Moon

Quaritch sat quietly, staring into the heart of the fire, the orange light reflecting in his golden eyes. He didn't interrupt. He listened.

"When you came back," Spider continued, his voice trembling slightly. "I had this hope. I hoped that maybe you would see this place... really see it. That you would turn your back on the RDA. Go full Na'vi. Perhaps even join a clan."

Spider paused, swallowing the lump in his throat, "But not like this," Spider whispered, looking at the red paint on his own hands. "Not like this."

Quaritch finally turned his head, looking at his son. He leaned in close, his voice a low rumble against the noise of the celebration.

“We play the hand we're dealt, kid," Quaritch said, placing a heavy hand on Spider's shoulder, his thumb rubbing against the new red paint on the boy's skin. "I'm here. You're safe. The rest is just details."

He squeezed Spider’s shoulder, a firm, grounding grip.

"I’ll always protect you, kid," he said, his voice dropping to a serious tone, "I promise you that. No one touches you unless they go through me first."

He leaned back, and gestured with his chin toward the center of the plaza

"Maybe you’ll come to like being in the Ash Clan," Quaritch suggested, a hopeful grin tugging at his painted face. "They seem pretty great, hm?"

"Yeah. Great," Spider said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He raised his eyebrows at his father, gesturing vaguely at the warriors, who were currently miming a decapitation with disturbing enthusiasm. "Really sells the 'warm and fuzzy' vibe."

Quaritch let out a dry chuckle, rubbing the back of his painted neck. "Okay, fair point. Maybe not the best example."

Before they could continue, a shadow fell over the bench. Varang approached them once again, emerging from the crowd. In her hands, she held a rough-hewn wooden bowl, that thrust toward Spider.

"Eat," she commanded, her tone brooking no argument. "You didn't eat anything all day."

Spider looked down into the bowl. Inside were chunks of dark meat, glistening with a thick glaze that smelled of spices.

"What about me?" Quaritch asked, looking at the food with genuine hunger. "I didn't eat either."

Varang didn't even look at him, keeping her yellow eyes fixed on the boy, waiting for him to take a bite.

"You have legs," she said dismissively to the Recombinant. "You can grab your own."

She turned her sharp, expectant gaze back to the boy. "Eat."

Spider didn't argue. He knew better than to test her patience twice in one night, especially not with the smell of burning flesh still fresh in his memory. He reached into the bowl, his fingers staining with the dark, sticky sauce, and picked up a chunk of the meat.

He popped it into his mouth. It was honestly not bad, the meat wasn't tough or gamey like he expected, instead it was tender, slow-roasted until it practically fell apart in his mouth. Still, he made a show of chewing it slowly, deliberately, locking eyes with her so she could see his jaw working. He swallowed, opening his mouth slightly to show it was gone.

A flicker of satisfaction crossed her face, "Good," she murmured.

She stood up, her height looming over the bench, and turned to the Recombinant.

"Come," she ordered, jerking her head toward the shadows away from the roaring fire. "We have to talk."

Quaritch stood up, wiping his hands on his bare thighs, and cast one last glance at his son. But before he could say anything, Varang was already moving, expecting him to follow.

She paused, turning back to look at Spider one last time. Her long finger pointed at the spot where he sat, visually pinning him to the obsidian log.

"Eat," she repeated, "And do not move from there."

Spider sat there, obediently staying put occasionally popping a piece of the tender, spiced meat into his mouth, savoring the flavor despite his guilt. He looked out at the crowd, noting the strange, fearful gap in the festivities. After the incident with the fire, no one dared to come within twenty feet of him.

After a while, the hair on the back of his neck stood up. He felt eyes on him.

He stiffened, assuming it was Varang checking on her prisoner, or perhaps Quaritch coming back. He turned his head slowly, scanning the perimeter.

It wasn't them. Peeking out from behind a large, jagged rock near the edge of the firelight was a pair of wide, luminous yellow eyes. It was a child, tiny, likely no older than Tuk, with charcoal-grey skin and a mess of unruly hair.

Spider’s posture softened instantly. The tension drained from his shoulders.

"Hi," he said softly.

The child gasped, realizing they had been spotted, ducking back behind the rock with lightning speed.

Spider smiled, placing the bowl of food on his lap. He kept his voice low and gentle, the same tone he used when Tuk was scared.

"Hey, it's okay," he called out, leaning forward slightly, so the firelight caught his face.

Slowly, hesitantly, the little head peeked out again. The child stared at Spider’s red-painted face with a mixture of terror and intense curiosity.

For a moment, nothing happened, then, the child stepped out from the shadows.

She was a girl, small and scrawny, moving with the jerky caution of a lizard testing the air. She had the same grey skin as Varang, but her eyes were wide and innocent, lacking the hardness of the adults. She looked at Spider’s red-painted face, then down at the wooden bowl in his lap.

Spider followed her gaze. He smiled, tilting the bowl, so the firelight caught the rich glaze on the meat.

"Do you want some?" he asked.

The girl hesitated, biting her lip, before nodding vigorously, her hunger winning out over her fear.

Spider scooted over on the smooth obsidian log, patting the empty space beside him. "Come here. Sit."

She darted across the open space and hopped onto the bench next to him, though she kept a cautious few inches of distance between them.

Spider passed her the bowl, that she took gladly, her small hands clutching the wood. She didn't bother with manners, grabbing a piece of the spiced meat with both hands shoving it into her mouth, chewing enthusiastically, her cheeks puffing out. A moment later, she swallowed and looked up at him, beaming.

She flashed him a wide, toothy grin. Her sharp little canines were stained brown with the rich sauce, making her look both adorable.

Spider couldn't help it but laugh, a genuine, quiet sound that felt foreign in his throat after the day he'd had.

"Good stuff, right?" he whispered, smiling back at her.

The girl giggled, a high-pitched, chirping sound. She licked her fingers clean, her yellow eyes crinkling at the corners.

In the distance Varang watched the interaction with curiosity, hissing of pure irritation, her tail lashing behind her, kicking up a puff of ash, as she saw him give his food away

Quaritch stood beside her, his arms crossed over his painted chest. He watched the scene, a flicker of something soft crossing his hardened features as he watched Spider wipe the sauce from the little girl's chin.

"He is good with kids," Quaritch noted, his voice low.

Varang turned her yellow eyes on him, narrowing them into slits. "He didn't have to give her his food," she hissed.

Quaritch looked back at his son, letting out a short, dry huff of laughter.

"He has a good heart," Quaritch said, the corner of his mouth lifting in a self-deprecating smirk. "Doesn't get that from me, that's for sure."

Spider was in the middle of asking the girl her name when a massive shadow swallowed them both.

