hear you laugh, or see a smile. This push and pull. Ache. It ached.
"Impossible?" You scoffed, but there was warmth in it. "You just said a Na'vi knows."
"A skilled Na'vi."
"So humble."
"It is a burden I carry." He pressed a hand to his chest, solemn. Then ruined it by grinning when you finally looked at him.
Your laugh was quiet. But it was there—and Eywa, he wanted to bottle that sound. Keep it somewhere safe where nothing could touch it, maybe put—
You stopped.
“What…?” He caught himself before his tail could wag, dimming the eager glow of his freckles before they could betray him more.
You looked away, fingers brushing the edge of the sealed case. "Thank you, Neteyam." Your voice was quieter now, and you set the container somewhere dry and safe. "For doing this, I mean. I just hope that this time…"
The sentence died.
He already knew.
His ears flattened against his skull. He watched you—the line of your shoulders, the way you wouldn't meet his eyes. "It will," he murmured. "The Great Mother provides."
And there it was.
That wall between you. Eywa. Always Eywa.
You believed in her the way his people did—the way he was supposed to. With your whole chest, your whole heart. You prayed, and you waited, and you hoped that this time the flower would heal whatever was broken. That this time the sperm would stick to your stupid eggs. That this time—
This time.
"Yeah," you said
You knew better than to question Eywa in front of a na’vi. Barren, but not dumb.
.
.
.
The seeds didn't fix anything.
They wouldn't. You'd known that, really—known it deep down in that intuitive thought that gnawed until reality and truth came. But hope was a stupid, stubborn thing. It rooted itself close to your heart anyway. Until that too withered and died.
Apathy came for you after that. It crept along the edges of who you were, taking pieces you didn't notice were missing until you reached for them and found nothing.
It found your words first, turned them flat and distant in your mouth. Then your vision, dulling the bioluminescence you'd once found so beautiful. Astigmatism, you called it. The blurring of the lights till they became muddy. y. Even your tears dried up eventually, and those had been the last honest thing you had left.
That, and of course, your empty womb.
You swore you wouldn’t think about it, but your palm always pressed against your belly. There sometimes, pressing for the possibility that you were Mary carrying Jesus.
I’d be your Mary, Eywa. You’d think. But she had already chosen her Mary. She’d chosen Dr. Grace Augustine—returned her through Kiri, blessed her with a daughter who was beautiful and perfect.
And in the worst moments, you wondered if this was punishment. If you’d been cursed for simply being human and wrong in a world that demanded balance. Was this the great mother, picking and choosing who could be part of it?
Had Eywa looked at you and decided: No.
Not you. You imagined Her saying. Not the ugly little thing you are, with your five fingers and your extra hair and your demon blood. Several is enough. You are one too many.
How these thoughts spiraled.
"Eywa will see it through," Spider said once, his hand on your shoulder, his voice doing that thing where it tried to sound certain. "You'll see."
But his eyes wore the same dressing of apology. Him, Neteyam, Kiri too when she thought you weren’t looking. It sat in their eyes so clearly, you wondered if they did it on purpose, at times.
Or maybe they practice it? Standing in front of mirrors, rehearsing the right amount of softness.
You'd stopped responding
Pity. Apathy. Disillusionment. You half-expected to find those things growing inside you instead of a baby. At least then you'd be full of something.
Neteyam was sweet—of course he was. Infertility was rare among his kind, but he researched it anyway. Brought you herbs wrapped in careful bundles, explained each one to you. Talked to his grandmother until she mixed pastes that might just help a human as it did a na’vi.
"This one," he'd say, holding up a root that looked like gnarled fingers, "Grandmother Tsahìk says it strengthens the womb. Encourages life."
You’d taken one only, you didn’t have the heart to take the rest.
He offered what he could after, companionship mostly. A place to cry, to rant, to talk through desperate solutions that never went anywhere. He listened. Cried with you sometimes, his face pressed into your hair. Held you after in a bed too small for his frame, his knees bent awkward, his tail curled against the wall.
You started to drink, badly, if you were being honest.
You didn't have a problem—or at least that's what you told yourself when Neteyam's brows pinched together, or when Norms mouth thinned into a flat line.
But the alcohol filled you in ways nothing else could, and you cared less and less about your stupid health. What did it matter anyway? You felt useless as a woman. Work became your only other anchor. Work or drinking. Those were your options now.
Five bottles in the morning, the small ones with the screw caps that fit in your jacket pocket. Ten by afternoon, nursing them between sample analysis and data entry. Twenty by evening, when the lab emptied out and you had the place to yourself.
You were drunk more often than you were sober, and the distinction between the two had begun to blur.
Some science guy—Stevens? Stevenson?—did the math once. Pulled up your consumption logs from the inventory and laughed. Actually laughed in your face.
"Jesus Christ," he wheezed, wiping his eyes. "You need help. Like, clinical intervention level help."
But again, it was dressed with laughter and so you found no reason to take him seriously.
Neteyam did, though.
"Y/N."
His voice came from somewhere far away.
You groaned, face pressed against something cold and hard. The floor, most likely. You couldn’t remember landing on something soft. Really, you didn’t remember anything from last night at all.
"Y/N." Neteyam's palm connected softly with your cheek, his body too close, his worry too obvious. You groaned and pushed his face away.
You forced your eyes open, and you sat up.
You felt bottles clink around you, some empty, some still half-full. One had tipped over near your hip, leaking amber liquid against the floor and soaking yesterdays jeans.
Neteyam crouched beside you, his face creased.
"Jesus," you muttered. Your skull protested immediately, a sharp spike of pain that made you wince. "What time is it?"
Neteyam's frown deepened, lips pressed thin. He glanced toward the small window. "Second eclipse," he whispered, then shuffled back to give you space as you rose.
You rubbed at your face with both hands, trying to scrub away the fog. Your mouth tasted sour. Your skin felt sticky.
Headaches. You always had headaches now.
You knew how to fix that.
Your hand was already reaching—fingers closing around the neck of a half-empty bottle before Neteyam could say a word.
Neteyam's hand caught your wrist mid-reach.
"Stop that."
The smack came quick and you jerked back with a hiss, cradling your hand like he'd actually hurt you. He hadn't. But the principle—
Your eyes narrowed as you tracked the bottle he'd kicked just out of range, watching it roll pathetically across the floor before settling near the wall.
"The hell, Neteyam… come on." You reached again, fingers stretching. This time his foot swept the bottle away entirely, skittering it across the floor into a pile of its siblings.
You froze, gaze lifting slowly to meet his. "The fuck is your problem?" The words came out rough. You’d never spoken to Neteyam like that and he visibly paused, eyes turning watery. But you were in too deep now. "I was drinking that."
"Yes. I can see."
He rose to his full height—all of it, shoulders back, spine straight, tail swaying in that particular way that meant he was trying very hard not to grab you by the scruff of your neck. As if size alone could shame you into submission.
I don’t have shame anymore, doesn’t he know that?
"Just as I can see the fifty other bottles littered around your room." He looked so clean. So together. It made you want to throw something at him.
The number wasn't exact. You'd counted. Sixty-three, if you included the one under the cot.
…You didn’t correct him.
He huffed, eyes never leaving your face as you frowned. "What about Macy?"
"Dead."
You shoved past him, shoulder catching his ribs. It was like shouldering into a wall. Your head throbbed like a damned thing, and you pressed the heel of your palm against your temple as though pressure could drown it.
"Her species lasts months. She was already old when I got her." You shrugged. "I'll get a Macy Jr. or something."
"A Macy Jr.," he repeated, flat. "You will replace her."
"Why not?" You didn't look at him. "Everything else is replaceable."
You immediately felt the weight shift from your head to your stomach, where that stupid nervous system got all tangled up and wired. You knew you said the wrong thing, but pride was a terrible thing.
Even if Neteyam looked damn close to crying. Am I replaceable? You saw it spelled out in his mind.
No. You’d tell him. But pride—terrible pride.
You collapsed into the chair by the kitchen table—if you could call it that. More like a metal slab bolted to the wall. Recycled RDA shit. Everything here was recycled RDA shit. You tapped against the metal, an erratic rhythm that matched nothing, then rested your head against the palm of your hand. The coolness of your skin felt good against the heat behind your eyes.
Neteyam watched. His ears flattened. He viewed your defeat as his—the Na'vi were empathetic in that way. Couldn't help but absorb the misery of everyone around them like emotional sponges.
It was exhausting just thinking about it.
“Y/n,” He said softly. He lowered himself, knees folding until he was eye-level, and suddenly you were staring at him whether you wanted to or not. You could smell the forest on him.
It smelled really comforting.
You dug your face against your palm some more. His head tilted, chasing your gaze when you turned away. "Stop this madness. This self-destruction. What purpose does it serve?"
What purpose?
You had nothing, but your jaw tensed. You turned further away. If you couldn't see him, he wasn't real, simple logic.
"Just go, Neteyam. I—"
"N-No." His ears flickered back, you saw that much at least. "No," he repeated, firmer now. "I came because Norm needs you."
You rolled your eyes so hard it made your headache worse. "Don't be dumb."
"I am not being dumb." He sounded genuinely insulted. "Norm asked for you specifically. There is work—important work—and he believes you are the one to do it."
"Then Norm's drunk too."
"He is not."
"Should be." You waved a hand vaguely. "Makes everything easier."
Neteyam's tongue clicked against his teeth, that tsk he picked up from his mother. He stared. His yellow eyes traced the slope of your hunched shoulders, the tremor in your hands, the bottles. He measured you against some internal scale of moraling and found you tipping.
One moment you were seated. The next, the world flipped.
"Hey—wait!"
His shoulder drove into your stomach, forcing the air from your lungs in a graceless oof, and suddenly you were up, dangling, the floor swinging past in nauseating arcs. His hand settled firm against your thigh, fingers splayed wide to keep you steady.
Your arms dangled uselessly, fingertips brushing his lower back, and your legs kicked before you realized how pointless it was.
You weighed nothing to him. Less than nothing. Tuk-weight. Baby-weight.
"You will not listen. You act like a baby, I'll treat you like a baby."
"Neteyam—"
He adjusted his grip, hoisting you higher, and the movement sent the room spinning. Your stomach lurched. Oh, god. You were going to throw up. You were going to throw up all over his back and he'd probably deserve it but you'd never hear the end of it from Kiri—
He ignored you. His stride was even, unbothered, carrying you through the narrow corridor as though this were the most natural thing in the world.
Faces turned—humans pausing mid-step, expressions caught between concern and poorly hidden amusement. Someone whistled. You wanted to die.
You whined. Squirmed. Hissed through your teeth.
Crack.
Did he just—?
He did.
The slap landed right on your ass—three fingers and a wide palm, the sting blooming instant and mortifying. You froze, a strangled squeak escaping before you could stop it.
"Quit moving," he hissed, ducking smoothly beneath a low doorway.
Your shorts did nothing. Might as well have been naked for all the protection they offered. Three fingers. One wide palm. The print of him burned into your skin, no doubt blazing red, no doubt visible to anyone who—
Embarrassing.
You pressed your face against his back and tried very hard to disappear.
"Where are you even taking me?"
"The lab."
"I don't want to go to the lab."
"I don't care."
His tail swished, the tip brushing against your dangling hand, and you grabbed it without thinking—yanked hard enough to make him stumble slightly. Sweet, petty victory—
Crack.
Harder this time.
"Ow—!"
"Do not touch my tail."
You released it immediately, hands flying up in surrender. "Okay! Okay—jesus—fine."
You heard the swish of the doors opening and shifted, hips squirming to rest your elbow against his shoulder, gaze drifting lazily toward the hall that retreated behind you. "So why does Norm need me?" You stared at those who stared back, though your head bobbed with Neteyam’s slow walking speed.
Not that you could do much about it—Neteyam had a death grip on you.
"You'll see."
Your eyes narrowed.
The corridor stretched longer than it should've. Or maybe time just moved differently when you were being carried like this. When he sat you down, it was right in front of the doors.
Your reflection ghosted across the metal paneling, and Neteyam's golden eyes caught yours in the warped surface. Something soft moved behind them, it didn’t looked bad from what you could gather.
You glanced offhandly at the stamped on poster. Na’vi and Drivers only. Piloting currently in session.
So thats where he took you. The drive room. You'd never been here. Couldn't without permission. The equipment was old, and for someone like Norm who relied on the technology to stay with his family, precious.
Neteyam's palm pressed between your shoulder blades. "Go on. Go."
You shot him a look before pushing the door.
"Norm?" The door gave under your hand. "Neteyam, the asshole, said—"
The words died.
Norm stood grinning—nervous as hell. Max beside him, patchy labcoat rumpled, glasses slipping down his nose.
Behind them—
Behind them—
An avatar.
Suspended in the amnio tank, an avatar with your face stretched across Na'vi features.
You.
Not you. You told yourself.
But yes, you.
"Surprise...?" Norm's voice was unsteady like the rest of him. Blue limbs postured awkwardly, and Max fumbled with his glasses, shoving them up only for them to slip right back down. "So... er... we didn't ask, uh—you know. Permission. For the whole avatar thing. Just... with your fertility problems and you know, overall not being able to—" He gestured vaguely at your body, your human body, the one that failed you in every way that mattered on this moon. "—we thought maybe—god, this is kinda weird, right? Not asking permission? We swear we took every other ethical question into account before cloning you with the—I mean, we had meetings. So many meetings. Jake was there for some of them, and Neytiri, and—"
Norm rambled.
A lot.
And you stood dumbfounded, staring at yourself floating in sterile fluid.
"...How?" Your throat felt dry. "Avatars take six years to..."
Neteyam moved to your periphery. Close enough to reach if this went sideways, if you felt any sort of violation. Far enough to give you space if you needed it. He knew you.
"Max made a breakthrough." Norm's grin widened as he clapped Max's shoulder. Max stumbled forward from the unexpected force.
"Hey, man!" Max huffed, adjusting his glasses.
"Sorry..."
Max rolled his eyes, but his smile came easier now. Dimmer. He stepped aside, gesturing to the tank. To her. To you. "We can grow them in half the time now. Had this one cooking for two years. Still needs a few more months until she's ready—see the queue? Still growing."
The queue. Right. Last thing to develop in Na'vi. Most complex part of them.
You pressed your forehead against the glass, and you stood there, watching it twitch before slowly lifting your gaze to meet theirs. "...I'm going to pilot an avatar?"
They grinned, hope naked in their eyes, and nodded in unison. "Are you, uh... angry?"
You snorted. "Angry?"
Tears blurred your vision as you pulled them both into an embrace—awkward because Max was shorter than you and Norm was taller, because your human arms barely stretched around them both.
"How could I be angry?" The words scraped out, rough and small. "Thank you."
There it was, that cruel seed. The hope blossomed again so easily, watered by the devotion of friends.
What a terrible thing it'd be, if the avatar failed. If by some accident, something happened. If you linked and couldn't make the connection. If your body rejected the neural interface. If, if, if.
Those thoughts came aplenty too, naturally. You were used to bad luck by now. Too familiar with disappointment to ever get too comfortable with joy.
Your knees buckled. You sank. They followed, lowering themselves to hold you.
Max was sniffling. Norm's laugh was watery. "You baby."
And Neteyam watched, smiling softly before turning his gaze back at the avatar.
Pretty.
They'd made you perfect.
His eyes traced the shape of you—blue and striped, tall enough now to meet his gaze without that familiar tilt of your chin. Close enough that he wouldn't have to bend so far to meet your eyes.
But some things hadn't changed, which he thanked Eywa for. The hair along your brows, the four fingers. Your— His gaze dropped before he could stop it—a habit, muscle memory, whatever the hell you wanted to call it when a man looked at a woman and couldn't help himself.
Your breasts.
The People did not mark flesh with shame the way sky-people did, wrapping themselves in layers even under the sun's full weight. Nudity was breath, was movement, was simply being.
But he found himself wondering. Would they still carry that peculiar softness he'd felt through your shirt that one time?
He'd seen human women move, that bounce from when they ran or laughed.
His throat worked around a swallow.
His eyes drifted lower still. To your belly.
It was flatter than your human form, still not fed any solids. But he was sure that would change once you started piloting. And it was capable of something else now, wasn't it?
Capable of swelling.
That eager cunt between your legs, it could hold a baby now.
It'll be mine.
A voice said. His, undoubtedly. His tail cracked.
Mine. The thought was peaceful to him.
.
.
.
Day broke beneath the canopy.
It came slow, lazy—filtered through leaves that turned the light green and gold. The heat followed, thick and wet, the kind that clung to your skin and refused to let go. You understood now why the Na'vi wore so little.
"It's not easy!" You huffed, breath catching. Your tail whipped sideways and cracked against Neteyam's hip. Heat flooded your face.
He was kind enough not to stare. Cruel enough, though, to catch the thing mid-swing and tug.
"Ah—!"
"Sure, it is." Neteyam sighed, and his voice dropped to that cooing tone when he thought he was right. “You simply refuse to listen." He pressed you to his chest, his lips near your flickering ears. "What did I tell you about the hands? Balance comes from the tail. Not hips, not arms, not those ridiculous toes of yours, sky-woman."
He let go and patted your bottom. "Go on, try again."
You whipped around, mouth open, ready to tell him exactly where he could shove his try again, but he was already leaning back against a boulder with his arms crossed, waiting.
Training.
You'd thought Neteyam would go easy on you. He had not. He was just as strict as his father—maybe worse, because Jake at least had the decency to look apologetic when he pushed you past your limits.
Neteyam just watched with those big golden eyes, and demanded perfection from his students.
Morning drills were the worst part. He woke you before dawn, dragged you out of your kelku while the village still slept, and put you through exercises that left your muscles screaming.
"You're not technically my teacher," you liked to remind him. The distinction mattered to you. It didn't matter to him.
"No," he'd said once, not even looking up from where he was checking your foot placement. "I am worse. Teachers have students who want to learn."
You rolled your eyes, stalking forward before slowly approaching the tree. Bark rough under your palms, grooves deep enough to catch your toes if you were careful.
"This is stupid,"
You lifted one foot over the other, toes finding grooves. He'd mocked you for wearing shoes last time, lectured you about feeling the tree, about connection. If you did it again, you'd never hear the end of it.
"I'm not Na'vi."
"You are an avatar."
Neteyam's voice came from behind you, lazy and unbothered. You were sure he was assessing your form, and you could feel him counting every mistake that shifted with the wobble of a food, or wrong shift of weight.
"If you plan to have a child—"
Your foot slipped.
"—they must know the ways of their ancestors."
You caught yourself, fingers digging into bark hard enough that splinters bit into your palms. Your heart hammered. Below, the ground looked very far away.
"Which also includes humans," you shot back, breathless.
You struggled upward, arms burning. Another handhold. Another foothold. Your breathing came ragged now, and you were sure he noted that too. Added it to his mental list of things to fix.
"And humans do not climb trees."
You reached a low branch and settled onto it, mimicking his stance. Arms crossed, one leg dangling. You looked smug.
"That is not—" He shifted, pausing when he caught you. "Hey!"
You stuck your tongue out. Neteyam's hairless brow arched.
"Impossible woman," He laughed like you'd stolen it from him. It softened his whole face, made him look younger. Less like the future olo'eyktan and more like the boy you’d grown up with.
Then he glanced back toward the village, ears swiveling.
Truthfully, he'd picked mornings for a reason: Fewer eyes. Fewer men to gawk at the sky-woman in her strange new body. Fewer whispers about clan taboos and what it meant that Neteyam te Suli Tsyeyk'itan spent so much time with you.
Fewer interruptions.
Which meant he could hold you as long as he liked without someone in his ear reminding him of propriety.
"Yoo hoo!"
Fuck.
Movement in his peripheral. Anok—one of the more experienced hunters in his father's group—seemed to be holding something. “There you are!”
Anok's eyes found you.
Found you sitting on that branch with your legs dangling, chest still heaving from exertion, skin flushed. His gaze lingered a beat too long on the curve of your waist, the beaded top you wore.
Neteyam stepped between you and Anok's line of sight, a simple adjusting of his stance, all casual-like.
He glanced back at you. "I'm needed. Continue. I expect to see you in the top branches when I return."
You glanced down at him, pouting. “You’re leaving…?”
Something about the way you said it—or rather, the way you looked saying it—Your lower lip jutted forward, eyes going soft and wide…It made his legs refuse to move. He turned back. His tail stilled against his conscious will.
"Do you want me to watch when you reach it?" he said softly, almost teasingly.
Your ears flattened.
"...No." You turned back to the tree, fingers searching bark. "Just go."
He turned back toward Anok, then stopped. He forced himself to smile instead of doing what he wanted, which was climb up there and kiss that pout off your mouth.
“Hm. Just wait for me, then.” He whispered. You began climbing again. He chuckled.
You could be cute.
He walked through knee-high grass, boots ghosting over bent stalks, before coming to attention beside Anok. The older man studied Neteyam with something between amusement and knowing—a faint smile that would never quite reach words.
"What is it, Anok?"
"Nothing dire." Anok extended what Neteyam recognized as paper—that fragile Earth-thing, thin as shed skin. It trembled slightly in his grip. "Your father wants this delivered to Y/n."
Neteyam frowned at the delicate sheet. "And this is…?"
A shrug. "Names, I think. A list. What for—" Anok's gaze drifted past Neteyam's shoulder, tracking something in the clearing beyond. "—I couldn't say for certain."
A pause.
Then, quieter: "Though I have my suspicions."
Neteyam turned.
You were on the trampled practice ground, cross-legged in the dirt, a child suspended above your head. Your arms held steady as you bubbled your lips against the child's round stomach. The sound was wet and silly—and the child shrieked. Pure joy. You brought them down to your hip, reaching for another, and cupping pudgy cheeks between your palms.
"Again!" the first child demanded, bouncing. "Again, again!"
They were screaming now. Happy screaming. The kind that split the air and made hunters across the clearing wince and shoot you irritated looks. They ran in circles around you, tripping over their own feet, dizzy with it, grabbing at your arms and tail and hair.
Neteyam's heart did something gentle. Something dangerous.
His eyes went hazy, unfocused, seeing you but also not—seeing something further. A future, maybe. You, heavy with child. You, singing lullabies in that broken Na'vi you were learning. You, looking at him the way you looked at those children now.
Good mother, his mind whispered.
His children.
A sharp clap landed on his shoulder.
Neteyam jolted, blinking fast, head whipping back. "Hm? Sorry, what?"
Anok's laugh was low, knowing, unbearably smug. He shook his head. "Nothing, young one." A pause. His grin widened. "Go on. Go."
Neteyam stumbled half a step before steadying himself. He rolled his shoulders, deepened his voice, crossed his arms as he approached. "What did I tell you?" The growl didn't quite land; his smile betrayed him.
The children shrieked and scattered like prey, diving behind your legs, your hips, your thighs. Little faces peeking out, wide-eyed and grinning.
"Muptx," Neteyam sighed with false severity. "These are training grounds."
They giggled. You lifted one—the pudgy one with the huge, gap-toothed smile—and cradled them against your chest. Then you looked up at Neteyam. Puppy eyes. Full pout.
"Are you really mad at us, karyu?"
Neteyam stopped.
His ears snapped forward, desperate to catch the word again, to hold it, to keep it. "Karyu?" His voice cracked. Just barely. He stepped closer, head tilting, gaze locked on your mouth like he could pull the word back out if he stared hard enough. "Teacher?"
"Who's been teaching you Na'vi? I never—"
"No one," you said, far too innocent.
He pressed his lips together, gaze fixed on yours, and dragged his tongue across his bottom lip. Heat crept up his neck. "Mm." A cough. He turned to the children, voice gentler now. "Go play elsewhere. I need to speak with Y/n."
You set the child down. They scattered immediately, descending on another unsuspecting hunter across the field. Both of you watched them go, quiet laughter shared between you.
Then your attention snapped to the paper in his hand. "What's that?"
Neteyam blinked down at it as if he'd forgotten. "I'm not sure. My father wanted you to have it." He glanced back toward where Anok had been standing, handing out the paper.
Anok had already left, it seemed.
You snatched it from his hand,
He blinked. Tilted his head.
You were reading now. Fast. Eyes darting across the foreign symbols. Your lips moved silently, forming shapes he couldn't parse.
Then you sighed.
"Dammit."
Neteyam tried leaning over your shoulder, squinting at the figures that made no sense to him, so he settled for watching your face instead—which was, truthfully, what he'd intended to do anyway.
“What is it?”
"Insemination," you said, half to yourself. "But the options are slim. Norm, Gander, Henderson, Michael, Ergie…" More names. A litany of men based to genetic potential. Even Jake had offered—Neytiri gave her blessing, which while kind somehow felt strange.
He’s like my dad…
You dropped into the grass, legs crossed, page bent between your thumbs. Neteyam lowered himself beside you. Close enough that if he shifted his knee just slightly, it would brush yours.
The problem was simple: you had options. Technically. Most avatars came from older bodies, older men. Worn hands, tired eyes, decent enough people who'd given decades to this moon and its science. Norm especially—you liked Norm. His nervous laugh, how he'd let you borrow his books without asking for them back.
But the thought of carrying his child, of a baby with his narrow shoulders and that apologetic smile…
Ugh. Your stomach turned just imagining it.
Spoiled, you thought. Picky and spoiled.
A year ago you would've jumped at any option. But now that you had a body that worked, a womb that could hold life, it felt wasteful to settle for just anyone.
Neteyam's frown deepened. "So you will wait? Until the next generation of avatar drivers arrive?"
You shrugged, setting the page aside. "Maybe. Probably. Two, three years at most. I can wait that long."
You couldn't. You'd waited long enough already. But you didn't tell him that.
"I could read baby books or something. Get prepared." You tipped your head back, staring at the canopy before flopping onto your back. "...Or maybe I should ask the People?"
Neteyam went still. His eyes widened, thumb twitching against his thigh. He looked down at you—at the slow rise and fall of your chest—then lower, before dragging his gaze away and swallowing hard. "...Na'vi?"
"Yeah." You squinted at the sky, frowning through the thought. "I mean… I don't know. You think any would be willing to…?" Another shrug, smaller this time.
I would, Neteyam thought.
If you let me, I'd be the father of your child and your mate equally. I'd do it properly—before Eywa, with witnesses, your name woven into my songcord. Look at me. Choose me, Y/n. Please.
"I—" He fumbled, fingers finding the edge of his loincloth, twisting. His gaze dropped. “Well, most likely," he managed. "People enjoy you. They know you would make a wonderful mother, but—"
"But what?" You sat up now, and his eyes softened. He ducked his head.
"My people don't believe in human technology, Y/n. And you'd raise the child alone. Purely human teaching. It's…" He swallowed again. "Taboo. To partner with a human. To father a child with one. Even my mother gets comments—jabs—and my father is Toruk Makto." Bitterness bled into his tone. "Most Na'vi wouldn't accept it. Despite their acceptance of you."
You paused. Your lips pressed into a thin line before you nodded.
"Alright then. Three years of waiting it is." The smile you offered was small, and it looked suspiciously like the ones you’d give in response to pitying faces.
“Good.” He whispered.
Not good. Ask me. Please ask me.
“Good.” You said back.
But you had never been a patient person, and you were far too close to stop now.
Which is why, three months later, you found yourself seeking Neteyam out. Any longer and you could see yourself tracking down the nearest viable sperm donor and just doing it—consequences be damned.
Desperation, tangled with need, led you to him.
Neteyam should have known something was wrong when you came in sporting your shy and expectant smile.
He'd been mending a fishing net in the family hut, alone, fingers working the familiar rhythm of loop and pull when your footsteps announced you. Too heavy, always too heavy, even after all this time. Once you'd blamed Earth's gravity—twenty percent stronger, you'd said—until he'd reminded you that you'd never even been to Earth.
"Thumper," he'd called you then.
Today he chose kindness. "Y/n?"
He turned just enough to catch you in his periphery, his smile coming easy, his tail betraying him with a slow, pleased sway. You didn't visit often—not in his space. In this hut that smelled of woven grass and old leather and him. You belonged to other places: the compound's corridors, the forest groves where the People gathered fruits. But never here, where everything carried his mark.
But now you were here, and the wrongness of it—how right you smelled against the backdrop of his things—made his chest tighten.
"I heard you were looking for me. Did you need something?" His voice came rougher than intended. He cleared his throat, ducking his head back to his work. His fingers fumbled with the spider-thread. Looping, threading. Adding small beads for Kiri who sometimes wore his nets as jewelry.
Silence, you watched him.
“I…” You stepped forward and swallowed thickly. His ears caught the brief sound of it. “I need to ask you something.”
"Of course. Whatever you need, I will—"
"I want a baby."
His hands stopped.
The net hung suspended between his fingers, forgotten. His ears swiveled back, then forward, as if trying to confirm what they'd just heard, and you realized how stupid it sounded. Of course you wanted a baby, everyone and their mothers knew you wanted a baby.
You made a small, strangled sound. "I—I mean—" Your palms flew to your face, muffling the rest. "God, that's not—what I mean is—goddammit." You peeked at him through your fingers, and the words came out in a mortified rush. "Your sperm. I need your sperm."
Heat lanced through him. Blood rushed south and his cock twitched traitorously against his loincloth. He bit down on a groan.
"Y/n." Her name left him soft. He turned slowly, the net sliding from his lap to the floor.
But you were already spiraling. "I'm asking if you'd consider it. Being the father. I know it's taboo, I know your family would—and the clan—" The words tumbled faster, tripping. "But you wouldn't have to be involved if you didn't want to. I wouldn't tell anyone. It could just be like donating blood, right? Except it's not blood, it's—" You gestured vaguely at his groin. "—that."
"Stop."
You did. Immediately. Your ears folded flat, your tail tucking in tight against your leg. You looked up—and up—and the eight inches of height difference became the full eight feet of him looming. Your ears folded flat. Tail tucked against your thigh. His chest cracked.
"You want my baby."
Your uncertainty bloomed when his voice gentled. When he reached for your wrists, slow enough to be a question, and bent until his face hovered above yours. Amber eyes searched your expression for the joke, the lie, the panic. He found none.
"Yes."
His smile widened, just a fraction. He stepped closer, closing the distance until he could tug you forward, bending until his half-lidded amber eyes were in direct opposition to yours.
A low, shaky breath escaped him.
"Yawne," and the endearment hurt to say. "You know what this means to my people. The joining is sacred. A gift from Eywa. It is not a… a transaction." His jaw worked. "I told you this. No na'vi would accept it."
His chin settled atop your head. His hands spread across your back, fingers splaying wide, and he pulled you closer. Tighter. Too tight, maybe, but he couldn't seem to help himself. You fit so perfectly against him. Your head barely reached his chest, and he could feel every curve of you pressed into the hard planes of his body. His eyes squeezed shut.
"I am… glad I can give you this."
The embrace lingered past what friends might share. But you didn't seem to notice. You never did.
Then you were stepping back, and the air between you cooled. Your eyes were already chasing the doorway behind him.
But Neteyams hand never did trail off. One hand rose, hovering above the soft dip of your navel before his fingertips made contact—warm where your womb rested beneath skin and muscle. He traced upward, then down, feeling the gentle curve of you.
You squirmed.
"Any na'vi, sure. But it's you, Neteyam." Your voice cracked open. "Please… I tried to wait but three more years, then another nine just to—" You shook your head, gaze dropping to where his palm burned against your stomach. "We wouldn't have to… you know. Touch. It'd just be a p-pump." The word came out bitter. "It won't be weird, I promise."
A pump?
He stopped.
The softness that had been in his eyes—the heat that had been building there, coiling low in his belly—all of it burned away.
He retracted, blinking as if clarity was just a wink away.
"A… pump." He repeated.
You nodded quickly. "Yeah. Like—like artificial insemination. The scientists do it all the time with the—"
"I know what it is."
The first thought was shameful—you, round with his baby, belly swollen and full, breasts heavy with milk. He'd take care of you. Hunt for you. The second thought followed: his mother's disappointment, the scandal, whispers behind hands. Neteyam te Suli Tsyeyk'itan, lying with a demon. Spilling his seed in a cup like some—
But beneath it all, sharper than any blade, was the realization that gutted him most.
You wanted the material.
Not him.
Not him.
A rough sound escaped. He pressed his forehead to yours. His breath ghosted across your lips. His eyes were completely shut, dark lashes wisping against his cheeks. "You have no idea, do you? What you are asking of me."
He'd do anything for you. Didn't you know that? How could he possibly deny you anything?
"I would give you anything." The confession tore out of him. "Anything, Y/n. My breath. My blood. My life if you demanded it." His hands cupped your face, thumbs stroking the ridiculous softness of your cheeks. "But you ask for this. For nothing of me except what you can put in a container."
Your eyes widened. "That's not—I didn't mean—"
"I told you, I told you." His voice was raw now. "When a man wants a woman, he courts her. Brings her gifts. Proves himself worthy." His thumb traced your lower lip. "He braids her hair. Learns her favorite foods. Makes her laugh."
You were trembling now.
"And when she finally says yes—when she chooses him—they go before Eywa. They bond. They make tsaheylu and they are never alone again." His eyes opened, molten gold and devastating. "That is how life begins for us. In love, with connection."