The change in the air was instant. The little girl didn't say goodbye she let out a high-pitched squeal of pure terror, dropping the bowl she was holding and scrambling backward off the log, vanishing into the darkness, moving fast as a lizard, leaving Spider alone with the empty wooden bowl.

Spider swallowed hard, turning back around slowly.

Varang stood over him, blocking out the light of the fire. Her ears were pinned back against her skull, and her yellow eyes narrowed. In her hand, she held a fresh bowl, steaming hot and filled to the brim.

She didn't offer it to him, thrusting it into his chest, forcing him to grab it quickly before the hot stew spilled onto his bare legs.

"When I tell you to eat, you eat," she hissed, leaning down until her face was inches from his, the heat of her breath washing over him. "Do that again, give away what is meant for you, and I will feed you myself." She bared her teeth, and Spider knew it wasn't a suggestion.

Spider gripped the hot bowl, his knuckles turning white under the red paint. He tried to defend himself, his voice stubborn. "She was hungry."

Varang let out a sharp, barking laugh that lacked any humor. She straightened up, looking at the darkness where the girl had fled with disdain.

"She was not," Varang corrected him coldly. "The children ate their fill at the beginning of the evening."

She didn't walk away this time. Instead, she sank down onto the obsidian log beside him, her thigh pressing firmly against his, boxing him in, claiming the space.

Spider looked down at the second bowl of, noticing  Varang  offering him a pointed, silent look, her yellow eyes drifting from his face to the bowl and back again. The threat hung heavy in the air: Eat, or I will make you.

He was confused, Truly, deeply confused. Back at High Camp, or even at the Sea People’s village, he was always the last thought. If he gave his grilled fish to Tuk because she was still hungry, the adults would smile and call him a "good big brother." But no one ever offered him another serving, no one ever checked to see if his own stomach was growling later that night.

He looked at the second full bowl in his hands. It wasn't love, he knew that. But still... the feeling of being seen, of being prioritized, sat heavily on his chest, conflicting with the fear.

"Now," Varang said, her voice dropping, "It is time for your father's ceremony."

Spider looked up, snapping out of his thoughts. The drums shifted their rhythm. The chaotic, frenzied beating coalesced into a slow, thunderous thud-thud-thud that mimicked the heartbeat.

There was a ring lighted up with fire that burned low,  Quaritch in the middle of it carrying no weapons

"What does he have to do?" Spider whispered, clutching the bowl tighter, his knuckles turning white.

Varang didn't look at him. Her gaze was fixed in the centre of the arena, where Quaritch stood waiting.

"Kill," she answered, her voice void of any emotion. "He must kill a warrior with his bare hands."

Spider choked on his breath, his eyes snapping to hers. "What?"

"There has to be balance," Varang explained, her tone as matter-of-fact as if she were discussing the weather. "Resources are scarce in the Ash. We do not add mouths to feed without removing others. If someone comes in... someone must go out."

Spider’s blood ran cold. The math hit him instantly, terrifying and simple. Someone comes in, someone goes out. But two people had come in. Quaritch... and him.

Panic spiked in his chest. He looked frantically at the circle, expecting to see a second warrior stepping forward, expecting Varang to drag him off the log and throw him into the ring to fight for his life.

Varang felt his fear. "Do not worry," she purred, leaning close to his ear. "Your balance is already made."

Spider looked at her, trembling. "What?"

"The fool who touched you," she whispered, a cruel smile touching her lips as she glanced toward the fire. "His life for yours. He paid your entrance."

Spider stared at the fire, a wave of nausea rolling over him. The man hadn't just been killed for disrespecting her, he had been a sacrifice. Spider was alive only because that man was dead.

"Now watch," Varang commanded, nodding toward the circle. "And see if your father can pay his own debt."

Quaritch didn’t look merely preoccupied.  He stood in the centre of the ring, his feet planted shoulder-width apart, his weight on the balls of his feet. His hands were loose at his sides, but his forearms were coiled tight.

The crowd roared as his opponent stepped into the light.

He was a mountain of grey muscle, his skin a roadmap of white scar tissue that stood out starkly against the ash. He didn't carry a weapon, but looking at his hands, his fingers tipped with thick, serrated claws that looked like obsidian daggers, he didn't need one.

The man was wearing a vicious, ecstatic grin, his yellow eyes wide and unblinking. He looked at Quaritch not with hatred, but with a terrifying hunger.

"It is an honor," Varang noted beside Spider. "To the warrior, to be able to participate in the ritual is the highest blessing."

The warrior raised his arms, soaking in the cheers of his clan. Then, he turned that rictus grin toward Quaritch, dropping into a low, feral crouch.

Quaritch didn’t respond, didn’t fall for the taunts, he simply raised his fists in a standard boxing stance, tucking his chin.

"Come get some," Quaritch growled.

Before the first blow was even struck, Spider knew it was over.

He looked at the Ash warrior, grinning like a maniac, vibrating with the chaotic energy. The clan cheered for him, seeing him as the embodiment of their strength, they looked at Quaritch and saw a, a lab-grown fake, a demon in a false skin, that was their first mistake.

Spider looked at his father, he saw the shift in his stance, the cold, calculating stillness in his eyes. That wasn't the posture of a tribal warrior. That was a Colonel highly trained.

Quaritch had decades of hand-to-hand combat training, discipline, and tactical experience downloaded into a body that was genetically engineered to be a killing machine.

They would underestimate him. And Quaritch would come out on top.

Spider dropped his gaze to the ground, staring fixedly at the jagged shards of black obsidian and grey ash between his bare feet. He didn't want to see it. He didn't want to watch the massacre play out in front of his eyes.

He squeezed his eyes shut, but he couldn't shut out the sound.

"Kill him!" the crowd roared, a wall of noise that vibrated in Spider’s chest.

Then came the sounds of the fight. It wasn't the cinematic clashing of swords, it was ugly, wet, and rhythmic.

A heavy impact of fist meeting flesh.  Two rapid, controlled strikes. Spider flinched with each one, imagining the military precision behind them. He heard the Ash warrior grunt, a sound of surprise and pain as the air was forced out of his lungs. He heard the scrabbling of claws on stone as the man tried to regain his footing.

Then, a low, guttural growl from the warrior, cut short by a choking gurgle.

In the sudden quiet, Spider heard the heavy, laboured breathing of the warrior, and the steady, controlled exhale of his father.

Then, it happened. C-CRACK. It was a sickening, dry sound, like a thick branch snapping, but louder. The crowd cheered indifferent of who had win, they just want to see the kill.

Beside him, Varang moved. She clamped a hand onto his shoulder, her grip iron-tight, and shoved him forward, physically forcing him to engage with the scene.