"Neteyam..." Your voice was barely a whisper.
"You want my child." He said it slowly. “But you do not want me."
"That's not true!"
"No?" He pulled back, just enough to see you clearly. "Then tell me, yawne. If I said yes—if I agreed to your... pump—would you let me court you after? Would you braid my hair and wear my colors and let the clan know you carried my child with pride?"
You opened your mouth, then closed it. Ge was Neteyam, childhood friend Neteyam who ate dirt with you and sometimes stole cookies from Norm’s jar. That Neteyam, who was confessing that he wanted to be with you.
Nothing came out.
And that—that—was answer enough.
He released you and stepped back. "I thought so."
"Wait—no, you don't understand—" You reached for him, but he sidestepped, graceful and practiced like all that he was. He refused to look at you, and that hurt. "It's not that I don't want you, it's just—complicated. The clan, your family, your are—"
"So you would have me in secret. Hidden away like something shameful."
"That's not what I meant!"
"Then what did you mean, Y/n?" He rounded on you, and there was something wild in his eyes now. "Because from where I stand, it sounds like you want me to father your child and then... what? Disappear? Pretend it never happened?"
"I want—" You faltered. What did you want? A baby, yes. But also... "I want you to be happy. I want—I don't want to trap you in something you don't want."
"You think I don't want you?"
The question hung in the air, and you realized like the slow idiot you were.
God… Neteyam loves you.
Neteyam withdrew, and his eyes went flat.
And to think they'd been warm moments before. Amber catching firelight, soft at the edges where they creased when he smiled.
"You want me to…" His jaw worked. Tendons surfaced along his neck like taut rigging. "In a room. Alone. With a machine. So the scientists can have what they need."
He paused.
"And you would have a child. My child." His head tilted—just enough to show you his profile, the angle of his cheekbone catching faint bioluminescence. "But not me."
"Neteyam—"
"Did you think of me at all when you made this plan? Or only of what I could provide?"
You stayed silent. What answer existed that wouldn't flay you both? The quiet between you thickened, pressing against your ribs until breathing felt like labor.
"Why?"
His eyes pinned you there, and the air turned viscous, hard to pull into your lungs.
"Why me, Y/n?" His voice dropped lower. "There are many hunters. Strong warriors. Men with…" His jaw locked. He stopped himself. You saw his throat work around whatever words he'd swallowed back down.
His hand rose—hesitant, trembling at the edge of restraint—and this time his knuckles brushed your cheek.
You stepped aside.
The loss of contact felt mutual. "Because you are my friend. There is no one else I trust more than you."
Somehow deep down you knew that was wrong answer.
His ears collapsed. He took a step back. His tail curled loosely around his own ankle—a self-soothing gesture you'd seen only once before, when his father had dressed him down publicly for a mistake Lo'ak had made. The memory of it then had broken something in your chest. Seeing it now presented by you, because you decided to put this space between.
"Of course."
His voice became polite. Formal in the way he'd speak to visiting elders or Tarsem when his father watched. All the warmth scraped out and replaced with something that looked like respect.
"I am honored you would consider me. Your trust means a great deal."
Stop. Stop talking like that.
He turned halfway, hands finding a basket that sat fine where it was, but adjusted it anyway.
"If this is what you need from me, I will give it. I told you, I would do anything for you. I meant it."
He stood there, his hands hung loose at his sides. His ears were still drooped, his tail still limp. "Before you go." His adam's apple bobbed. "I need you to understand something."
Three strides. That's all it took to close the distance. This close, you could smell him—rain on leaves, something warm beneath and masculine from him.
His hand rose and cupped your face with devastating gentleness.
"I would have given you a child the old way," he whispered. "The sacred way. If you had only asked."
His thumb brushed your lower lip.
"But you did not ask. So I will not… I will not burden you with what I feel."
You eyed him in several quick successions. First his eyes before landing to the ground. Your smile came crooked, wrong. You turned before it could betray more. “If… well, if the insemination doesn’t work…” You whispered. You awkwardly stood there, he could see you just beyond his point of vision.
You didn’t add more to the conversation, those words seemed to be enough for you, and so you left.
Just like that.
Neteyam’s arm dropped.
He turned away from the entrance, moving deeper into the hut. His foot caught the edge of the fishing net he'd abandoned earlier, and he kicked it aside with uncharacteristic violence. It skittered across the floor, tangling against a storage basket.
His chest heaved.
"Skxawng," he hissed at himself. He began hitting himself with the flat part of his hand. "Stupid. Stupid."
He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes until colors burst behind his lids.
She hadn't known. All this time—the gifts, the hunts, the jewelry he'd woven with her in mind, the way he'd maneuvered to be assigned as her teacher—she hadn't known.
Well…now she did.
A sound escaped him.
"If the insemination doesn't work…"
His hands fell away from his face. He stared at the ceiling, at the patterns woven there, and something dark and hungry unfurled in his chest. He felt it within his blood, pumping through the tight muscle of his heart. A steady beat of pumping blood, disgusting, vile. His thoughts were vile.
Perhaps the scientist's machine would fail. Perhaps Eywa would see fit to intervene. Perhaps the foreign sky-people medicine would prove incompatible with Na'vi biology, and the procedure would collapse before it began, and she would turn to him with those wide eyes and say—
He cut the thought off before it could fully form. Shame burned unsteady.
But his hands were still shaking when he finally lowered himself onto his sleeping mat, and sleep did not come for a very long time.
.
.
.
The next day, Neteyam went to the compound in High Camp.
High Camp's research wing sprawled around the cliffside—away from most omatikaya structures. Here they did the real expirimentations, at least that is what he could gather from you, once upon a time.
Lets get this over with. Do what needs doing, then leave.
Neteyam snapped a mask, taking a breath. He moved like he was heading into battle and not into some sterile human box to jerk off into a cup, shoulders angled to avoid eye contact with the few scientists still hunched over their workstations.
He didn't want to prolong the suffering. Just do what needed doing and let you have the life you always wanted—the one with an infant at your breast and all the small violences of motherhood.
He could be generous. Play the part of friend. Provide the seed so some part-him, part-you creature could exist in the world, claim no responsibility, and slip back into the role of noble, prodigal son.
He could give you that, be the generous donor and watch from a careful distance while some part of him grew up calling someone else father.
Easy. Except—
I don't want that.
The admission was childish. He wanted to be constant into your life, not edited out of it. He wanted—Great Mother forgive him—he wanted the insemination to fail. Just so the two of you might—
"There you are!"
Neteyam had turned his head, frowning softly. He felt exposed. Ridiculous. A hunter of the Omatikaya, standing in a narrow corridor while Norm eagerly ran up to him.
Norm clapped his back hard enough to make him stumble. "You're good for doing this, man. Really. We already knew it was a long shot Y/n would accept me as a donor. I mean—" He laughed, sucking his teeth. "Mutxuk told me only a fool like herself would have my kids." Norms tail wagged.
It always did when anyone—anyone—mentioned his mate.
"Yes," Neteyam said carefully. "So I am here for the—"
"The insemination!"
Much too loud.
Heads turned. A pair of techs at a nearby console glanced over. Neteyam felt his skin prickle, every instinct screaming to bolt.
"—really remarkable, actually," Norm was saying, oblivious. His hands moved as he talked, gesturing wildly. "The Na'vi reproductive system has some fascinating differences from human biology. The volume alone is—"
"The room." His voice stayed polite. "Where is it?"
Norm blinked, seeming to remember himself.
"Right! Right, of course. This way."
Norm led him down another corridor—identical to the last, all gray panels and humming machinery—before stopping at a nondescript door. Norm's gloved hand pressed against a panel, and it slid open with a mechanical hiss.
Neteyam peered inside.
Small. Too small for someone of his height. A padded bench barely long enough for his frame. Harsh overhead lighting. And there, on a sterile metal tray beside the bench—
The pump.
It was… clinical. Plastic and tubing and a collection vessel that seemed almost insultingly small.
His jaw tightened.
"There are, uh... materials," Norm said, gesturing vaguely toward a screen mounted on the wall. "Visual aids. If you need them. Some of our avatar drivers mentioned that it helps with the, uh—" He cleared his throat. "—process."
"I do not need them."
The words came out edged, sharper than he meant. Neteyam forced his shoulders down, forced the mask of pleasant neutrality back into place even as something ugly coiled in his chest.
"Thank you, Norm. I will… manage."
"Take your time! No pressure. Just, uh—" Norm tapped the panel beside the door. "Just press the call button when you're done and I'll come collect the sample. Easy peasy.!"
The door hissed shut.
Neteyam stood alone in the too-bright room, staring at the pump on its sterile tray.
His tail curled tight around his own thigh.
It felt so unnatural, embarrassing. He looked at the pump, grabbed it, and felt dirty. His mother would kill him if she knew, and she'd know. Know he'd debased himself in a human facility, alone, for—
For what?
For you.
He clicked something. The pump jolted to life and suddenly it made a sound, vibrating and making a sucking motion.
It looked obscene. A mouth, almost. Soft ridges inside that he could see through the translucent material, designed to... to...
His ears flattened so hard against his skull they ached.
A wet, rhythmic squelching sound filled the room now—schluck—echoing off the walls and crawling into his ears and making a home there. The vibration traveled up his arm, settled into his bones. His hand jerked and he nearly dropped it.
He moved to turn it off instead. His thumb slipped on the button and it took three tries before the awful sound stopped and the silence rushed back in.
The sound continued. Schluck-schluck-schluck.
"Turn off, you—" His voice cracked. "Please, please—"
Fourth try. The button clicked. The awful sucking stopped.
His breath came faster now.
He looked down at himself. At the loincloth he'd have to remove. At the clinical collection vessel waiting on its tray like a hungry mouth.
His stomach turned.
For Y/n. This was for Y/n.
He repeated it like a mantra as he reached for the ties at his hip. His fingers fumbled—Neteyam, who could string a bow blindfolded, whose hands never shook, couldn't manage a simple knot.
The loincloth fell away.
He sat on the padded bench, and his knees nearly touched his chest. Too small. Everything in the human world was too small. The padding was cold against his bare ass, and he shivered despite the regulated temperature that kept this place at a constant seventy-two degrees.
He looked at the pump again. Then at the screen on the wall—dark, mercifully, but he knew what could show.
"Pornography," Lo'ak had said once, years ago, when they'd slipped into an abandoned storage unit and found a dusty disk case. The label was faded but readable: Barely Legal Beauties Vol. 3. "Heard it's like… humans mating. But, like, on purpose. For watching."
Neteyam had wrinkled his nose. "That's disgusting. And private, no? Who would film such a thing?"
Lo'ak had only shrugged, wiggling the disk between two fingers. "I dunno. Want to see?"
"No!"
But they'd both gathered at the screen anyway. Watched with wide eyes and burning faces as pale bodies writhed and moaned, as the woman's voice pitched higher and higher in sounds that seemed exaggerated, performative. Too mortified to speak of it after, though Lo'ak had made a joke three days later that earned him a punch to the shoulder.
And now—now it was being offered, and he felt sick.
I can do this myself, he thought, pride flaring stubborn and sharp. I don't need to watch demons mate.
His hand drifted down. He wrapped around himself with the kind of practiced familiarity that any man would know. He closed his eyes. Tried to summon something—anything—that might make this easier. The curve of a hip. The arch of a back. Soft sounds in the dark, breathy and wanting. Generic shapes. Anonymous bodies. Anything.
His cock remained soft.
"Come on," he muttered. His jaw clenched. His hand tightened, stroked faster, rougher—maybe friction would trick his body into cooperation.
Still nothing.
Panic crept higher. What if he couldn't? What if he went back out there empty-handed, the vessel as sterile and unused as when he'd entered? What would he tell them? Tell you?
Sorry, I couldn't even manage fucking my hand.
He tried again, fisting himself while his chest huffed. Two swallows, then one. Another when he traced the head of his cock and looked at the foreskin slowly slipping up and down, skin bunching up.
He thought of your face.
Your face when he'd touched your cheek in his hut. The way your expression had shifted from fear to confusion to realization. The step backward you'd taken, putting distance between his hand and your skin.
Friend.
His hand stilled.
“Fuck.”
He almost wanted to cry.
He couldn't go beyond half-hard.
Neteyam’s cock sat heavy against his thigh, half-swollen and useless. He stared at it, jaw tight, ears flat against his skull. His hand reached for the pump before he could think better of it.
He turned it on, almost turned it off, before slowly pressing it. And then-
The suction hit him all at once—warm, wet, alive—and his breath punched out of his lungs in a shocked gasp. His head snapped back against the padded bench, braids scattering across the surface.
"Ah—fuck—"
The suction pulled a sound from him that would've gotten him exiled from the clan. A high, needy whine that cracked at the edges. His head snapped back, braids swinging, and his free hand scrabbled against the padding beneath him for something—anything—to anchor to.
It was warm.
Body temperature. Soft silicone that yielded and gripped and pulled with a relentless rhythm that made his thighs shake. When he sank deeper into it, the wet heat of it—Great Mother, it felt like—it felt like—
His hips jerked, chasing the sensation with a desperation that would've humiliated him if he could think past the pleasure sparking up his spine.
Ancestors forgive me.
The pump didn't care about his shame. It continued its mechanical rhythm—suck, release, suck, release—with a consistency no living thing could match.
His thighs trembled. His tail thrashed against the bench, the tuft at its end brushing the sterile floor with each desperate sweep. The bioluminescent freckles scattered across his chest and shoulders began to glow brighter, pulsing in time with his racing heartbeat.
"Ah—" He bit down on his lower lip hard enough to taste copper. "Eywa—"
His eyes squeezed shut tighter. He needed to focus. Needed to think of something, someone—
Y/n.
The image came unbidden. Not the clinical Y/n who'd explained insemination cycles like she was reading from a datapad. The other one. The one who'd hugged him so tightly he could feel every curve pressed against him. The one whose head barely reached his chest. Whose waist was so small his thumbs would touch if he held her.
His grip on the pump tightened.
He imagined it was her mouth instead.
Warm and wet and eager. Those pretty human eyes looking up at him while she swallowed him down, while she choked on him, while tears streamed down her flushed cheeks and she took it anyway because she wanted to, because she—
A broken moan tore from his throat.
The suction increased—he must've hit a setting—and suddenly it was pulling at him, milking him, and he couldn't—
His hips bucked harder now, chasing something building low in his belly.
"Y/n!"
Your name slipped out before he could stop it.
His free hand fisted in his own hair, tugging hard, and he pictured you beneath him instead. Small and soft and finally, finally his.
"I love you—"
The words tumbled out, slurred and wanting. His hips bucked harder, faster, chasing the build in his belly. The pump squelched around him, slick and hot and relentless, and he pictured your face. The way you'd blush. The way you'd gasp when he pushed inside—
"I love you, I love you, I love you.”
He pictured you underneath him. Those thick thighs he'd glimpsed once (just once, when you'd bent to pick something up) spread wide. That soft belly he wanted to bite. The way you'd sound—would you whimper? Would you beg? Would you say his name in that breathy little gasp you used when surprised?
The pump made an obscene schlick-schlick-schlick sound as he fucked into it.
His tail lashed so hard it knocked over a tray of instruments. The clatter barely registered.
"Please—" To who? To what? "Please, please, Y/n—"
He was close. So close. The pressure built low in his belly, coiling tighter and tighter, and he could feel his balls drawing up, could feel the way his cock swelled even thicker in the pump's grip, could feel—
you. Under him. Around him. Squeezing him. Milking him. Taking everything he had to give and begging for more.
"Y/n!"
Your name ripped from his throat as he came.
The first thick rope of cum shot into the collection vessel with enough force to splatter. Then another. And another. More than any human could produce—more than he'd ever produced before—hot and endless, pumping out of him in waves that seemed to go on forever while he gasped and shook and whined through it.
He sat there, chest heaving like he'd run a mile, sweat cooling too fast in the sterile hum of climate control. The pump released him with a sound that shouldn't have been so loud. Wet. Obscene. The kind of noise that made his ears pin flat against his skull.
His cock slipped free—oversensitive, twitching, already softening.
The collection vessel sat on its tray, full.
He stared at it. At the evidence of what he'd just done. Thick and pearlescent, still warm, destined for a freezer somewhere in this sterile compound. To be thawed when needed. Inserted into you by clinical hands and instruments that had no right to touch you at all.
His child. Made like this.
Something wet slid down his cheek. He didn't recognize it at first—the salt, the heat. Then his hand moved, rough, angry, swiping it away and stood on legs that didn't quite feel like his own. His loincloth lay crumpled on the floor, and he retrieved it with stilted movements—tie here, adjust there—until he looked almost normal again.
His reflection stared back from a darkened monitor. Wild-eyed. Wrecked. The bioluminescent freckles scattered across his shoulders still glowed too bright—dying embers that refused to go out.
He looked away.
The call button sat beside the door. One press and Norm would come. Would collect what he'd left behind. What he'd given.
He pressed it.
Norm arrived smiling—awkward, a little too cheerful, like humor could smooth over what they both knew. Human shame. Neteyam wished he carried some of it. Just enough to make this hurt less.
"Kinda hard to focus, yeah?" Norm's laugh came out strained, forced. "It's supposed to be effective and quick, so—" He shrugged, pulling on gloves with practiced snaps. His gaze skittered away, then back, never quite landing. "You did good."
Did good. Like he'd passed some test.
Norm was already moving, gloved hands efficient. He took the pump, placed it in some bin with a hollow thunk. Then his attention shifted to the container. "Good amount, though." A pause. His smile softened into something almost kind. "Hopefully you're fertile!"
"How long?" Neteyam's voice came out rougher than intended.
Norm blinked. "Until we know if it takes?"
"Until she..." He couldn't finish. The image lodged in his throat—you, legs spread in this same clinical horror, while human hands inserted what should have been given in darkness and warmth and something resembling love.
"Oh." Norm's expression shuttered. Professional mask sliding back into place. "We'll prep her for insemination within the next few hours. The sample's viability window is optimal in the first six hours, but we've got extenders that'll keep it good for up to forty-eight if needed." He was already sealing the container, labeling it with quick, efficient movements.
The words barely registered.
Neteyam moved through the corridor like something half-dead, his bare feet silent against the cold metal flooring. Norm's voice buzzed somewhere behind him.
"Pretty fertile."
His stomach turned.
"Right," he managed, the word hollow.
He didn't look back. Couldn't. If he saw the collection vessel one more time—saw what he'd produced while crying into a machine, he might do something shameful. Might grab it and run. Might smash it against the sterile floor.
Might beg them to let him try again.
And he did.
Not out loud, never that honest, but the way he'd shown up yesterday—and the day before—After the first time, it became impossible not to want it again. It was easy. Accessible. A locked room where he could moan your name and no one would hear. No one would know. He could pretend his hand was yours, that the cold clinical touch of the apparatus was your heat, your softness, your—
Three times now. He'd done this three times in as many days.
Norm hadn't questioned it. Why would he? Wider sample. Just in case. The words had slipped out so easily, and Neteyam's ears had barely drooped at all.
But Norm caught on. The bastard.
"I'm gonna have to stop you now, kid."
Neteyam froze. His tail went rigid.
Norm shifted his weight, one hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. "We have enough. Er—more than enough. A goddamn sperm bank at this point." A sigh, almost apologetic. "If we need any more, we'll ask."
"No more?"
Norm's eyebrows rose behind his breathing apparatus. A flicker of something passed across the human's face—concern, maybe, or the beginning of uncomfortable understanding. The kind that made Neteyam's skin crawl because it meant Norm saw.
"Y/n only needs one baby," Norm said slowly, carefully. "Maybe two if she wants another later. You've been…" A nervous laugh that didn't land. "Very thorough."
Neteyam's jaw worked, tongue pressed hard against his teeth. Thorough. Such a clean word for what he'd been doing.
"If we need any more, we'll ask."
They did not ask again.
So Neteyam stole it.
A/N- Please remember to reblog or like! Much appreciated!!!
After Quaritch's colossal fuck up that led to General Ardmore's death, you've been promoted to—by proxy—the new general of RDA's scattered forces. While Varang mourns Quaritch who is left comatose, you naturally become a foil to his character. Happy, genuinely good, and most of all—a reliable leader. Like a spark to a flame—or a ring leaders final defeat—Varang and Quaritch both realize they've met their match.
A/N- In honor of all my followers and readers who are always so patient and so loving. Please enjoy!
Part Two Coming Soon
Duties were one thing.
When you signed on with the RDA's militia—some glorified grunt work on a moon nobody back home could pronounce—you hadn't really known what you were walking into. Tall, beautiful Na'vi women? Hell yeah. Six-legged nightmare creatures that'd chew through cartilage and spit out your bones?
Nah. Not so much.
You'd died about seven months in—a damn monkey of all the stupid ways to go. Prolemuris, the scientist had said. Supposedly non-violent. Yours had other ideas. Chewed through cheek and jaw until the only thing left recognizable was your dog tag, still tangled in what used to be your throat.
But there was a silver lining to bleeding out in alien dirt.
The avatar.
"Y/N!" One of the guys tossed up a hand for a high-five. You met it, remembered at the last second to pull your strength, and still nearly sent him stumbling. Avatar strength was something else. Na'vi strength, really. Even a greeting could break bones if you forgot yourself.
"Hey, did you finish those files I sent?" You sipped from your bowl-sized mug, the ceramic warm and almost delicate in your oversized palm. You glanced back over your shoulder. Samuel. That was his name. Good guy. Decent work ethic. He grimaced.
Right.
The bags under his eyes told you it wasn't laziness keeping him from the paperwork—it was exhaustion. The kind that came from holding together the infrastructure that kept Bridgehead from becoming a glorified camping trip with guns.
He shifted his weight and rubbed the back of his neck, fingers digging into the knot of stress there. Good man. Tired man. "Sorry, Y/n... Half the admin team's gone."
You sighed through your nose, ears flicking back.
Of course he hadn't finished. Half of everything was gone now, the resources, the men. Half the point, if you let yourself think about it too long.
You didn't.
After Quaritch's colossal screw-up—the one that left Ardmore in a body bag and scattered the RDA forces like buckshot, you'd been the unlucky bastard promoted to pick up the pieces. Shovel the shit and smile while doing it.
All because Quaritch couldn't keep his dick in his pants and his vendettas in check. All because Ardmore got herself killed trying to clean up his mess.
Most days it felt like holding water in your fists.
"Think of your families," you'd told them, exhausted. "Back on Earth, dealing with all that other bullshit. Make them a home here. You're the pathfinders. The originals.They'll give you land, titles, the whole fucking package when this pays off." You'd leaned in, let your height—this body's height—loom just enough. "Focus on the job."
It had worked. Mostly. People liked being told their suffering had a purpose.
"Thanks, ma'am." Samuel's hand twitched toward a salute before he caught himself, an old habit. "I'll get it to you."
"Yeah." You took another sip,and let the bitter cut of coffee settle on your tongue. It tasted different in this body, everything did. "You do that."
You were easy. That's what set you apart from Ardmore
She was military—came from military—and it showed in every clipped tone, all that rigidity she'd dragged from Earth still locked in her shoulders.
You weren't like that. You knew what a militia was. Knew it stayed a militia no matter how many star-generals they pinned to their chests or how crisp they wanted the salutes. The force was stitched together from ex-cops, ex-military, ex-something—people who'd left their last lives behind and came here looking for a new one. Or running from an old one, same difference.
You wouldn't force order where it didn't fit, nor would you pretend this was anything other than what it was. That slack in the leash earned you something close to loyalty. Or at least, it kept the grumbling to a manageable pitch.
"Any word from Quaritch?"
You glanced at Wainfleet beside you. Head bald, skin smoothed to a shine. You remembered him paying the sci-ops guys to keep it that way—some chemical treatment so the hair wouldn't grow back. Couldn't stand the thought of stubble creeping back—Didn't see the appeal in the constant shaving, he said.
"Nope." He didn't even look up.
You clicked your tongue. "Fucking figures."
Lyle's grin split wide—an actual grin, the kind that pushed against his eyes. “You’re gonna beat him blue, ma’am?”
You muffled a slow smile. “Nah—purple.”
He laughed again and his hand came up like he might touch your shoulder—hovered there for half a second—then dropped back to his rifle strap instead.
The guy was well-liked across the sector, a proper Pandora veteran, the kind with stories that kept circling back in mess halls and smoke breaks. Everyone knew his name and his face—and you knew well enough that having him at your side lent you borrowed credibility.
Because to put it plainly: You weren't one of them.
You hadn't crawled through boot camp or earned your scars in some dusty colonial firefight. You weren’t a grunt, never bled in some Earth-side military operation. You never even held a rifle except in the training sims they'd made you run through.
The RDA didn't hire you to shoot blue savages or burn forests. They hired you because you understood how people worked.
That was it.
That was the whole trick.
You'd spent most of your life watching a political science and communications degree gather dust on your wall, and the one time you did use it, you applied it in different ways. Like organizing. Like getting people to listen. Like—eventually—striking against the RDA for fair wages.
You'd been good at it. Too good, maybe.
You'd managed to fuck over their operations back on Europa, enlisted over twenty thousand workers to strike—which sparked others, simultaneously, across three colonies. A domino effect. Beautiful, at least you thought so.
The suits gave you two choices: a bullet or a badge.
You took the badge.
You really should have taken the bullet.
You rounded the hall and stopped.
Varang. Quaritch's girl.
She'd agreed to stay after you'd laid out the terms—RDA would compromise, let her operate with autonomy, provide resources, turn a blind eye to whatever the hell she wanted, so long as she delivered bodies and intelligence. You'd even let her keep Quaritch, despite the fact that the bastard deserved a firing squad for his third catastrophic overreach of authority.
"Shit, forgive me Varang.” The Na'vi left your mouth in textbook precision, the overly formal dialect you'd drilled into yourself. Because barely anyone cared enough to understand na’vi.
Varang stood directly in your path. A head shorter, which meant she had to tilt her face up to meet your eyes. Strange, considering her kinds usual advantage.
"You are pardoned," she murmured.
The usual smirk was gone. In its place sat something harder to place—a grimace, but you thought it was something uglier.
She didn't hiss, which was what you'd braced for, honestly. The woman had this quality that made your skin prickle between fascination and the goosebumps of hair standing up on your neck. Unsettling and magnetic in equal measure—thats what it was—like watching something beautiful rot slowly.
You glanced at the queue hung against her shoulder.
You heard about how she lost in the battle, and that loss had carved her face into the youth it was, hidden in some faux confidence. But you could tell, always. Varang didn't say much these days.
Still.
You shifted aside to let her pass, but caught it—the flicker of her eyes tracking down, then up again, and where they dragged, they lingered before leaving.
"I think someone sees somethin' they like." Wainfleet's elbowed you. You cocked a brow, the corner of your mouth twitching despite yourself.
“She looks like she wants to eat me.”
"Two girls eating each other out, count me—"
"Oh, shut the fuck up, Wainfleet."
"Yes ma'am."
.
.
.
You'd see Varang a few more times after that—mostly in the infirmary, where Quaritch was still recovering from his burns. Which, had left him looking wrong. The flesh puckered and raw, wrinkled kinda like an old prune. You watched her trace those marks sometimes, fingers following the scars with a focus that left no interpretation of tenderness and more apathy.
You watched him settle uneasily, even in sleep. Sometimes she'd dig in hard, pressing until the marks flared red and violent again. You wondered what the purpose was. To harm? To feel?
You came upon one of those instances again.
You were just visiting—making rounds through the injured, playing the role expected of you and trying to lift morale by playing the usual smiles, the usual compliments, sprinkled with a few well-placed words. The song and dance you got good at. You liked to think that since you were nicer than Ardmore and more reliable than Selfridge or Quaritch, they responded to you better.
Technically, they did.
"Y/N!" One of the amputees lifted his nub in greeting, waving it like a flag. "You come to visit us again?"
You nodded. Had to crane your neck down, but you settled your weight into a crouch, shimmying forward until you were eye level. "Yes, sir."
A gesture over your shoulder brought the cafeteria workers forward, arms laden with slices of pie and bottles of cheap booze.
"Shit, are we dying?" one said.
Those who could manage it shuffled upright, reaching for the offerings with eager hands.
"It's Thanksgiving on Earth," you lied. Not that they'd know. You helped distribute the forks, metal clinking softly against plastic trays. "And you men deserve some pleasures, yeah? What do you think?"
Several cheers.
You chuckled, folding yourself up again. Your ear twitched at the sound of a muffled gasp, and you glanced back toward the movement. Still had to get used to it—you'd even tied your tail to your calf since it kept hitting people in the face.
And there she was, the witch of the RDA.
Quaritch was deep in sleep, bandaged to the nines, heart monitor beeping its steady rhythm. Varang's fingers pressed into his skin again, nails finding the seams of scar tissue, digging until his breath hitched even in unconsciousness. You frowned. The nurses didn't intervene anymore. The doctors couldn't, really.
What would they do? Threaten her? The eight-foot Na'vi warrior?
"Fuckin' bitch."
You glanced back at the man who muttered it—Corporal Hayes, both legs gone below the knee—his eyes fixed on the glass partition. One of them shook his head, mouth twisted in disgust. "One of their ikrans ate Ted. She hissed at me when I got too close, and Quaritch just scolded her. Like she was a goddamn pet."
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the beds.
Varang and Quaritch were separated into another glass sector. The men wanted nothing to do with him anymore. Three times he'd led good men to their deaths. The first time, he was a martyr. The second time, the men still believed—though murmurs started coming up. The third time?
Three strikes and you’re out.
"Don't call her that." Your voice was firm, already cutting through the low grumbles. "I don't want that language, alright? Not from any of you."
You sighed, moving among them now, to rest a hand on Hayes's shoulder. Gentle, you reminded yourself. Not too much force. They huffed, sullen but obedient like children.
"I know you're all tired. I know you're angry." You paused, and shifted your weight. "Don't have to be in the field to see it written all over you. But we can't let those natives sow discord, yeah? See what happens when you focus too much on those blue monkeys?" You jerked your chin toward the glass partition, where Varang's silhouette loomed over Quaritch's prone form. "That's what happens. So just keep it distant. Impersonal. Shoot them if you have to, but don't make it personal. I don’t want love stories or vendettas. Just the mission."
They nodded, glancing back at the Na'vi woman and her pruned-up man. A few clicked their tongue.
You frowned, shifting your gaze to Wainfleet. He caught it immediately, giving a subtle nod as if he'd already known what you were thinking. He stepped forward, voice low and easy as he picked up the conversation, drawing their attention back.
You grabbed the last slice of pumpkin pie and the remaining bottle of booze, then turned toward the glass separator.
The door hissed open.
Varang's fingers were bloody when you entered, although the door shut behind you, sealing the sterile air of blood inside. She sat hunched beside Quaritch's cot, hands knotted together, tail draped lifeless across the floor. You saw even from your location that her knuckles were split, and underneath the beds, her nails were rimmed dark.
Blood or paint, or just as likely—both.
"Varang,"
You said it the real way. Na'vi on your tongue instead of the clumsy English shape most defaulted to. Ardmore didn’t like using the language, and selfridge couldn’t be bother to know it.
She didn't turn, but her ears flicked. She knew.
“Brought you something.” Her gaze slid sideways and tracked your approach as you settled beside her, weight shifting until you found your spot.
"Y/n."
Your brows lifted. "You know my name?"
Her lips twitched—something that wasn't quite a smile. She looked back at Quaritch's motionless form. "They say it fondly."
…Strange.
You pushed the pie closer, insistent. "You gonna eat? Not as good as the real stuff on Earth. The spices are genuine enough, but the pumpkin…" The words flattened, You tried again. "It's artificial. But it tastes right."
She accepted it slowly, eyes narrowing. "Why give this to me?"
You shrugged. "You haven't eaten, not since you and him came back." A pause. Your voice dropped. "Come on, let me see you try it."
She went very, very still.
Her pupils dilated.
"You bite first."
Ah. There it was.
You almost laughed. Would've, if her hand hadn't drifted—so casual toward the blade strapped to her thigh. "It's not poisoned. Jesus, Varang. If I wanted you dead, I'd gun you down. Not waste precious chemicals on pastry." You reached beneath her hands and took a generous bite, chewed deliberately, swallowed. Opened your mouth, then stuck out your tongue. "There. Proof. M’ not convulsing. Not even foaming at the mouth. I'm pretty alive, don’t you think?"
Varang frowned. Her eyes traced the baby canines you had—blunt things, rounded at the tips. Nothing like a true Na'vi's.
Cute.
She leaned forward and sniffed, nose wrinkling before she took a cautious bite.
The chewing is what got you. She didn’t seem to like the texture, at least you thought so at first. Her brow furrowed, ears swiveling back as she worked it over her tongue, testing, a hint suspicious. But then she took another bite, and then another. Her tail began to sway, just slightly, or until she noticed you watching and went rigid.
"You stare."
Her ears went flat against her skull.
"It's nice is all."
"Why?"
Quick now—she finished in four more bites then licked her fingers clean. You watched the pink of her tongue catch the flakes of crust, the smear of filling at her knuckle.”