"Look," she commanded, her voice thick with pleasure.

Spider forced his head up. Varang was beaming, a wide baring of teeth that was less a smile and more a display of predatory admiration. She was looking at the center of the ring, entranced by the brutality of the kill.

Spider followed her gaze. Quaritch stood in the middle of the glowing coals, the heat distorting the air around him. He was receiving the glory, the chants of his name rising into the night air. But he wasn't looking at the crowd, he wasn't looking in their direction. The man’s cold eyes locked dead on Spider.

He stood over the twisted corpse of the warrior, his chest heaving slightly, staring back at his son with a chilling, flat expression.

He tore his eyes away from the twisted angle of the dead man’s neck, breaking the heavy, silent connection with his father.

He looked down at his own lap, breathing through his mouth to keep the bile down. He stared at his trembling hands, seeing the red paint Varang had applied

"The debt is paid!" she announced, her voice echoing off the canyon walls. "The Ash accepts the offering."

Quaritch didn’t stay there much longer. He stepped over the body of his opponent without a downward glance, the crowd parting for him as if he were made of the fire itself.

He came straight to the log, ignoring Varang  stopping in front of the boy.

"Come on, son," he said, placing a hand on Spider's back to guide him up. The hand was heavy, hot, and damp with sweat. Spider flinched at the contact, his mind flashing instantly to the sound of the snap, realizing this was the same hand that had just extinguished a life.

Quaritch steered Spider away from the circle, guiding him away from the roaring fire, the cheering crowd, and the twisted corpse.

They walked into the shadows, leaving the chaotic light of the ceremony behind. The further they walked, the quieter it got. The chanting replaced by the hissing of steam vents and the cold wind of the mountain.

The silence hit Spider like a physical blow, the adrenaline crash was instantaneous.

He stopped "Kid?" Quaritch started but Spider didn't answer. He collapsed to his knees in the dark ash, his hands digging into the sharp grit, as his stomach convulsed violently.

He retched, his body heaving as he expelled everything he had eaten. The rich, spiced meat came rushing back up, splashing onto the black ground. He gagged, coughing and spitting.

Spider gasped for air, his throat raw and burning, tears stinging the corners of his eyes. He remained on his hands and knees in the ash, trembling violently as the aftershocks of the sickness rolled through him.

He felt a hand land on his back, heavy and warm, covering almost his entire skin. It began to move in slow, rhythmic circles, rubbing up and down his spine in a gesture of clumsy, instinctive comfort.

"It’s okay," Quaritch murmured, his voice a low, soothing rumble in the quiet night. "Get it all out. Just breathe." But Spider barely heard him.

Then, he heard soft, deliberate footsteps crunching on the ash approaching them.

"Is the child okay?" Varang’s voice cut through the dark.

Spider didn’t listen to the response, he didn't care what excuse Quaritch gave. He focused entirely on his own lungs, inhaling the cold, air, exhaling the sickness. In. Out. In. Out.

He felt another pair of hands on him. He didn't have the strength to walk, and he didn't have the will to protest. He felt himself being hoisted up, his feet dragging slightly as he was half-carried, half-dragged back toward the village.

They entered the tent he had woken up in, the fire had died down to glowing embers, casting a deep red gloom over the space.

Varang deposited him onto the pile of soft furs. He sank into them, his body limp, Quaritch sitting down immediately beside him, a looming, solid presence that blocked his escape route.

Spider sat there, staring blankly at the fire, feeling the exhaustion seep into his bones. Varang moved to the corner and returned a moment later, a clay bowl of water in her hands. She knelt before him, dipping a rough cloth into the cool liquid.

She reached out, grabbing his chin to hold his head steady, beginning to wipe his face, the wet cloth cool against his flushed, feverish skin. She scrubbed away the sweat, the tears, and the traces of bile from his mouth.

It was a tender motion, performed with the same terrifying precision she used to braid hair or paint skin. Spider closed his eyes, shuddering at the touch, too drained to pull away. He let the coolness of the cloth soothe the heat in his face.

"It is okay, my child," Varang cooed, her voice dropping to a hypnotic, maternal register. "It is over now."

She reached out with a long, grey finger, catching a stray tear that leaked from Spider’s squeezed-shut eyelid.

Quaritch watched the interaction, a heavy frown etching lines into his painted face. He looked at the woman touching his son, calling him hers, feeling a spike of cold, sharp jealousy pierced through his chest.

He had just broken a man’s neck to secure their place here. He had done the dirty work to keep the kid safe. But now, watching her soothe him with such proprietary ease, Quaritch felt a sudden, gnawing suspicion, he felt like he was losing his position as the boy's protector.

Varang pushed the boy back, her hand firm against his chest, forcing him to lie down against the pile of soft furs. Then, without a word of explanation, she lay down beside him.

Spider’s survival instincts kicked in, overriding his exhaustion, making him sit up in a flash.

"What are you doing?" he demanded, his voice cracking.

"It is late," Varang said calmly, adjusting the pelt beneath her hip. "We are going to sleep."

"Here?" Spider squeaked, as he looked frantically at Quaritch, pleading with his eyes for the Colonel to intervene, to establish some boundary. But the man only shrugged, seemed lost in his own head, staring at the dying embers of the fire, still processing offering no help.

"Yes. Here," Varang stated.

Before Spider could protest again, she reached out. Her arm hooked around his chest like a band of steel, and with effortless strength, she yanked him back down to the furs, pulling him against her side, pinning him there.

"You too, Quaritch," she commanded, not even looking at the Recombinant.

Spider held his breath, waiting for the argument, but surprisingly, Quaritch did just that. He let out a heavy sigh, cracked his neck, and lay down on Spider’s other side.

Spider lay frozen, staring up at the ceiling, as was caged in the middle of the two massive bodies. On his left was Varang, her arm draped possessively over his chest, her grey skin radiating a furnace-like heat. On his right was Quaritch.

For years, this had been his secret, pathetic dream.

Back in the High Camp, and even in the spacious woven maruis of the Metkayina, Spider had always slept on the periphery. He was the stray cat allowed in out of the rain, tolerated but not integrated. He would lie on his separate mat, curled up in the drafty spot near the entrance, and watch the Sullys. He would watch how the kids tangled their limbs together, how Jake and Neytiri would curl around them, forming an impenetrable knot of blue skin and love.

He used to ache for that. He used to lay awake and imagine what it would feel like to be in the middle, to be the precious thing in the centre, protected on all sides, shielded from the world by parents who wouldn't let anything touch him.

He felt the heavy rise and fall of Varang’s chest against his shoulder. He felt the radiating heat of his father. He had gotten exactly what he wanted, he was finally in the middle, protected and  claimed.