"Well..." You blinked. "Hunger's pretty common on Earth. You see fat humans here 'cause the RDA feeds 'em well. Or well enough. They eat as much as they can. But on Earth? Just about everyone's skin and bones." A whisper now. "It's nice seeing people eat when you’re used to hunger."
Your eyes glazed over, seeing some memory you didn’t voice. Varang saw it, and her tense shoulders slowly relaxed.
Quaritch's monitor beeped.
Beeped again.
That took you out of your stupor. Great. Way to be emotional in front of the woman who probably wants you dead. You stood, knees cracking faintly. "I uh, I gotta leave." You grumbled it in apology. "Enjoy the booze. Grab more if you'd like." You patted her back—and you were moving toward the door when she finally spoke.
"It was like that for my people as well."
You lingered, and although it did not show in your face you felt a jutting bout of empathy, likened by your restrictive trail that wished to sway.
"When the fires came we didn't have anything to eat." Her spine curved inward. You just listened, gave her that space. "I remember the hunters tried, really tried..." She said it slowly, and she too slipped somewhere terrible and unvoiced. "My father did nothing."
Now that—that was pure hate. Her hands became fists. You heard the wet sound of it, the fresh blood welling.
"He prayed," she continued, her voice suddenly became flat. "Prayed to Eywa while we starved. While my mother—" She stopped. "He said it was Her will. That we must accept that balance required sacrifice. As if he was Tsahik and knew the ways." Her laugh became skidded. "The Balance."
You bumped her shoulder.
It startled her—you saw the flinch, but she rolled her expression back defensively. "You did what you did, Varang.” You said simply. "Kept your people alive. Kept them fed. That's what matters." You rose again, and offered something that might've been a smile. You understood, of course you did. Heavy was the head that wore the crown… or something like that. "Good job. I'll check on you and your lover boy, okay?"
Varang just watched.
For a moment—just one—confusion crossed her face. Shadows over clouds. Then she replaced it, smoothing it over with apathy, with that blankness.
But you'd already seen it.
You left her there with the empty plate and the unopened bottle, the door hissing close.
Good job.
When had anyone ever said that to her?
You let the door shut behind you, Wainfleet was already there.
shirtless.
Because of course he was.
He balanced a shot glass on the flat plane of his blue chest—abs flexed, skin gleaming with rampant bioluminescent freckles. The other men had formed a semi-circle around him. God. It was like you were back in college and had just stumbled into aa frat boy ritual.
"Wainfleet! Wainfleet! Wainfleet!"
Fists pounding rhythm against bedrails, IV stands, anything that would make noise. The chant built and stupid and somehow exactly right for this moment. Someone whistled. You caught sight of one soldier half-hanging off his cot.
Lyle arched until his spine curved like some drawn bow. The glass tipped, amber liquid spilled down the valleys of his chest, pooled in his collarbone, tracing the line of his throat. He opened his mouth and caught it, head thrown back, Adam's apple working.
The room exploded.
"YEAHHHHHH! BOOYAH!"
He snapped upright, arms spread wide, the empty glass held high and empty. His grin was feral. "Who's the dog?! Who!?" He turned in a circle, showing off to his audience. "Come on people! Who?! Who's the fuckin' dog!"
You couldn't help it. A smile tugged at your mouth despite yourself. Stupid. So stupid. But— "You are, Wainfleet. You're a dog."
He spun, ears swiveling toward your voice before the rest of him caught up. His grin went lopsided and sheepish, still riding the high of whatever testosterone-fueled madness this was. "Aw, shit. Teacher's here, boys." He snagged his shirt from where it hung off a chair back, fumbling with the buttons. "Gotta bounce."
Groans erupted around the room.
"Already?" Someone groaned from the back. Martinez, you thought. Hard to tell when they were all piled together like this.
"C'mon, Corp. Just one more round—"
"Turn on the TV at least!" Another voice. Yep, definitely Martinez, whiny as ever. "Nurse keeps shutting the damn thing off."
You folded your arms, leveling them with a look. "Yeah, 'cause you guys fight over it." Your trapped tail flickered, but the tape held it from doing so. "And I do not want to get yelled at by Miss Donna. Again."
Grumbling. Pouting. Grown men reduced to children because they couldn't share a remote. As if they weren't here recovering from a gunfight.
Wainfleet had managed to get his shirt halfway buttoned, though it sat crooked across his chest. He caught your eye and winked. "She yelled at you once and you never recovered."
You rolled your eyes. "She's terrifying."
"She's five-foot-two."
"And she could kill you with a look."
He laughed, the sound low and easy. “Yeah, yeah.” He turned to the men. "Enjoy the pies, guys. Rest well and recover."
You waved. A few waved back, half-hearted. Wainfleet smoothed his shirt down, face settling back into something neutral and military.
He jerked his chin toward the door.
You followed, falling into step beside him as the door swung shut. The earlier sounds of the men were now painfully replaced by the silence, with only the boots of either bodies echoing throughout the hall.
Wainfleet glanced over—rifle shifting against his shoulder. "How is he?"
"Recovering." The word left breezy, lighter than it had any right to. "Wounds keep reopening, but no infections." You kept your gaze forward, tracking the endless grey of RDA hallways. All fucking identical.
I should thank Varang. Any moment when Quaritch is disposed of is a moment I don’t have to worry for his sorry-ass.
"Hm."
He was staring. You felt it crawl up the side of your face, settle behind your ear like an itch you couldn't scratch. There was something he clearly wanted to say. A question, you’d think. But his jaw was kept tight, and his tongue licked his bottom lip only.
You sighed. "I'm not going to kill Quaritch."
He stopped mid-stride, boots scuffing metal, then jogged to catch up. "Never said that."
"You're very expressive."
His ears flicked. "Am I?"
"Devastatingly."
Your footsteps echoed down the corridor—his heavy, yours clipped. The fluorescent lights overhead hummed. One had gone out entirely. Budget cuts, the RDA loved those and you had nothing to replace them with.
"...I don't think Quaritch remembers what team he plays for."
He glanced over his shoulder, voice dropping lower, like someone might be listening. Someone probably was.
"And the men wouldn't care. Probably celebrate, you know. Bring up morale." A pause. "Teach them a lesson."
Your own words used against you.
You looked up at Wainfleet, keeping the flicker of surprise buried deep. Smart boy. Dangerous, if you hadn't caught it so quickly.
"Wainfleet." You stopped walking.
He stopped too.
The hallway stretched behind him. Grey against blue, identical as the previous hallway you just passed—again.
"We're limited in everything right now. We start killing each other, what does that say?" You met his eyes. "’You could be next. Fall in order. This is a lesson.’"
He shifted his weight, towering over you properly now. His gaze dropped to meet yours, and you watched his pupils dilate just slightly. "Is that so bad? They like you enough to know it'd be a one-time thing." His tongue clicked against his teeth.
His eyes fell to your lips.
"Who doesn't like you...?"
Softer, that last part.
Oh.
Well, that was new.
You kept your expression blank, turning your attention toward the bridge door at the corridor's end. Beyond that lay the outside. Nighttime now, though on Pandora it was never really night, not like Earth.
"Look." You reached up and took his wrists, lifting them between you. "We're blue. We're Na'vi now, whether we like it or not." You held his gaze. "Kill someone like Quaritch—someone who vehemently hated the Na'vi, then turned to their side—what does that say about us?"
His frown deepened. "We're just as likely to turn."
"Exactly."
You released him. He didn't release you. He caught your hands again before they could fall, fingers threading through yours instead, five against five, and for a moment you felt genuinely surprised. You looked up at him, uncertain.
His voice dropped lower—really low. "...You know I wouldn't let anything happen to you, right, ma'am?" The swallow was visible in his throat. Not cocky confidence now. "You don't gotta worry about a mutiny, not from me or anybody." He squeezed your hands gently. "I'd handle it."
He thought this meant something.
"Careful, Wainfleet." Your voice came out quieter than intended. You pulled away. He let you, though you felt the reluctance with it "I don't fraternize with those below me."
"Ouch." The smile returned—strained, forced back into place like armor. He gave you space, then cocked his head, trying for lightness. "What if I make movements, huh? Go up the food chain, play my cards right?"
"As if." You snorted. "You think The Chairman is handing out promotions? We're lucky if they hand out rations."
He grinned at that—genuine this time. "Yeah, well. Gotta have dreams, right?"
The two of you started walking again. You caught them then—yellow eyes peering around the corner. Watching. Hiding. Like an Owl. You found yourself close to acknowledgment, but stayed silent instead, letting your gaze slide past as if you'd seen nothing at all.
Cute. Varang was stalking.
You preferred to let her think she was being clever.
"Hey," you said, forcing your attention back to Wainfleet. "Where'd you learn that trick back in the infirmary, anyway? The—" You gestured vaguely. "Rib thing."
“College.”
You blinked. "College."
"Yup." He popped the 'p', looking far too pleased with himself. "Why do you sound so surprised?" He shot you a look, mock-offended. "I'm educated. I got credentials."
"Hm." You filed that away too. Another piece of the puzzle that was Lyle Wainfleet. "Surprising."
"I'm full of surprises, ma'am."
You didn't know whether to laugh or sigh. "You're telling me you went from actual college to—" You gestured at him, at the blue skin and the rifle and the sheer absurdity of it all. "This?"
"Life's funny that way." He grinned. "Besides, pays better. And the benefits—" He tapped his temple. "Can't beat immortality."
"It's not immortality if they can still shoot you."
"Pessimist."
"Realist."
The bridge door slid open with a hiss. Cool air rushed in, carrying the scent of wet earth with it. By proxy, the jungle too. Pandora at night—alive in ways Earth would no longer be.
.
.
.
“Exports are down—” Crackle. “---40% this quarter, L/n!”
Your hand found the bridge of your nose. Fifty shareholders or maybe more, all screaming through the comm link, each one convinced their panic mattered most.
It'd been like this for weeks now. Regular calls to dead rocks. They didn't even give you the benefit of a middle man—some random guy who'd understand your exhaustion, who'd roll his eyes when you did and maybe share a drink over the stupidity of your shared employers.
Nah.
They gave you this instead. Bypassed every buffer, every assistant, every carefully constructed layer of don't fucking call me directly just to scream into your ear at 0600 hours.
"Look, I need to focus on recorporating what was lost," you muttered, keeping your voice level despite the tightness creeping up your spine. "Can't run the machines without people fixing them, defending them, operating them. Send more personnel, then we'll talk numbers."
Static crackled. "Send more people!?"
You were grateful for the audio-only call.
Your head tipped back, fingers pressing into your eye sockets until those strange squigly patterns bloomed behind your lids.
"It takes billions of dollars to send one convoy of people. We sent thousands last time!"
What did you expect? you wanted to say. Think it's so easy? Come over here yourself.
"The indigenous population—"
"The savages, you mean." Another voice cut in, sharper. "Those uncivilized blue aliens—we're losing to what? Sticks and stones? We offered them education, offered peace, and—"
The groan tore out of you before you could stop it. You shoved yourself upright and your skull cracked against the ceiling.
Ngh.
You dropped back into the seat, hissing.
"You blew up their goddamn trees!" The words came louder than you meant them to, hot and jagged. "What did you expect!?" One hand rubbed the tender spot where your head met the popcorn cieling. "You send people with a few nuts rattling in their head and a strange affliction to violence. Course they're gonna retaliate."
Silence stretched across the transmission. You had said the wrong thing—or rather the right thing to the wrong people. You already knew what came next.
"Why did they—"
"That is completely—"
"We should have her removed—"
"You care about your job, L/n?"
That one cut through clean. More measured and calm, and for it, much worse. The Chairman.
"You want to return to Earth?" He continued into a pleasant tone. You could picture him: leaned back in some leather chair worth more than your yearly salary, fingers steepled. Smiling. "See your family again? Your mother's still on Mars, isn't she? Or was it—ah, yes. The Belt now. Lovely this time of year, I hear."
Your throat closed.
"...Yes."
"Good." He made his point. “And I’m guessing, of course, that you want to breathe air that doesn't taste like recycled piss?"
Your jaw clenched. Don't give him anything.
"You make do with what you have," he continued. "I don't care if you have to train the indigenous population yourself. I don't care if you have to build the machines with your bare hands. Those numbers go up, or your supplies get cut by half. Let's see how hard it is then."
The line went dead.
Your tail cracked against the faux leather seat, a whip-snap of pure frustration. The sound echoed in the cramped office—if you could even call it that. More like a glorified storage closet with a desk shoved in.
Dumb motherfuckers.
You let your head fall back, gaze drifting to the ceiling. Eye level—you could see every dent, every pockmark in the textured surface. Eye level. Always eye level now. Eye level. Eye level, Eye—
Your face went lopsided, you caught on the door.
The library.
The library with its neat rows of datapads and archival texts, mostly untouched. The library that sat quiet and unbothered—collecting dust because most RDA personnel couldn't be bothered. Civilians didn't read. Workers didn't have time.
But you did.
Your hands settled on the armrests, fingers tapping now.
The library that probably contained something useful. Some precedent, some case study, some fragment of institutional memory that might help you navigate the ignorance above and the resistance below.
Yeah. That Library.
.
.
.
The walk had been quiet.
Quiet in the way things only got nowadays. The RDA compound—anyone with eyes could see it—stood emptier than it had any right to. You wouldn't say you missed the machinery's constant beeping, or the fresh-faced trainees still shaking off Earth's gravity as they drilled in formation.
There was plenty you didn't miss, honestly. But noise was the thread that stitched Earth to Pandora, and for any human nursing nostalgia, that sound meant beeps and barked orders, the occasional honk from some idiot driver.
You'd overheard a few guys talking about it—the ones who ran excursions to the outer walls, who ventured into the actual jungle.
Too quiet.
Humans didn't do quiet. You didn't either.
Now you saw drunks. Grunts. Maybe a few civilians if they had some problem that needed a higher-up's signature or a second glance. Not that they'd get anywhere. Everything here moved like shit.
You almost tripped over a pothole.
Another thing to goddamn fix.
The list was biblical. You were drowning here—but dorwning would’ve been easier, at least you’d know which way was up.
You sighed and kicked at the loose gravel.
When they'd handed you the title—Administrator of Pandora—it wasn't like you'd wanted it. But it was either you or Selfridge, and that nepo-baby with his chairman daddy could go to hell.
You weren't the best choice for this job, but hell if you were the worst.
And Selfridge? Goddamn worst.
A pair of engineers ambled past, one raised a lazy hand. "Where you headed, Y/N?"
You smiled politely. "Library."
"Nerd," the taller one grinned. "You coming to watch the fireworks? It's Fourth of July back in the States."
You shrugged. "Nah. I'll send provisions. Just clean up after, yeah?"
They whooped and kept walking. You already knew it'd be a mess come morning. That was fine. Meant they weren't too disquiet.
Hm, disquiet.
You wondered if Jake Sully felt it too—this suffocating stillness. The stalemate had bled both sides dry. His people, his adopted people, had lost warriors to violence. Yours to poor leadership, which was just about worse. Shameful, really, that a jarhead with a god complex had outmaneuvered a trained colonel.
But Quaritch's real weapon had never been strategy. It was charm. And the bastard had been a loose cannon from the start.
Still.
He knew how to smile.
You looked at the empty buildings coming forward. The heart of Bridgehead lay here—shops, apartments, the half-constructed buildings that came to a halt. Concrete walls, piles of dirt. A civilization being built. The sound of emptiness.
Did Jake Sully hear it too? Seen it? Empty villages, the silence? You were certain his people were weeping somewhere beyond the perimeter. Could already picture the rituals they'd perform, prayers lifted to that goddess of theirs—benevolent, kind.
Stop. You closed your eyes, fingers curling into fists. They are not the aggressors.
And that was the truth of it, wasn't it? The RDA were the scumbags. Your people—humanity, Earth, whatever the fuck you wanted to call the collective responsibility—had let them. Funded them. Staffed them. The Na'vi were innocents in all of this, fighting for their homes the way anyone would. The way you would.
So why hate them?
Bitterness. You tasted it on your tongue. I feel bitterness for what they have naturally, and what we don't.
Shame followed, swift and equal, until you buried it beneath something sweet and honeyed and charming.
You turned the corner.
Fire came first—the smell of it, the familiar scent. But the ash was what marked Mangkwan territory. Living space, if you wanted to be gentle about it. Though it was full of dead things. Bodies skinned for whatever rituals they gave their dead and dying.
Ash drifted against your skin, leaving behind haze and the black smear of soot. You'd grown used to it. Another thing to endure. Another problem added to the long, long list that Quaritch just coincidentally happened to be responsible for.