And it was a living nightmare. The universe, had a twisted sense of humour. Be careful what you wish for, he thought, before closing his eyes.

Over the next few days, Spider learned the new rules of his existence. He was never alone, not for a moment. If he walked to the edge of the village to look at the ash fields, Quaritch was two steps behind him. If he sat by the fire to eat, Varang was there, pressing fresh fruit or meat into his hands.

But the nights were the hardest to adjust to. The "family bed" wasn't a one-time occurrence; it was the new law. Every night, he was sandwiched between the two avatars, trapped in a sweltering cocoon of heat and grey skin, with Varang’s arm draped over him like a seatbelt.

One day Spider watched from his pile of furs as Quaritch moved efficiently around the space, gathering equipment. He wasn't putting on his usual daily gear Spider noticed

"Where are you going?" Spider asked, sitting up, his heart hammering against his ribs.

Quaritch didn't look up from the buckle he was tightening. "Out." He didn't give details. He didn't say how long.

Panic flared in Spider’s chest, as he looked past Quaritch to where Varang stood, watching them with a serene, expectant smile. He scrambled to his feet stepping closer to his father He didn't beg out loud but he screamed it with his eyes. He widened his gaze, locking onto Quaritch’s golden ones, pouring every ounce of his fear into the look.

Don't go, the look said. Don't leave me alone with her.

Quaritch paused seeing the look. For a split second his hand lingered on the tent flap, he had understood exactly what Spider was asking.

"Varang will keep an eye on you," Quaritch said, his voice flat and final. "Stay out of trouble, kid. I'll be back by nightfall."

He said before walking out of the tent. Spider stood frozen, feeling the abandonment hit him like a physical blow. A hand landed on his shoulder long, fingers curling possessively around his collarbone.

"Good," Varang purred, her breath hot against his ear. "Now we have time. Just us."

The rest of the day was a blur of suffocating attention.

Spider had no choice but to follow her, without Quaritch there to act as a buffer, Varang’s focus was entirely, terrifyingly fixed on him. She didn't lock him in the tent; she simply expected him to be her shadow. Where she walked, he walked. When she stopped to inspect the weapon racks or speak with the village elders, he was expected to stand quietly by her hip.

It was, on the surface, pretty much the same routine as with his father. He was being babysat. But the feeling was different.

While Quaritch watched him with the detached vigilance of a sentry guarding a perimeter, he gave him space. Varang on the other hand was... immersive.

When midday she sat him down on a woven mat near the communal fires. She selected the food herself and placed the bowl in his hands.

"Eat," she commanded softly, sitting cross-legged beside him, her knee pressing against his.

But the real problem came at night.

She laid Spider across the soft furs, dragging him down and caging him in her arms like always. She curled around him, but as Spider settled in, a chill ran down his spine. To his right, there was nothing.

He stared into the shadows where Quaritch usually lay. He felt the emptiness of his father’s absence , for weeks, he had hated being crushed between them, but now, without that solid wall on his other side, he felt dangerously exposed.

Exhaustion eventually won out, dragging him under, but it didn't bring rest. It brought the memories.

The warm, smoky smell of the tent vanished, and suddenly, he was back in the cold, sterile white of Bridgehead City. Straped to the machine he felt the restrains cutting into his skin, screaming as the frequency hit him. It didn't feel like a headache, it felt like his skull was being cracked open from the inside like a nut. It felt like invisible fingers were digging into the soft grey matter of his brain, rifling through his memories, tearing his mind apart piece by piece to find what they wanted.

"Stop! Please!" he shrieked, his voice tearing at his throat.

he jerked his head toward the observation glass, looking for Quaritch, looking for the monster who had stopped it last time. But the glass was empty.

He screamed again, a raw, primal sound of total abandonment, but this time... no one came. Suddenly, the hydraulic door of the lab hissed open.

Spider, still thrashing and squirming against the leather restraints, whipped his head toward the sound through a blur of tears. A figure had stormed into the room.

It moved with a speed that defied the sterile environment with the lunging sprint of a predator, crossing the linoleum floor in two massive strides, reaching the control console.

A grey hand slammed down onto the emergency stop button, shattering the plastic casing.

The machine died instantly, the shrieking whine cut out. The blinding green lights vanished, plunging the room into a stunned silence.

Spider gasped, his chest heaving, waiting for the Colonel’s voice, but nothing came. The figure turned slowly toward the chair. It wasn't Quaritch.

Standing amidst the chrome and white lights, looking utterly alien and terrifying, was Varang.

Spider’s eyes snapped open, wide and unseeing.

The scream died in his throat, strangling him, but the pain was still there like a phantom echo a sharp, drilling pressure behind his temples where the machine had been, a ghost sensation of cold metal clamps biting into his skin.

A shadow loomed over him. Varang was right there, hovering inches from his face, her lips moving, forming rapid, urgent words, but Spider’s mind was still screaming. He couldn't hear her. All he could hear was the high-pitched whine of the neural scanner and the blood roaring in his own ears like a waterfall.

Panic, blind and feral, took over. He bolted upright, scrambling away from the imaginary restraints, moving with such violent, jerky force that he nearly headbutted Varang.

She pulled back just in time, his forehead missing her chin by a fraction of an inch.

Spider scrambled, his chest heaving in jagged, wet gasps. He was drenched in cold sweat that made him shiver uncontrollably. His wild eyes darted around the space, trying to find the white walls, the observation glass, the scientists.

There was no white, there was no sterile cold. No, he was back in the warm tent.

Spider sat trembling against the woven wall, clutching his chest, his eyes wide and wet. He gasped for air, but his lungs felt too small, constricted by the lingering phantom pressure of the restraints.

A hand landed on his back a heavy, grounding weight right between his shoulder blades. The heat from her palm seeped through his skin, chasing away the phantom chill of the laboratory.

"Spider," Varang murmured her voice was low

Spider couldn't hold it anymore, the dam inside him finally snapping.

A sob tore its way out of his throat, raw and ugly. He curled in on himself, burying his face in his knees as the tears racked his small body. He didn't just cry, he shattered, shaking violently, gasping and choking.

Varang watched the boy unravel, but the sight of his weakness didn't repel her

"Oh, baby," she murmured.

She reached out, her large hands encompassing his shaking shoulders, and pulled him effortlessly off the floor, dragging him into the cradle of her crossed legs, pressing his sweat-drenched face against the smooth, hot skin of her chest.

Spider didn't fight, he couldn't, he collapsed into her, his small hands clutching at her arms, desperate for anything that wasn't the cold metal of his nightmare.

Varang began to rock him back and forth, in a slow, hypnotic rhythm..