Fucking asshole. Goddamn, selfish—
"Morning." You didn't smile—you'd learned the Mangkwan didn't like that, thought it was a threat display or maybe just found it disturbing on your flat human features—so instead you softened your voice to something gentler. You were sure they read it as weakness, but you allowed the assumption. At least for now.
They just stared.
Didn't blink, didn't hiss or snarl. Just stared with the widest yellow eyes you'd ever seen. Reminded you of something—what was it called again? An owl. The owl. Yeah, you'd seen one once in an old show. Biggest, strangest eyes.
"L/n."
The whisper came soft. Unusual enough to make you glance back.
They gonna eat me or something…? You just looked forward again. Fuckin' weirdos.
A few more faces peeked out from doorways, from behind hanging cloth. Then you turned another corner and heard it.
Soft footsteps.
Your ears swiveled first. Then your eyes. Then your head—in that order—as the footsteps grew closer, closer, until you met the yellow eyes of Varang.
Owl.
You shook the thought away. She didn't stop, just kept walking. She wore brighter colors today—bright for the Mangkwan, anyway. Purples and whites with the faintest touch of blue and red. Varang looked good. You had to give her that much. Chick had style.
“Varang?” It was hard to keep your surprise in check. She'd stopped mid-stride, and when she did, it was directly in front of you—close enough that you caught the dilation of her iris.
"L/n." Her voice was flat. "You walk loud."
You followed her gaze as it flicked sideways. Three Mangkwan warriors lingered near the cookfire, pretending not to watch. The moment her eyes found them, they scattered.
Her smile returned when she looked back at you.
Tsahik and Olo'eykte. You knew—somewhere in the back of your mind where thoughts were intuitive—that tyrants always fell the same way. You'd seen how she moved through her people—reverence laced with fear, the kind of devotion that always badly. Somewhere down the line, someone would try to kill her, for all tyrants ended in blood.
Grief for Varang, then. Inevitable grief.
"What?"
"Like a palulukan cub." She tilted her head, hands folding behind her back with unsettling ease. Her hum was carefully musical. "Stomping."
She drove her foot down, so suddenly, and you flinched.
"I'm not—" You caught yourself. Swallowed the irritation before it could shape itself into something she'd remember. You wouldn’t give her that. "I wasn't stomping."
"No?" One brow lifted. She stepped closer, and everything inside of you told you to step back. You didn't. Her gaze dragged down your frame, then back up—slow enough to leave you squirming and heated. "You breathe loud, too."
"Jesus Christ." The laugh came out rougher than intended, formed somewhere between a scoff. This damn woman. "Did you need something, or are you just here to critique my—my fucking breathing?"
Her fingers found a strand of your hair before you could stop her. She rubbed it between thumb and forefinger, testing its texture.
"Soft," she murmured.
Your question hung unanswered in the air between you. With Varang, you were learning, that was standard.
You yanked your hair back. "Really touchy, huh."
"Sensitive." Her lips curled just enough to flash the edge of a canine. "Is this why the Colonel keeps you?"
You paused.
Keeps me?
"Look, lady.” You straightened your spine, met her stare head-on even though your heart was doing that stupid rabbit-kick thing against your ribs. “Quaritch is lucky I'm keeping him. Dude does not keep me."
"Mm." She released your hair, but her hand didn't drop. It hovered, then shifted—fingers curling beneath your jaw, tilting your face up with a grip that was firm without crossing into cruelty. Her thumb traced the curve of your cheekbone, thoughtful. "You are... pretty. For a demon."
"Gee. Thanks. Really know how to make a girl feel special, don't you?"
Her head tilted the other direction now, reptilian. Studying you from a new angle. "Do you want to feel special, L/n?" She whispered it so softly.
"I—"
"Varang."
You both turned.
Lyle stood at the mouth of the alley, arms crossed, expression unreadable behind those sunglasses. A wad of pink bubblegum worked between his molars. He popped it before his attention settled on Varang.
"What did I say about you getting too close to the workers." His voice came easy with that pitched-too-high, dripping charisma. The smile naturally followed—all white teeth biting against perfect baby pink gum. "Soldiers, fine. White collars—that's for me to deal with."
He sauntered forward, his boots crushed ash. "Hm, dolly?"
Varang's frown lasted longer than you’d think, but the smile came soon enough. She released your face with a theatrical little pat. "Lyle." She dipped her head, mockery threaded through the gesture. "Your pet wanders."
You flinched at that. Pet.
Lyle's grin widened. He tilted his head, considering her. "Our Administrator was running an errand." His eyes cut to you. Even through the dark lenses, you knew his eyes were pinned to you. "You done?"
You lifted a brow. Nodded.
"Good." He patted the side of his thigh, whistling. "Come here."
You didn't need to be told twice.
You slipped past Varang, shoulder brushing hers, and felt her fingers ghost across your wrist as you passed.
"There you are. Been looking for you."
Usually he kept a respectable distance. Now, with Varang watching, he slung an arm around your shoulders and hauled you close. "What did I tell you about cutting through the Mangkwan? Not safe, dummy." The affection in his voice was performative, but his grip on your shoulder was real. He popped another bubble.
"Alright, alright. Get off." You shrugged him loose, steering back toward the road that led to the library. He yielded easy, grinning.
“Rude.”
"Yeah, well." You didn't look back. If you did, you'd see her still standing there, watching.
Lyle fell into step beside you, a solid wall at your flank. He didn't speak until you'd cleared Mangkwan territory, until the ash thinned and the smell of smoke gave way to Bridgehead's sterile concrete.
"She touch you?"
"What? No. I mean—" You exhaled through your teeth. "She grabbed my hair. It's fine."
"Uh-huh." His jaw worked. He didn't look at you. "And you let her."
"What was I supposed to do, deck her?"
"Wouldn't be the worst idea."
You shot him a look. "You're the one who helped Quaritch ally with them."
"Yeah." His mouth twisted. "I'm aware."
Then he glanced back at you, sunglasses sliding down just enough to catch your eyes. "Where you going anyway?"
"Library."
"Nerd."
You reached the entrance together, but where you climbed the steps, Lyle stayed below. His hand drifted to the rail, fingers drumming.
"Hey."
You turned.
"Be careful around her," he said quietly. His voice had lost its edge, gone soft in a way that you knew meant feelings you had to ignore. "You know? She's... well." He trailed off. Shrugged. "We both know what good comes from the Na'vi."
"Nothing." You met his eyes—or where you imagined them to be, behind the tint of those glasses. "I know, Lyle. Thank you."
His mouth did something complicated. "Don't make me come drag your ass out of trouble again. I got better shit to do."
Then he turned and disappeared back into Bridgehead's maze, leaving you alone.
You went in.
The library wasn't exactly open—not in the traditional sense. There was a hall first, narrow, that funneled into the actual collection, and before that, a living space.
Comfortable, if you were generous with the word. Meant for mingling or resting or just killing time before the next deployment. The couches were relatively pristine, as new looking as they’d been when they were first assembled.
You had just crossed the unmanned desk when the doors behind you hissed open. You didn't think much of it. Not until you felt the sudden pull of your tail, yanked free from the terrible adhesive tape.
"Lyle, what the—" You spun, and there she was. Varang again, this time with that unsettling hum building in her throat, a giggle half-formed. Your breath caught. You forced your face smooth, narrowing your eyes. "Jesus—what now, Varang?"
“I wished to follow.” She said innocently. “L/n.”
You squinted at her, exhaling through your teeth.
"Don't call me that—geeze, really don't. I'm Y/n. I told you, didn't I?" The grumble came out rougher than you meant. You glanced toward the doors. Just a few steps and you'd be through, would already be inside if not for the dangerously sexy pyromaniac nearby.
She didn't answer. Just stood there, thinking, wearing that strange smile that set your nerves humming. And there it was again—that no-good prickle crawling up your spine.
She waited.
Oh. She was waiting for you to talk.
"...Uh." You shifted your weight. Damn it. "Everything okay? You accommodated? Got a complaint or something?"
Varang hummed low in her chest, then grinned—the kind full of teeth. She shook her head and began to circle you. "No…" she said softly. She stopped in front of you, fingers finding the linen of your shirt, toying with a loose button before plucking it free with one sharp tug.
She inspected it, tilting her head with the idle curiosity of a child examining a beetle. Then her eyes flicked back to yours.
You noticed, with some concern, that she didn't discard it. Instead, she slipped the button into her satchel.
"I am just curious to know what the false skin is doing."
"False skin?" A laugh escaped you. "Come on. Really?" You shook your head, grinning despite yourself. You glanced to the side, where the entrance to the library sat. Huge metal doors framed by old paper notices listing events no one read anymore. "Somewhere I doubt would be of use to you."
The Sangrur Dux Library.
"I haven't been," she said, following your gaze. "What is it?"
For a moment you stopped. You could describe it in words—written language etched into the remains of trees, symbols meant to capture sound, to hold the thoughts of the writer long after they'd gone. But that felt melodramatic, overly poetic for a woman who found it fun to burn things.
Instead, you jerked your head toward the entrance. "Want to see?" Simple, as all things should be.
You didn't expect her to follow, but she did. She walked beside you in fact.
"A library is a place where humans archive knowledge. Physically," you murmured as the two of you approached. Several workers lifted their hands in greeting, then froze mid-wave when they registered Varang beside you.
She only shrugged, leaning forward and peering up at you through dark lashes with an expression that might've been innocent if you didn't know better. "Strange place for a false skin."
You stopped. Exhaled through your nose. "False skin. Why do you keep saying that?"
"Well." she hummed, one finger tracing the edge of your sleeve. "Quaritch does not wake from his body."
"Neither do I."
"And yet…" She tilted closer until her breath ghosted your jawline. "I believe you keep your humanity far closer than he ever has."
The smile you'd worn moments before collapsed. Your expression flattened into something hard, and different—a face you hadn't shown in years. "That so." The words came slow, measured. You angled your neck until you were level with her eyes, yellow and unblinking. "Calling him Na'vi?"
"Quaritch speaks highly of you," she said, pivoting so smoothly you almost didn't catch the deflection.
You blinked. "Does he."
"He says you are useful." Another step brought her closer; bone clicked faintly against bone where her ornaments met. The sound made you think of wind chimes. "That you understand things. See patterns others miss."
Oh, Miles, you absolute fucking idiot.
"I just do my job," you said, pointedly plain.
"Hm." She stopped at a doorway, one hand resting on the frame. Ash smudged her fingertips. "And what is your job, exactly?"
You met her stare.
"Whatever keeps me breathing."
The smile you gave her was charming—practiced and empty. You opened the door and extended one hand in invitation. "After you." You had your own deflection.
Varang didn’t voice a single thought, but her eyes never left yours. She didn’t take the opportunity, she waited for you instead, and you sighed at her suspicions.
"A library is much like the Tree of Voices, if it helps." You kept your voice coaxing. "We read the voices of our ancestors. Collect their knowledge, their viewpoints." You paused. "Poetic, in its way."
You moved past her into the dim interior.
She lingered in the doorway, and you caught the exact moment her eyes widened. The space opened up before her, taller from the inside than it had any right to be. A chandelier hung suspended in the center, casting warm yellow light across rows and rows of tables. The ceiling stretched up through multiple floors, each one lined with books
Still, it was nothing like the ones on Earth.
"I don't understand," she said quietly, glancing back at you. Funny, you never heard her sound like that before.
You nudged her forward with two fingers against her shoulder blade. "You'll see."
"But the—"
You pressed one finger to your lips, cutting her off mid-breath. Your whisper barely carried. "It's quiet in here." You leaned close, pointing toward the scattered readers—mostly civilians, heads bowed over open pages. "Like prayer. You don't distract them. They're immersed."
Her gaze followed where you pointed, tracking the stillness, the adoration of the books. She nodded slow.
"I do not pray."
"I know.”
You drifted toward the General Management aisle.
"But it's not prayer to Eywa or any deity," you murmur, half to yourself. "More like… prayer to the person who wrote it. And to yourself."
The top shelf loomed—tall as you were. You crouched low, knees folding, squinting at faded titles.
From the jaws of victory the RDA were thrown out, and now I'm hunting for a book on resource allocation.
Varang's tail swept past the gap between shelves, a dark ribbon disappearing into the next aisle over. You heard her pause. The soft scrape of a book falling, then several more. Then nothing.
Minutes passed, you counted five minutes—but time was always a tricky thing in libraries. It passed by too quickly when distracted by the quiet reading.
You kept searching. You kept searching. Your fingers found a promising spine—Principles of Sustainable—
Something tugged at your tail.
"Jesus Christ, what—"
You froze.
Varang stood there, holding Alice in Wonderland pressed against her chest like a child with a prize. Her eyes were wide—enormous, really—golden and unblinking over the book's weathered cover.
"…You want to read that?"
A pause. Her head tilted. "Read? I wished for you to tell me how to connect my queue to it."
Something softened in your chest. You couldn't help it—the smile came on its own. You took the book from her hands, gentle with the spine, and opened it. Pages fanned beneath your thumb. "Humans don't connect like you do," you said gently. "We use written language. See?"
Your finger traced the lines. She leaned in.
"'Presently she began again. I wonder if I shall fall right through the earth! How funny it'll seem to come out among the people that walk with their heads downwards! The Antipathies, I think—'"
You stop. She was staring, transfixed.
"A book to read," she said slowly. "And it is exactly as it says? What your ancestors say?"
You nodded. "Not my ancestors, but someone's." Your gaze flicked to the front desk, the bored-looking librarian scrolling her tablet, completely oblivious to the two seven-foot Na'vi woman standing between the stacks. "I'll help you check this out. Okay?" You looked back at her. "I'll read it to you. Maybe teach you English while we're at it."
She touched a page, frowning, then pinched the corner between two fingers.
Your eyes go wide. "Hey—hey, careful." You catch her hand before the paper tears, laughing awkwardly. "It's just paper."
She tugged harder instead of releasing. Her eyes lifted to yours. "Paper?"
"Comes from trees."
Her face became scrunched up. You just chuckled and pinched her cheek, she hissed.
"It's a long process," you add quickly, "but yeah, trees. On Earth we mostly use digital formats now—there's barely any left. The original texts are locked in vaults somewhere."
She studied the page again. Her thumb smoothed over it. "Trees. Pandora trees?"
"Yeah."
"Sky-people make this—" she held up the book, "—from trees?"
"I mean, most times. But yes."
Another laugh. This one louder, freer. She pressed the book back to her chest and spun in a small circle, nearly knocking over a display of outdated management theory.
You grabbed her elbow. "Okay, okay—come on. Let's check it out before you destroy the place."
She followed you to the front desk, steps lighter than you'd ever seen them.
The librarian barely glanced up, she scanned the book. Looked at you, then Varang, then back at her screen. "Two weeks. Late fees are five credits per day."
"Got it." You took the book, and tucked your own under your arm, walking with her toward the exit, reading aloud as you go.
"'Are you content now?' said the Caterpillar.
'Well, I should like to be a little larger, sir, if you wouldn't mind,' said Alice: 'three inches is such a wretched height to be.'
'It is a very good height indeed!' said the Caterpillar angrily, rearing itself upright as it spoke.
You glanced at her.
“(it was exactly three inches high)."
Varang giggled.
You smiled back and kept reading.
.
.
.
Varang was everywhere now.
At first, you'd convinced yourself it was coincidence. Of course she'd be at the medbay—half her clan bore fresh wounds that needed tending. Of course she'd patrol the perimeter. That was her duty, wasn't it? Tsahìk and war leader both.
You could justify those crossings without paranoia creeping in.
But the offices? The cafeteria at odd hours when no one else ate?
Yeah…. No.
Still, she'd softened. Somewhere between the first wary glances and now, you’d done something right, because now you two were—if you dared to voice it—sort of… companionable.
Most visits ended with her pressing a book into your hands—not always stories, though she'd listened raptly to Alice in Wonderland, The Wizard of Oz, Willy Wonka.
You noted, very hesitantly, that she seemed to enjoy children's books. A fact you absolutely did not mention to her face.
Sometimes she'd drag over manuals instead. How to Assess the Gears of a Working Car: 101. Five hundred fucking pages. Font size four. Hell, it could act as a damn sedative yet she'd settle cross-legged on the library floor, chin propped on one fist, and listen to your voice for hours. The cadence mattered more than the content, you suspected.
The rhythm of English filling the library's quiet corners while hours dissolved unnoticed.
So you taught her to read.
She learned quickly. A natural reader, once you showed her the structure. "This is a period," you'd whispered, finger tracing the punctuation. "It means to stop."
The surprise was that she'd listened at all.
During that time—which must have been a month or so—you'd sent Wainfleet to handle the opposition. Scattered factions, mostly. Fleeing traitors who'd holed up in abandoned RDA installations, setting their own camps which was a big no-no to the conglomerate.
“I want you to fucking destroy them.” One of the shareholders said. “Take their damn head and put it on a spike.”
Yikes. You didn’t, you had Lyle offer either amnesty or death. The same offer given to you years ago. The badge or the bullet.
Contact with the bald-headed demon remained constant, just not physical.
"What are you wearing?"
"Perv." You pressed the com closer to your throat, knife moving in steady rhythm against the cutting board. Potatoes. Rice. The day's ration plus a little soy sauce if you were feeling indulgent. "Truly, Lyle. You're a class act."
His chuckle crackled through static. Fabric rustled on his end. "Nah, c'mon. Tell me."
"I'm wearing none-of-your-damn-business." The blade clicked against the cutting board. "Happy?"
"Yes."
More shuffling. Then—
Gunfire.
You froze, blade hovering mid-chop.
"...Are you shooting right now?"
"Mhm." Another crack split the air. Rapid fire now, automatic weapons chewing through ammunition. Lyle's voice, low and cursing somewhere in the background. "Told you I'd make sure nothing bad happens to you. Remember Carl?"
"Carl with the missing finger?"
"Nah. Carl with the gout." A grunt. Something heavy hit the ground on his end. "Found him. Killed him." His voice softened, to fond shyness. "I'll see you soon. Just wanted to hear your voice."
You paused. "Wainfleet, I already told you—"
The link went dead.
The soldier way of affection, you supposed. You wanted to ask Quaritch if Lyle had always been this way—serviceable in the manner of men who'd only learned tenderness through violence. But you already knew the answer would arrive in two opposing pieces: a resounding yes and a confused no, and neither would satisfy.
The same, you figured, went for Varang.
"Another one."
Your hand closed around the queue. The braid sat heavy in your palm, heavier than anyone who’d never held one would guess.
You glanced back at her, and managed something approximating a smile. It felt stiff on your face. Your wall was already crowded with them. Not by choice, mind you.
If any Na'vi saw it, they'd think me a damn psycho.
"For you, Y/n." She dipped her head. Around her, the clan whispered in their quick dialect, syllables blurring together until you could barely parse what was happening. She'd never done this publicly before. That had to mean something.
"Thank you, Varang."
Her eyes rose slowly, and when they met yours she smiled—unusually giddy, a tad girlish. "This one was the Anpak Olo'eyktan. Strong and fast. He was hard to kill, but I managed." She was pleased. Proud in the way a child might be, presenting a dead bird to a parent. "Another leader less for JakeSulli."
Your brow arched. You matched her smile for just a moment before it faltered.
"You gotta be careful, Varang." The words came out rougher than intended. You set a hand on her shoulder, felt the heat of her skin through your palm. "All these missions you're giving yourself… you really don't have to. No use anyway. We're kinda at a stalemate." You rubbed circles around a scar.
But she wasn't listening.
Her gaze had dropped to your hand where it rested against her. "Yes, Y/n." Her voice came dreamy. "But I am not weak." She blinked, slower than necessary. "I prove myself to you with this anger."
"Peace can be good too, you know." You squeezed once, then let go. "It's enough."
You turned before she could respond, the braid dangling from your grip like some grim pendulum. You glanced at it, felt its weight pull at your wrist.
…Where to hang you…?
.
.
.
The day Quaritch awoke you remembered it very well.
It was gloomy and sad. Rain fell harder than usual, and there was a certain chill in the air that marked the slight turning in the seasons, not that winter existed on Pandora.
And on that particular day, a nurse found you. "He's awake."
You had looked at the time then. It’d been just a few minutes after three PM, and you had another meeting with Earth scheduled for five.
I’ll need to be quick. Quaritch always had a way of timing these things.
If you could, you’d likely have enlisted Wainfleet to handle it instead. But the man was still gone on his mission, so you convinced a random scientist, one who still had their avatar body. They were a nervous bunch, but you told them to hold a weapon and look threatening while doing it.
That, at least, they could do.
…hopefully.
The infirmary door hissed open.
Quaritch was already sitting up when you entered—looking ugly and mean with bandages wrapped around his torso. Burn scars rippled across his shoulders, down his arms, puckered and angry. He didn't flinch when he moved.
He just watched you, then saw his gaze flick to the scientist behind you—linger on the rifle—then return to your face.
"Well, well." His voice came out rough from underused. He rolled his shoulders, but looked to have immediately regretted it. "Look who came crawlin' outta the woodwork."
You stopped a few feet from the bed, hands clasped behind your back. You’d be professional.
"Quaritch."
"L/n." He dragged your name out slow with that funky country accent he had. You never did like it. Coarse and sloppy, like all of him.
His head tilted. "You here to fluff my pillows? Bring me flowers?" His lips pulled into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Or you finally gonna tell me what the hell's goin' on?"
"I'm going to be frank, Quaritch." You reached up and flicked off the overhead light. The room dimmed, leaving only the ambient glow from the hallway and the bioluminescent freckles scattered across his skin.
He didn't thank you, not that you wished for it.
"Frank? I’m so damn worried I think I might cry." He snorted, then swung his legs over the side of the bed, bare feet hitting the floor. "A'right then, Frank. Let's hear it."
You held his gaze and slowly exhaled through teeth.
Here it comes…
"You've been demoted from Colonel to civilian. All military access has been restricted. You may keep the avatar body, but the RDA has sent an official invoice detailing the cost of such an asset." You paused. "You will work in whatever capacity they assign you in order to pay it off."
Silence, which was something you expected.
He stared at you.
Then he laughed—and that too you expected. "Demoted." He shook his head, still grinning. "To civilian." He stood now, and even hunched with pain, he had presence, a physicality that made the room feel smaller just so your focus could be on him. "And who exactly signed off on that, darlin'? Parker? Or some spineless little shit still back on Earth with a thumb up his ass."
"The Chairman."
"The Chairman." He repeated it, mocking the syllables until it became bastardized. His tongue clicked against his teeth. "Right. The Chairman. A man I ain't ever met suddenly got opinions about my career." He took a step closer. You didn't move. "You got paperwork for that, sweetheart? Or you just makin' shit up as you go?"
You kept your expression flat. "It's already been processed."
Another step. He was close now. “You know what I think?" His voice dropped, quieter now. "I think you're playin' dress-up in Ardmore's office. Pretendin' you got authority you ain't earned."
"Ardmore's dead."
"Yeah." He smiled. "She is."
No remorse. Not even a flicker. Somehow that angered you more than anything. Such carelessness of life, the goddamn psychopath.
Professional. I must remain…
You glanced past him toward the window—the glass partition separating his room from the hallway. Varang's silhouette lingered there, barely visible in the dim light. You didn’t show that you saw her, but your lips did thin. When had she heard? Or had she been listening since the nurse? With Varang, it was possible.
Quaritch followed your eyes, and when he saw her, his fingers twitched.
"You threatenin' me in front of my girl?" He turned back to you, arms crossing over his chest. "That's cold, Y/n. Real cold." He snorted. Of course he deflected with humor.
You just about rolled your eyes, eyeing him again. "I'm not threatening you, Quaritch. I'm informing you. There's a difference."
"Is there now?"
"Yes." You stepped forward, closing the distance he'd created, you’d match his energy. "You killed Ardmore. You led three consecutive failed operations that cost us men, resources, and credibility. The RDA doesn't trust you anymore. I don't trust you." You tilted your head. "But they're letting you live. That's generous, considering."
He barked another laugh.
"That what they're calling it now? Christ." He glanced at the scientist by the door—took in the rifle, the shaking hands, the way they wouldn't meet his eyes. "You really think he's gonna stop me?"
The scientist flinched.
Quaritch's grin widened, he looked back at you. "You and the limp-dick scientist? That's your play?"
"Quaritch—"
"What're you gonna do, talk me to death?" He stepped closer, invading your space now, forcing you to either hold your ground or retreat.
You let him finish. Let him get it all out. The man could talk death to death.
"Sit. Down."
He blinked.
"I am not a soldier, Quaritch. You won't die by my hands." You took a single step forward, closing the gap he'd tried to create. "But you will die by my words. And that is enough to kill any man."
"Oh, spare me the fortune cookie wis—"
"Sit. Down."
The scientist raised the rifle slightly—shaking still, yes, but obedient. The barrel angled toward Quaritch's chest.
Quaritch's eyes flicked to the gun. Then back to you. Something shifted in his expression—just for a second. The sneer faltered. His shoulders went rigid.
He didn't sit.
But he didn't move forward either.
"You were a union organizer, right?" His voice was quieter now, but no less venomous. "You organized some workers, got 'em to throw tantrums, and now you're playing a proper leader?" He looked you up and down. "You're in over your head, L/n. This isn't some boardroom negotiation. This is Pandora."
You smiled—the sweet one you used for injured soldiers. "And yet here you are. Taking orders from me."
His jaw worked. Teeth grinding together so hard you heard it. His hands curled into fists at his sides, knuckles white.
"So here's how this works," you continued. "You stay within Bridgehead. You work whatever job they assign you—maintenance, logistics, I don't care. You keep your head down, and you stay the fuck out of my way." You paused. "Do that, and you get to keep breathing. Don't, and I'll have you executed."
He stared at you for a long moment.
Then the smile was back, wider than before. "You got some steel in you after all." He sat back down on the edge of the bed, wincing slightly as the burns pulled. "A'right. Fine. I'll play along." He waved a hand dismissively. "For now."
You turned toward the door.
You left him there, the door hissing shut behind you.
Varang was waiting in the hallway.
Her eyes were wide, glassy. She looked like she wanted to say something—ask something—but the words wouldn't come.
You walked past her without stopping.
"He's awake," you said simply. "Do what you want."
Behind you, you heard the door open again.
Heard her footsteps.
Heard Quaritch's voice, low and rough: "C'mere, baby girl."
You kept walking.
.
.
.
You heard about Wainfleet's return through passing conversation. He hadn't announced it—at least not to you. You guessed he wanted to keep it a surprise, not that the grunts could ever keep a secret.
A month and sixteen days. Settlement to settlement, killing some factions, absorbing others. Now the charismatic bastard was back at Bridgehead.
Reasonable and deadly. The perfect mix.
The doors shuttled open. The entire sector had their backs to you, bodies pressed close, voices raised in celebration. They surrounded him—the blue giant, purple now from sunburns. Skinnier. Cuts and scars you didn't recognize marked his arms, his face. But it was still stupid Lyle, still wearing those cracked sunglasses.
"There's that bald son of a bitch!" One of the men slapped his back, he was right on top of the skel suit. "Knew there was a reason I was being blinded! Your bald head shined the hell outta my eyes."
"Ah, screw off."
Wainfleet hadn't noticed you yet. Good. The men had pooled their scraps together weeks ago, asked you to present the gift on their behalf. It had seemed reasonable at the time. Now, standing at the edge of the crowd with the package in hand you felt a bit uneasy.
You really didn’t belong here.
The closer you got, the more you heard him. Some shootout or another, pretty gals, acts of comradery. Someone had put a party hat on his head. A banner stretched across the cafeteria entrance with his name written in neat block letters.
You settled the present down. Colored parchment paper. Rope acting as the bow.
His eyes flickered up—or you assumed they did. Hard to tell with the glasses. "Holy shit, ma'am." He grinned, tongue dragging across his teeth. "Aren't you a sight for sore eyes."
You rolled your eyes and jerked your chin toward the package. "Just open it, Wainfleet. It's from all of us. Took a while to get."
He grinned, jutting his lip. "Huh, so you guys love me, huh?"
"Oh, shut it—"
"Open it, baldy!"
"Don't make us kick your ass!"
You waited as he tore through the wrapping, watching his tail wag—something you'd definitely tease him about later.
He finally tore through the wrapping, and there it was: a new .22 classic with a wood finish, his name engraved along the barrel beside a tiny pair of sunglasses.
He went still. Then he smiled—really smiled, the kind that softened the edges of him. "No fucking way." He lifted it and aimed at the ground, peering down the scope and bit his lip like a kid on Christmas morning. "How the hell did you—?"
You shrugged. "We found an old 3D printer, remade the parts. Even got some leftover oak wood from Earth. None of that Pandora tree bullshit."
He smiled.
Then he hugged you.
"The hell, man? We all pitched in!"
He grinned, released you, and grabbed Michael instead to squeeze him until the man wheezed. "S-Shit, man!"
Lyle kissed his cheek, loud and wet. "What, you wanted this! Right? Wanted a big fat kiss and some—"
"Lyle?"
Everyone froze.
Quaritch and Varang stood in the doorway. Quaritch had been forced out of his recom clothes into a civilian sweater, boxers. He glared at the scene, expression tight.
Lyle dropped Michael mid-sentence, his gaze snagging on Quaritch. His frown came first—automatic, a reflex—then his head canted. "Miles." The name fell flat. "Didn't think you were allowed in here."
The room didn't fall silent—not exactly. Conversations continued in pockets, but quieter now, fractured. Men tracked the exchange from the corners of their eyes while pretending interest in their trays of cake and rations.
The room leaned, you felt it, toward Lyle.
"Yeah well." Quaritch scratched at his neck, fingers digging too hard. "Varang has access and I wanted to speak to you."
"Now?" Lyle's smile slipped out crooked, teeth bared in something that wasn't quite friendly. "Just got my ass out of the jungle."
Quaritch frowned. “Yeah. Yeah… sorry.” He pocketed his hands, glancing up before eyeing you. His eyes never left yours.
“You are welcome to eat Quaritch.” You said. Lyle shot you a look, and your ears twitched in mild annoyance. “Lyle has accomplished a lot while you were away.” You pat his back. “Always good when a soldier does.”
You watched the muscle in Quaritch's jaw work, grinding teeth hidden behind that false smile he'd put on. He looked different in civilian clothes—and it didn’t fit him. Somehow comfortability was a thing Quaritch wasn’t capable of, and the civilian clothes only seemed to emphasize everything he'd lost. His weight, his authority.
"A soldier," Quaritch repeated, voice flat. His eyes looked between you and him, his lips quirked up. "That what we're callin' it now?"
Lyle shifted his weight, the new gun still cradled in his hands. His tail had gone still—you noticed that immediately. The excited swaying from moments before had frozen into rigid alertness.
"Miles—" Lyle started.
"Nah, it's fine." Quaritch's smile widened, showing too many teeth. He looked around the cafeteria, taking in the decorations, the men clustered around Lyle, the banner with his name. "Big welcome party. Real touchin'." His gaze slid back to you. "Funny how that works. Man goes off on your orders, comes back a hero. I lead three ops, suddenly I'm the asshole."
You drew breath slowly, let it out the same way. "You led three ops that got good men killed, Quaritch. Lyle led one that brought men home. That's the difference."
There it was, ugly and hateful. Everyone knew that look.
"This shithole, home? That what you're sellin' 'em now?" He stepped closer, you watched as Varang glanced at him, then at you. Her tail coiled just slightly, as if she was uncomfortable.
"You know what your problem is, L/n?" His voice dropped lower, more dangerous. "You think if you smile pretty enough, make 'em feel special enough, they'll forget what this really is." Another step. "But I know what it is. A meatgrinder. And you're throwin' bodies into it just like Ardmore did, just like Parker did. Only difference is you got 'em convinced it's for their own good."
Lyle moved then—subtle, but you caught it. He'd angled himself slightly between you and Quaritch, the gun held, finger not on the trigger but just below the curve of it.
"That's enough, Miles." Lyle's voice was quiet, placating. "Not the time or place."
Quaritch's eyes snapped to him. In his eyes, in those pupils of his were the marks of hurt and betrayal. It was gone in an instant, buried under that sneer.
"Right. 'Cause you're a soldier now. Takin' orders from—" He cut himself off, jaw working again. His hands had curled into fists at his sides.
You could end this. Should end this. One word and the men would remove him, forcibly if necessary. They were waiting for it—you saw it in their postures, the way they'd positioned themselves without even realizing it. Between Quaritch and their celebration. Quaritch was the invader here.
But Varang was watching. And so was Lyle.
He turned toward the door, then paused. He glanced back at Lyle.
"Good work out there, Corporal." The title sounded wrong in his mouth. "Glad you made it back."
Lyle's expression didn't change, but his tail twitched. "Thanks, Colonel."
"Mister Quaritch," you corrected softly. "He's not a colonel anymore."
The look Quaritch gave you could have stripped paint.
Then Varang was there, her hand gentle on his shoulder. She didn't say anything—didn't need to. Just that light touch, a tether pulling him back from whatever edge he'd been walking toward.
He let her guide him out.
The door hissed shut.
Nbody moved. Then someone cleared their throat—Michael, you thought—and the ambient noise of the party slowly resumed. Quieter now, due to the drama of Quaritch’s interruption.