"Shh," she cooed, resting her cheek on top of his hair. "It is okay. Mama is here." She said soflty as sobs continue to come out

She stayed like that for a long time, rocking him through the violent tremors, through the gasping sobs, until the crying turned to hiccups, and the hiccups finally faded into the heavy, limp silence of total exhaustion.

Finally, the tremors began to subside.

"I’m... I'm okay, now," Spider croaked, his voice a broken whisper.

He scrambled out of her lap, the sudden absence of her warmth leaving him feeling exposed and small. The shame hitting him instantly, hotter than the fire.

He retreated to his pile of furs, sitting with his back to her, curling his knees to his chest to hide his face, as he stared at the tent wall, wishing he could disappear.

Behind him, he heard Varang move. She stood up, the soft rustle of her loincloth and the clinking of clay jars filling the silence. She rummaged through her supplies in the back of the tent, mixing something.

A moment later, she returned to his side, reaching over his shoulder, offering him a carved wooden cup, filled with a dark liquid with unrecognizable leaves floating on the surface, spiraling in the steam.

"Drink," she commanded softly. "It will calm you."

Spider stared at the dark liquid, It could be poison, It could be a drug to make him compliant, or It could be a sedative to knock him out for days. But He didn't care.

His hands were trembling so badly that the liquid rippled near the brim as he took the cup. He brought it to his lips and took a long, desperate sip. He expected bitterness, but the taste was surprisingly sweet, like honey and roasted nuts. He gulped it down, letting the hot liquid coat his throat and warm his insides, chasing away the last of the laboratory's cold.

"Why are you doing this?" he murmured, his gaze fixed on the swirling steam rising from the cup. He refused to turn around and look at her.

"Doing what?" Varang asked, her voice calm, drifting closer to his back.

"I don't know... like, care for me," Spider stammered, the words tumbling out as the warm herbal brew began to loosen his tongue. "You didn't have to do all of this. You don't have to hold me."

He took a shaky breath, his grip tightening on the wood. "If you’re trying to win Quaritch over... I’m telling you, you don’t need to put in this much effort. He's already on your side. You don't need to pretend with me."

Varang chuckled,  "I do not need to win him," she said simply. "I have already won Quaritch."

Spider rubbed his eyes aggressively with the heel of his hand. " you confuse me," he admitted, his voice cracking, as he finally turned his head slightly, glancing at her over his shoulder with red, exhausted eyes. "You're supposed to hate me. I represent everything that you hate. You should hit me, hurt me. Not... not this."

Varang tilted her head, her yellow eyes narrowing not in anger, but in genuine confusion.

"You are a child," she stated flatly, as if that simple biological fact overrode everything else.

Spider let out an incredulous breath. "So? That didn't stop Neytiri. She didn't like me for that reason. She looked at me and saw a demon."

Varang’s brow furrowed. She leaned forward, the firelight casting deep shadows across her face. " She was not your mother?"

Spider actually laughed. It was a dry, hollow sound that scraped against his throat.

"No. My mum is dead. died in the war," he said, staring into the dark liquid in his cup. "Quaritch came back from the dead, but not her. not my mother."

He took another sip, the warmth spreading through his chest, making it easier to say the things he had kept locked away for years.

"The Sullys... they kind of took me in," he mumbled. "I hung out with their kids. I ate their food sometimes. But they never... they never assumed the roles. "

Varang watched the tension finally bleed out of his small frame. The wooden cup slipping from his loosening grip, rolling harmlessly onto the furs. Spider’s eyelids fluttered and closed, his breathing shifting from the jagged gasps of panic to the deep, slow rhythm of dreamless sleep.

She gathered him up, pulling him tightly against her chest, tucking his head under her chin. She held him with a suffocating tenderness, her massive arms forming a cage around him.

Unclaimed. The word echoed in her mind, tasting of opportunity.

A child without a protector, was a rarity, an anomaly that most times it was corrected immediately. The forest people, for all their talk of "Eywa" and connection, had left this boy hollow. They had looked at him and seen a demon, leaving him shivering at the edge of their fire.

Fools, she thought, a dark satisfaction curling in her gut.

She ran her hand down Spider’s back, feeling the ridges of his spine, claiming every inch of him. That was no more, the boy was hers.

That single word cut through the fog in Spider’s brain like a knife. Adrenaline spiked, overriding the heavy fog of the sedative for a split second, making Spider’s vision snapped into sharp, terrifying focus.

Beside him wasn’t Jake, no, it was Quaritch. The same man he had dragged from the water. The same man who shared his blood.

Spider scrambled backward, his limbs heavy and uncoordinated, kicking at the furs until his back collided with the rough, stretched hide of the tent wall. There was nowhere left to go.

"What are you doing here?" he breathed, his eyes wide and trembling.

Then, the memories hit him like a physical blow. He looked around frantically, noting the dark volcanic rock peeking out from under the rugs, the smell of sulfur instead of salt, and the oppressive heat.

"Where am I?" he rasped out, his throat dry as sandpaper.

Quaritch slowly raised his hands, palms open and non-threatening, treating Spider like a spooked animal. It was the exact same posture, the exact same reasonable tone he had used the day they first met in the interrogation room at Bridgehead.

"Let's calm down, son," he soothed, his voice low and steady.

He reached to his side, retrieving a rough-hewn clay bowl from a small wooden table. The sound of water sloshing inside was torture to Spider’s ears.

"You look parched," Quaritch said, holding it out. "You want some water?"

Spider wanted it, he wanted it desperately. His tongue felt swollen, and his throat was raw, dry as sandpaper. But he didn't move, he had already been drugged once today, he wasn't going to make it easy for them to do it again.

Quaritch saw the hesitation in the boy's eyes and let out a short, dry huff of amusement, before bringing  the bowl to his own lips, taking a long, deliberate sip, his eyes never leaving Spider’s face. He swallowed audibly, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"See?" he said, stepping forward. "It's just water."

He knelt slowly, invading Spider's space just enough to place the bowl into the boy's trembling hands. Spider stared down at the liquid, It was clear,  It didn't have the murky color of the root brew, and it didn't carry that sharp, earthy smell.

Spider decided to take the risk. He lifted the bowl and downed the contents in one go, the cool liquid soothing the fire in his throat. He gasped as he finished, wiping his chin, the water helping clear the last of the fog from his mind.

Spider lowered the bowl, his hands resting in his lap. He stared down into the empty clay vessel, tracing a crack in the rim with his thumb, refusing to meet the man’s golden gaze.

"Why couldn't you just leave me alone?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper. He had finally been happy, he had finally belonged, but instead Quaritch was once again in the middle of it all ruining everything.

"It was... a misunderstanding" Quaritch admitted. "But that doesn't matter now. What matters is that you're here, You're safe, and in the end, that is all that matters."

"And why are you here?" Spider challenged, his voice gaining a shred of strength. "With them? The Ash People?"

"Let's just say the Ash Clan and I... have our interests aligned," Quaritch replied smoothly, his tone final as he dodged the specifics.

Spider opened his mouth to argue, to demand real answers, but the words died in his throat, as the heavy leather flaps of the tent were swept aside.

Spider’s spine went rigid. His breath hitched as he shrank back against the furs, his knuckles turning white around the empty clay bowl.

Varang stepped inside. She moved with a silent, terrifying grace, her silhouette framed by the dim, smoky light of the camp outside. She didn't look at Quaritch, instead her gaze snapped instantly to the boy, pinning him in place like a predator.

"You’re awake” she stated, her voice smooth and lacking any surprise.

Spider didn’t say a word. His eyes locked on her every movement. Without thinking his body shifted across the furs, inching closer to Quaritch. He hated himself for it, but the man was the only familiar thing in this hellscape.

"Just in time," she added, wiping her blade with a cloth.

"Just in time for what?" Spider asked, his voice trembling, terrified of the answer.

She smiled, a slow, sharp expression, and turned her gaze to the Recombinant. "For your father's ceremony, of course."

Quaritch bristled, standing up , his height filling the tent, his tail lashing in agitation. "Hang on there. We didn't talk about any ceremony."

"If you want the strength of the Ash People, you must become Ash," Varang replied coolly. She didn't back down. "or else or deal is go”

She said tilted her head toward Spider, a silent, heavy gesture. The threat hung in the air

Spider didn't know the details of their bargain, but he it somehow involved him.

Quaritch ground his teeth, his jaw muscle jumping. He looked at the boy, then back at the Tsahìk. "Fine. What about the kid? He part of this song and dance too?"

"He can skip a few steps" she dismissed smirking at Quaritch. "But he needs to be ready."

She stepped closer to him, invading Spider’s personal space. Spider flinched as her hand shot out, her long fingers curling around one of his golden dreadlocks.

"This hair," she murmured . She let go of his hair and grabbed his arm, twisting him to inspect his attire and woven accessories of the Metkayina.

"And these clothes," she sneered, running a fingernail over the fabric. "They do not belong here. You look like a fish gasping on the rocks. We have to change that."

Spider pulled his arm back, his heart hammering against his ribs. He turned his head frantically toward Quaritch, his eyes pleading, as he  waited for his father to step in, to tell her to back off, to say that Spider was fine just the way he was.

But the man didn't open his mouth. Quaritch stood like a statue, complicit in his silence, willing to let Varang strip the boy down to build him back up.

"No," Spider said.

The word cut through the heavy silence. Making Varang’s head snap toward him, her braids clicking with the sudden movement. Her eyes narrowed, the pupils contracting into dangerous slits. She looked less like she was looking at a boy and more like she was looking at a tool that had suddenly started speaking.

"It’s great that you two have a... thing," Spider spat, his voice shaking but loud, glancing between the two villains. "Whatever deal you made, I don’t want to be apart of it."

"Kid," Quaritch warned, his voice a low rumble. "Watch your mouth."

But Spider didn't let that stop him. He scrambled up to his knees on the pile of furs, trying to make himself look bigger, trying to look like the warrior he wanted to be. He grabbed his own upper arm, twisting it to face the Tsahìk. There, faint but undeniable against his pale skin, was the tattoo he had earned, the mark of the Metkayina.

"I’m already part of a clan," he declared, his chin held high, his chest heaving with defiance.

He looked her dead in the eye, making the gesture, hand to forehead and then away.

"I See you, Varang, Tsahìk of the Ash People," he said, the formal Na'vi greeting rolling perfectly off his tongue. "But I am Metkayina. I already have a clan. I already have a home."

Varang stared at him for a long, stretching moment. Her gaze dropped from his defiant eyes to the small, clumsy tattoo on his arm. She didn't look impressed, instead she looked like a scientist studying a bug that had crawled into her lab.

"You want to return?" she asked, her voice unreadably calm.

Spider swallowed the lump in his throat, but he didn't back down "Yes."

Varang stared at him for another beat, then shrugged, a fluid motion of her shoulders.

"Alright"

Spider blinked, his mouth falling open slightly. He looked from her to Quaritch, expecting a trick.

"Now hang on a minute-" Quaritch started, stepping forward with his hand raised, panic flashing in his eyes.

Varang silenced him with a sharp, cutting gesture of her hand. She didn't even look at the Recombinant; her predatory yellow eyes remained fixed on the boy.

"The flap is open," she said, gesturing to the entrance of the tent

She took a step back, clearing the path to the door. "You can go, Spider," she said, testing his name on her tongue again, savoring the syllables.

Spider scrambled off the furs, his heart pounding. He couldn't believe it. He took a hesitant step toward the exit, his bare feet hitting the warm volcanic rock floor

But just as he passed her, Varang leaned in close, her voice dropping to a whisper that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. "Just don't let me catch you."

Spider froze looking at her, watching as her face contorted into a predatory grin, her upper lip curling back to reveal sharp fangs. Her pupils blew wide, swallowing the iris, fixing on him like a viper coils before a strike.

"Run," she breathed.

Spider didn't wait to be told twice. Pure instinct took over as he bolted through the open flaps of the tent, his bare feet slapping against the stone, plunging headfirst into the unknown of the Ash lands.

He was immediately engulf in light, Spider didn’t have time to look around his feet slapping hard on the rocks

Varang stepped out of the tent slowly, watching as the small human boy scrambled across the uneven, jagged ground of the village square.

Around them, the activity of the Ash Clan ground to a halt. Dozens of pairs of yellow eyes turned in unison, watching the pale, frantic figure sprinting away the village.

Quaritch burst out of the tent a second later, his ears pinned back, muscles coiled to sprint.

"Spider!" he bellowed, preparing to bolt after him.

Varang didn't look at him. She simply raised a hand, placing her palm flat against the center of Quaritch’s chest.

"Patience," she murmured, her voice cutting through his panic. "He won't get far."

She reached to the rack beside the tent entrance, snatching up a heavy, black-wood bow. With a fluid motion, she drew an arrow, dipping the obsidian tip into a nearby brazier. The head caught fire instantly, burning with a strange, chemical violet-orange hue.

Before Quaritch could protest, she drew the string back to her ear.

The arrow sang through the air, a streak of light against the smoky sky, soaring over Spider head, arching perfectly.

It struck the ground ten feet in front of Spider.