"You good, ma'am?" His voice was low, meant just for you.
Lyle was still standing too close, the gun now holstered against his hip. He'd taken off the sunglasses at some point, and you could see his eyes now.
"Yeah." You rolled your shoulders, trying to shake off the tension. "You?"
He didn't answer right away. Just looked at the door Quaritch had left through, jaw tight.
"He was my CO for more then a decade," Lyle said finally. "Saved my ass more times than I can count." He looked down. "But he ain't that guy anymore."
You reached up and squeezed his shoulder. "You did good out there, Lyle. Really."
His gaze snapped back to yours, and his hand came up to cover yours where it rested on his shoulder, fingers wrapping around your wrist.
"Missed you," he said quietly, too quiet to hear over the resumed chatter of the party. "Several months, couldn't stop thinkin'—"
"Wainfleet." You cut him off gently, pulling your hand back. His fingers tightened for just a second before releasing. "Not now."
"Right." He stepped back, that usual grin sliding back into place. Looser now, easier. "Not now. Got it. But you and I… we gotta… you know, catch up.” He whispered.
But he was still looking at you like—
"Lyle! Tell us about the Cascade settlement!" One of the men called out, breaking the moment.
He turned away, and you let yourself breathe.
This was going to be a problem.
Both of them were going to be problems.
But one problem seemed sweeter.
A/N- Please remember to reblog or like! Much appreciated!!!
hiiii I’m so glad your feeling better! I know times like this can be really stressful. I was wondering if you ever plan on making a pt. 4 on MTSLSF? I really enjoyed it and would love to read the ending. No pressure if not! I love your works.
Yep! I know it's been taking me AWHILE. I have something special coming up. But school has been really stressful AGHHH. After the next update it's going to be MTSLSF
Okay no but fr- Ive been a little absent only because I have a meeting with a professor and I've been mentally preparing for it 💀
I couldn't focus on the blog. Depending on how it goes, which it'll be Monday tmr, might screw me up for the rest of week or so. But if it goes well then I should be okay 😭.
hi! i want to preface this with that im not saying this to be mean at all >< but i noticed some inconsistencies in avatar odyssey and i just wanted to extend my help if you would be interested in having someone to look over/pre play/edit/brainstorm/whatever with. i also draw, so if you ever plan on adding art i could do that too!
the inconsistencies i mentioned are a few spelling mistakes i noticed the last time i played
the they/them pronouns not having the correct grammar afterwards (i understand this specifically is probably caused by you having one script, with the pronouns being added based on a {} type command, i wouldn’t mind writing a second script that is exactly like the first, just with the correct grammar for you since ik thats a lot of labor and is a little boring)
i don’t know if this is just an issue on my side, but after convincing the na’vi (or, more accurately, the mage that confirms you’ve convinced the na’vi) all the answer choices to the previous selections look to be mashed on one page (i assume this because there are several paragraphs that repeat previous ones just with slightly different reasons (logic, emotion, etc..) i’m not sure if this is intentional or not though, please correct me if so,
i totally understand if you reject ofc, this is your project and i don’t want to take that away from you, i just thought i might offer because you honestly seem really cool, and id love to have more avatar mutuals
again, not trying to be mean, just constructive ! feel free to ignore this ask entirely if you are already aware of the errors i pointed out, or don’t want to collab ><
-🍊
(also, ps, super happy ur back and doing well!!)
AGGHH THIS IS SUPER HELPFUL!!! this is what I mean by people being the best in reporting these issues. I had no idea the they/them option had grammatical issues, I feel bad for my nonbinary players :((( so sorry guys, that mustve been disappointing.
I also didn't know about the mashing thingy mc thing. Jesus I feel like a terrible coder 🧍🧍🧍
You helped so much omg. And YEAH OMG YOUD BE DOWN TO HELP????? THATS SO USEFUL THANK YOU-
...I might need to clean up some code though because it's uh... Messy... 💀 It's like someone looking into your dirty bedroom offering to clean and like AGGHHH NO LEMME CLEAN UP FIRST BEFORE YOU START CLEANING 😭
But yeah, omg send me a message please and thank you!!! I'll send you the startup, stats, and chapter one files along with my most used variables so it can possibly be easier 🤞
Synopsis - You are faced with the man who abandoned you. Different body, same soul. How do you confront the feelings he left behind?
Warnings - Abandonment issues, mommy and daddy issues, allusions to past abuse, angsty , complicated feelings and relationship
You were in the crowd, buried amongst the sea of people, your masked face blending in with the mob of humans.
Looking at the glass cage where a man sat, head hung low, hair covering his face.
You didn't need to see him to know who he was, everybody knew who he was.
The man who betrayed mankind for some local tail on a moon so far away from home, so far from you.
The day he left for good was the day your mother lost a part of herself. The day the news spread of his betrayal left your heartbroken mother to turn to alcohol , drinking her sorrows away, one bottle after another.
Until one day when she just left, leaving you with nothing but a note with empty excuses and half hearted apologies.
You reminded her too much of him, too much of the man that stole her youth, her heart and her sanity.
You were left to grow up on Earth's overpopulated world and its overcrowded foster system. When you outgrew it, you were tossed out like a bad stack of produce.
Rotten and too old to want.
You scraped by for whatever you could do to survive. The scars on your body a reminder of things you had to do to survive a world that was already crumbling.
A world that had no place for you to squeeze into.
You were only three when you last saw him, memory of him now vague but his absence haunted you. You remembered the day he said goodbye with the promise of seeing you again.
He interlocked his pinky with yours, promising to tell you all the crazy stories he'd have to tell. You kissed his scruffy cheek and even gave him one of your favourite stuffed toys for him to remember you by.
You remember waving him goodbye from the streets as the car took him, giddy for the stories you would hear.
That was sixteen years ago.
Yet no one came back for you.
You were always sidelined, adults glancing at you with worried eyes and disgust, many openly speaking poorly of you. Children pulled away by their parents who scolded them for even approaching you.
Nobody wanted anything to do with you. It was the punishment for having the blood of a filthy traitor.
A burden you'll have to bare. The karma a daughter has to carry in her father's place.
But yet looking at him now, looking so defeated, so alone. A feeling stirred inside of you.
You knew what his fate was. It was obvious to everyone who eagerly filmed him. The way they treated him like a zoo animal. Treated him like he was less then.
The crowds of people kept pushing and shoving, trying to get a good shot of him. Their devices lifted higher, blocking your view of him now.
You should've left, should've turn your back and walk away. You didn't know him and he didn't know you.
Yet after seeing his defeated form, his sagging head. You thought about it, thought about the fact he could've had a family, could've had children. Children who would suffer the same path you did.
They'd have to learn their dad died. Leaving them alone with their mother who'd grieve the loss of her husband. Just like yours did.
Suffer the same trauma, the same pain , the same yearning to know a man they probably barely knew.
Worst of all you didn't want him to die, the thought of him being gone for good sent a wave of nausea through your stomach. Bile threatening to crawl up your throat.
You look back at the bustling crowd and the clear glass cage one more time.
In that moment you made up your mind and left.
Jake had gotten freed from the glass cage, now maneuvering through the metal structures and piles of metal and plastic.
Spider gripped onto Jake's tail like a life line, trying to keep up with Jake as he tried to lose the helicopter following them.
Jake and Spider were getting cornered, the helicopter hot on their tail. The helicopter's light following their every move and turn.
They met a dead end that felt like the end. The helicopter broadcasted their location, the soldiers that were looking for them would get them.
They were going to take him and kill him, they were going to take Spider and experiment on him. For the first time in a long time Jake felt no hope.
This was it.
Suddenly gunshots fired at the helicopter breaking the glass and killing the pilot inside, causing the helicopter to lose control and crash into the ground.
It bursts into flames, the embers growing larger and bigger, spreading out. Creating a large fire wall cutting off a pathway to them.
Jake and Spider stared in disbelief, unable to process the destructive chaos that just happened in front of them.
Looking at each other, assuming the other did it. Both raised their hands to prove their own innocence.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a girl. No older than twenty, a gun in her trembling hands.
Her face was a familiar sight. A face that haunted his dreams once in a while. The human daughter he left behind years ago.
Even in this dimly lit space with only the fire to provide substantial light. Even when you had grown up and changed he could still recognise you.
He slowly came up to where you stood, his height over towering you. Spider following behind from a distance. Unsure of what to do, looking around cautiously.
You dropped the gun you were holding, the loud metal thud ringing throughout the hollow metal structures. Echoing it back to you. Your hands trembling.
Your eyes focused on the dancing flames, flickering sparks reflecting in your eyes. The fire warming your face with an orange glow.
You didn't notice him approaching until he got too close.
A shadow loomed over you. You looked to see him, standing in front of you. His height was intimidating.
Your eyes widened as you quickly turned around, arms going to wrap around yourself, a silent comfort.
You didn't know what to do or what to say anything. You never thought you'd ever see him again. You thought he'd just leave.
"You should leave now." Your voice trembled, words tumbling out as your body shook with every beat of your heart.
"Y/n?" Your name from his mouth felt like a jab to the heart. Painful and it felt like you couldn't breathe.
"Just go and don't come back!" You yelled, your hands going up to your masked face. You squatted down to the ground, lips trembling as the tears in your eyes fell against your will.
He was here, the man who had abandoned you was here. But how could you face him. He left you behind like you didn't matter at all.
You held back choked sobs, hands covering your face.
Jake crouched down, getting on your level.
A hand came up on your shoulder, large and warm. Almost comforting.
You wanted to push his hand away. To yell at him with all the rage you've pent up but in this moment, you just didn't know what to do.
You both stayed in that position for a beat, only noise passing through was the machinery of the human base and your soft sniffles.
"Why did you do it?" You asked, voice breaking the silence. You hated feeling this way, so small, so child-like. Your back still faced to him, not ready to face him yet. Not ready to look at the new face he chose.
He stood quietly, unable to form words. He knew what you meant but there were no valid excuses to make.
"I-I just wanted to be be free." That was all Jake could mutter. It was selfish maybe but in that moment all those years ago, for the first time, he felt free.
He felt free from the RDA's shackles that held him down, free from the world that treated him like dirt beneath their shoes. He was accepted and seen past his flaws and ugly human nature.
But it all came at the cost of leaving you.
You turned around to look at him, your eyes glossed with tears, droplets still streaming down your eyes. Your nose sniffling to stop the snot from dripping.
You looked just like the kid he had all those years ago except now you were older, much bigger. Your face no longer holding that childhood chub, your features now more defined.
Gone was the tiny nose he'd pretend to eat to hear your bellied laughs, now there was only a girl he regretfully never got to know in her place.
"That's a really shitty excuse." Was all you said back. Now you were more upset. All these years apart and that was the best excuse he could give.
Jake sucked in a breath.
"I'm sorry, I really am." Jake's voice was soft, almost careful.
"I hope you can understand why I did it." There it was, his careless response that ruined the moment.
Your eyebrows furrowed and your teeth gritted. Your sadness now bubbling over into the resentment and anger you held in.
You stood up to face him, now both eye to eye. For the first time since you met him you looked directly into his eyes.
Angry, you felt so angry at his audacity. How can he ask you to understand why he abandoned you. You slammed your fisted hand on his chest once. Then again and again and again.
You repeatedly hit him in the chest as fast and as hard as you could , your breath getting heavy with how fast you were hitting him. Jake didn't flinch, it didn't hurt really.
He let you do it, he didn't fight back, he knew it's the least he deserved.
You stopped for a moment to catch your breath, Jake looking at you, his eyes shined with tears that did not fall.
Your chest fell up and down, your heart beating erratically. You looked into his eyes again. The tears came out again, it felt like a never ending flow.
"I just wanted a home. I just wanted my dad." You completely broke down, tears pooled at the bottom of your mask. Your breath ragged hicks now.
Your vision blurred, your body shaking from how hard you were sobbing.
Jake stared at you, eyes full of regret and remorse. He pulled you into a hug, his large arms providing the warmth you so desperately seeked for.
But now it felt too late.
"L-let go of me." Your cries didn't stop, voice cracking with every word as you hit his chest. Trying to push him off you but he wouldn't budge. Your arms wobbled and shook everytime you attempted to push him.
"I know, I know. I'm sorry." Jake knew his apologies couldn't erase the years that he was absent, the years of pain you went through.
But he still held you anyway,
In that moment of vulnerability you let him hold you, you stopped fighting and let him cradle you once more. His hand patting your back as you cried into his shoulder.
This moment reminded him of when you were barely three.
You scraped your knee, the pain stinging a little. You cried and cried because it hurt but your daddy wheeled over.
He hauled you into his lap and kissed your booboo. He patched it up with your favourite princess bandaid.
He comforted and rocked you. Your chubby cheek squishing against his shoulder as you fell into dreamland. Your soft snores infiltrating his ear like a sweet melody.
You were his first child, his first born. The kid that brought him light even in the darkness humanity buried him in.
Maybe you'd forgive him and he could make up for everything he missed and everything you lost.
Or you wouldn't and you two would pretend you never met again. Like you didn't come face to face to save him.
Maybe you'd go back to pretending he wasn't your father, that he was a vague memory that didn't haunt you.
Whatever the case, he'll accept it. He'll let you be able to make that decision for yourself for once.
He'll hold you until you don't want him to. He'll comfort you until you say stop. He'll be here until you don't want him to be anymore.
You lifted your head from his shoulder, facing him now. Your face was puffy and soaked from crying.
Jake brought his hand to your masked face, resting it on the warm glass. His large thumb caressing the glass.
"Would you ever forgive me?" He asked, his voice held some hope. The tears that tried so desperately not to fall from his eyes, fell, cascading down his face.
Whatever you choose, he'll understand. He'll accept it.
Author's note -
Was this an excuse to lwk write abt my own feelings towards with my father? Most definitely 🙈 did I make Jake feel how I wish my dad felt? Absolutely 😅
I've been writing so much angst😞 I swear I'll write some fluff guys 🙏🏻
Anyways I hope you guys enjoyed reading this! Likes and reblogs are super appreciated. 🩵
I have a feeling Neytiri and Ronal are going to fight to spend time with Reader.
Which is so funny since Y/n wants nothing to do with them. Like at all. Y/n feels betrayed by both women, but especially her mother.
It's more a fight to gain her favor back honestly 😭
Y/n would refuse to talk to her mother. And we see that Ronal truly loves and cares for her children. When Tsireya threatened the same thing in AFAA, Ronal seemed distraught and backed down
So for her child to actually initiate no-contact would be devastating to her. As for Neytiri, Y/n is more like... stiff politeness. Since their bond wasn't that large to begin with it was eh.
But both women will try. Y/n goes more to Tey's sickly grandmother, who she has for comfort which def makes both annoyed, bitter and jealous about.
Oh babygurl I need NEED to see a future clip with her having a baby with varang and miles
I feel bad now knowing there isn't... But I'll make a rough draft of how it would be if they had a baby!
.
.
.
"She has your five fingers, Quaritch." Varang had Mary's pinky hooked around her forefinger and thumb. Such a large little thing, bigger then any natural Na'vi. "And the hair over your brows." Varang tilted her head, before squeezing the baby's finger with her nail.
"Can't you leave her alone?" You grumbled.
You'd just returned to the kelku, juggling water basins and a basket of fruit on your hip. "I told you to watch her."
Mary was one of those babies that seemed pretty darn calm. When you birthed her, she hadn't even cried. Perhaps she had some Varang in her, despite the lack of... Genetic material.
"Come on give her to me before you sacrifice her or somethin'."
Quaritch had bene shirtless when he took little Mary, and you watched as she scrunched and gurgled for her daddy. "Look at you, sweetest thing." He cooed. "You hungry? That it?"
He had a gentle smile, a father's smile.
Quaritch changed since her birth. Less violent, more protective. He wasn't as keen to Varang's ash practices either.
"you're gonna give her asthma with all that smoke." He once said. And not even her hisses or threats pushed.
Quaritch was a... Well, he was a changed man.
"You eat yet buttercup?" He swaddled Mary before carefully holding up her head. "Cause' I made some eggs. Could help, you know."
You just sighed, settling the things down. Varang watched the interaction carefully.
"Mh, not that hungry." You went to his side, pinching Mary's cheeks. Quaritch had named her, said that Na'vi names were boring and hard to pronounce.
"if she's my daughter I wanna be able to pronounce her goddamn name." He'd said. You felt too weak to argue, and Varang could care less.
.
.
.
That's all I'm gonna write before I get too into it 🧍 but hopefully it gives you an idea of how it'd be. Varang is detached and sometimes cruel, Quaritch is a certified girl-dad™ and you are exasperated!