Upon impact, the arrow didn't just stick; it exploded. A line of accelerant buried in the ash ignited instantly, erupting into a roaring wall of fire that stretched across the path, blocking the exit.

Spider skidded to a halt, his heels digging into the loose gravel, throwing his arms up to shield his face, the sudden wave of blistering heat nearly knocking him backward. The flames roared in front of him.

He stumbled back, coughing as the smoke filled his lungs. Heart hammering against his ribs, he turned around.

Varang stood by the tent, the bow still lowered in her hand, the firelight dancing in her eyes. She wasn't chasing him, no, she was herding him. Spider looked at the wall of violet fire, the heat radiating against his face. He wasn't dumb enough to try to jump through it. Desperate, he scuffed his feet against the ground, kicking showers of loose gravel and dark ash into the base of the flames.

For a second, it seemed to work. The fire sputtered, choking on the dust. A gap began to form.

Suddenly, a hand the size of a shovel clamped onto his dreadlocks, yanking him backward with bone-snapping force. Spider’s feet left the ground before he was slammed back down, his body skidding across the razor-sharp volcanic rock. He cried out as the obsidian shards sliced through his skin, opening shallow, stinging wounds across his back and arms.

He scrambled to look up, expecting Varang or Quaritch. It was neither. Standing over him was a massive Ash warrior, his face painted with white ash, lips curled in a snarl.

"You disrespect Tsahìk!" the man roared, lunging downward with a jagged glass knife.

Spider reacted on pure instinct. He rolled to his right, feeling the wind of the blade as it struck the stone just millimeters from his ribs. His hand flew to his hip to draw his knife but his fingers grasped only empty air.

The warrior was coming again, raising the blade for a second strike. Spider’s hand closed around a fist-sized chunk of rock. He hurled it with all his might, striking the warrior in the snout.

The man flinched, hissing in pain, but he didn't stop. As Spider scrambled to get to his feet, a heavy leg swept his ankles.

Spider went down hard. He fell headfirst, his skull bouncing off the stone with a sickening crack.

He rolled onto his back, the world spinning, his vision swimming with black spots. He saw the warrior looming over him, raising the knife for the killing blow. When suddenly an arrow materialized in the warrior's chest, punching through armor and grey skin with a wet crunch.

The man gasped, the knife falling from his hand as he staggered back.

"BACK!" The scream didn't come from Spider

Varang stormed through the smoke, ignoring the heat, marching straight to the wounded warrior, grabbing him by his long, braided queue.

"You dare touch what is mine?" she hissed.

With terrifying strength, she dragged the stumbling, bleeding man toward the very wall of fire she had created. The warrior clawed at her arm, but he was weakened by the arrow, and she was fueled by cold rage.

Spider watched through a haze of concussion as she shoved the warrior’s face directly into the violet flames.

The man screamed, a high, gurgling sound of absolute agony that echoed off the canyon walls. He thrashed, his legs kicking wildly, but Varang held him there, her face a mask of stone, her arm unyielding.

She held him until the kicking slowed, until the screaming stopped.

Only then did she release her grip, letting the limp body slump to the ground, smoke rising from what was left of his head.

The smell of burning flesh hung heavy in the air, sickening . Spider stared past the flames, his eyes wide and unblinking, fixed on the smoking heap that used to be a warrior.

Suddenly, a massive shadow fell over him, Quaritch was there. He crouched low, his broad shoulders completely blocking Spider’s line of sight to Varang and her victim.

"Spider," he barked, his voice sharp with urgency. "Look at me. You okay?"

Spider blinked, his eyes struggling to track. He tried to nod, but the movement sent a spike of nausea rolling through his gut.

Quaritch didn't wait for an answer. His hands were moving fast, he ran his palms down Spider’s arms, checking for breaks, before moving to his head. His fingers grazing the spot where Spider’s skull had bounced off the stone.

Spider groaned, screwing his eyes shut and pulling away.

"Easy," Quaritch murmured.

He grabbed Spider’s chin, forcing the boy to look at him. "Open your eyes. Focus."

Quaritch held up his hand, two blue fingers extended in front of Spider’s face. The edges were blurry, swimming in and out of focus.

"How many fingers am I holding?" Quaritch demanded, staring intensely into Spider’s dilated pupils.

Spider swallowed hard, fighting the urge to vomit. He squinted. "Two," he croaked.

Quaritch let out a long, shuddering breath, his shoulders sagging slightly.

Good," Quaritch whispered, the relief evident in his voice as he exhaled.

Varang appeared beside him, her shadow falling over them both. She didn't look at the smoking corpse behind her; her yellow eyes were fixed on the boy, assessing his injuries with a clinical detachment.

"Come," she ordered, turning on her heel. "Take him."

Quaritch didn't argue. He slid his arms under Spider’s knees and back, lifting him from the harsh ground with no effort at all, holding the boy close to his chest, shielding him from the stares of the village. As they walked, the Ash People parted like a dark sea. They didn't speak; they bowed, in reverence or maybe  terror of their Tsahìk.

Spider didn't say anything. His head lalled against the cool of Quaritch’s vest, his mind drifting in a concussion haze. The rhythmic thud of Quaritch’s feet was the only thing grounding him.

He noticed, vaguely, that they weren't heading back to the tent.

They moved deeper into the volcanic ridge, where the air grew thick and humid. Ahead of them, carved into the obsidian rock, were natural pools filled with opaque, grey water. Steam rose from them in thick pillars, smelling of sulfur and minerals.

"Put him here," Varang commanded, pointing to a secluded pool where the water churned slowly.

Quaritch hesitated, stepping back. He could feel the heat radiating from the surface.

"It's boiling," he snapped, tightening his grip on his son. "You trying to cook him?"

"It is safe," Varang replied, her tone brooking no argument. “Put him in."

Quaritch looked at her, then down at the shivering, bleeding boy in his arms. He chose to trust her.

Slowly, carefully, he lowered Spider into the pool. Spider flinched, expecting to burn, instead, he sighed.

The water was hot, intensely so, but it didn't sting. It felt like a heavy, warm blanket wrapping around his battered body. As Quaritch’s hands released him, Spider sank down until his back rested against the smooth, natural curve of the rock wall. The mineral-rich water lapped at his chest, instantly soothing the cuts on his back and the throbbing ache in his skull.

Varang stepped into the basin, the heat seemingly having no effect on her tough, ash-colored skin. She moved toward him not like a predator this time, but like a caretaker. She sank to her knees beside him, crowding his personal space.

She didn't speak, she simply cupped her large hands, gathering the steaming liquid, and brought it to his face.

The water cascaded over his forehead, hot and mineral-heavy. It washed away the grit, the sweat, and the red smear of his own blood, dissolving it into the murky pool.

Spider’s eyes tracked her every movement, wide and wary. He didn't say a word, he didn't dare. He just watched the face of the woman who had just burned a man alive now tend to him with surprising, terrifying gentleness.

Varang reached down, plunging her hand to the bottom of the spring. Her hands scraped against the rock floor. When she pulled her hand back, her fingers were coated in a thick, slate-grey sludge, volcanic clay.

She pressed the clay directly into the split skin on his temple.

Spider sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, as it stung, a biting, acidic burn that made his eyes water. He instinctively tried to pull back, but her other hand held his shoulder, pinning him to the rock.

"Still," she commanded softly.

Almost instantly, the stinging faded. The clay began to harden against his skin, capping the wound like a second skin. He felt the warm, ticklish flow of blood that had been running down his cheek slow, and then stop completely.

She pulled her hand away, inspecting her handiwork. The clay was setting fast, sealing the wound.

Satisfied, she turned her gaze toward the edge of the pool where the Recombinant stood like a sentinel.

"Go," she ordered, pointing toward the village. "Prepare yourself."

Quaritch didn’t move,  crossing his massive arms over his chest "I’m not leaving him," he protested "Not after what just happened."

Varang’s eyes narrowed. She stepped closer to the edge, the steam swirling around her waist. "The sun is dipping, Quaritch. The ceremony waits for no one" She let the threat hang in the air, glancing down at the boy in the water.

"I will take care of your son," she said, her voice softer, almost hypnotic. "I will wash the blood. I will bring him to the tent. You go get ready."

Quaritch clenched his jaw, the muscles feathering. He looked down at Spider, who was watching him with wide, pleading eyes. He hated leaving him. But he knew the rules of engagement, to keep the boy, he had to play her game.

"Don't take your eyes off him," Quaritch warned.

He gave Spider one last look before turning on his heel. Spider watched in silence as the massive blue figure marched back toward the village, leaving him alone with her.

He turned his head slowly back to the water. Varang was still there, kneeling beside him, her yellow eyes fixed on his face not with malice, but with a terrifying sense of purpose.

"I will do your hair now," she announced.

She didn't wait for permission. She scooped up a bowl of the hot, grey water and poured it over his head.

Spider squeezed his eyes shut as the heavy liquid drenched his locks, matting them down against his skull. He hated it. He hated anyone touching his hair. That was for Kiri, who would weave small shells into it, or Tuk, who would tug on it when she wanted a piggyback ride, it was something intimate.

But he sat frozen, his muscles locked. He wouldn't be the one to defy Varang. Not after watching her melt a man’s face in the fire without blinking.

She moved to sit on the ledge behind him, her legs dipping into the water on either side of his shoulders, caging him again.

He felt her long, sharp fingers work into the base of his scalp. She began to pick at the intricate braids and dreadlocks, undoing them one by one. It was a slow, methodical process, the dismantling of who he was. Occasionally, she would pour more hot water over his head to loosen the grime, washing away the scent of the ocean.

"Why are you doing this?" Spider asked, his voice barely audible over the bubbling of the spring. He stared at the grey water swirling around his chest. "You know Quaritch doesn't care that much about me."

Varang didn't stop. Her fingers continued to untangle a stubborn knot, her nails scraping lightly against his scalp.

"Hmm. Is that what you think?" she hummed, the sound vibrating in her chest against his back.

"It’s the truth," Spider muttered, shrugging his shoulders under the water. "He left me behind before. He'll do it again."

Varang paused, her hands stilled in his wet, heavy hair. The silence growing  thick, broken only by the bubbling of the spring.

Suddenly, she tightened her grip on his locks, pulling his head back until his neck stretched and he was forced to look up at the sky .

"There is something you get wrong, little one," she whispered, leaning down so her breath ghosted over his wet ear.

"You are not Quaritch’s," she corrected, her voice possessing a terrifying finality. "You are mine. I caught you. I kept you. And as you saw today... no one touches what is mine."

Spider swallowed hard, his heart hammering against his ribs, but he didn't pull away. He couldn't.

She let him go, shifting position to sit behind him. Her fingers moved with blinding speed, weaving his wet hair into tight, severe rows against his scalp, braiding him to look like one of the ash people

She finished the last and stood up grabbing his arms, hoisting him out of the pool with ease.

"It is done," she declared,"Let's get you back to your father."

Spider followed her back toward the village, he reached up, his fingers brushing against his scalp. He felt the strange, tight ridges of the braids instead of his familiar, loose locks. He looked down at his arms. The water had scrubbed the blue stripes he painted on himself every morning to look like the navi were gone.

He knew that if he looked in a mirror right now, he wouldn't recognize the boy staring back.

They entered the tent, the heat of the central fire hitting them instantly. Spider stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes widening in shock.

Quaritch sat across the fire pit, looking like a demon rose from the underworld. He had stripped off his tactical vest. His massive blue chest and arms were bare, save for the thick, jagged lines of crimson paint that had been smeared across his pectorals and down his face. He looked primal…he looked like he belonged here.

Quaritch looked up, his golden eyes scanning the boy’s transformation. He took in the severe braids, the clean skin. A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Well," the Recombinant rumbled, nodding his head. "That’s a look."

He leaned forward. "It suits you, kid."

Spider didn't know how to respond. He felt exposed.

Varang moved past him, retrieving a clay bowl from the side of the tent. It was filled with a thick, viscous paste, he same blood-red ochre that covered Quaritch.

She returned to Spider, forcing him to sit beside her near the fire. The flames cast long, dancing shadows against the tent walls. She dipped two fingers into the red paint, the substance looking disturbingly like fresh blood in the flickering light.

"It is time to get you ready as well," she purred, raising her hand to his pale face.

Her hand moved with chilling precision.

She painted his face first, her fingers dipping into the viscous red paste and dragging it across his forehead, down the bridge of his nose, and sweeping across his cheekbones. The ochre was cool against his skin, smelling of iron and crushed berries.

She moved down his neck to his chest and shoulders. Spider sat perfectly still, his breathing shallow, watching her work.

After a while, he noticed the pattern.

For years, Spider had painted himself with blue stripes every morning. He did it to mimic the Omatikaya, and later the Metkayina. He did it to belong.

Varang had noticed.

She was tracing those exact same lines, but she was corrupting them. Where the blue stripes had once been, she replaced them with thick, jagged strokes of blood-red ink. She was overwriting him. She was taking his desire to be Na'vi and twisting it, turning him into a reflection of the Ash People.

Then, her hand moved to his upper arm.

Spider flinched slightly. That was where his tattoo was, the jagged, geometric armband that marked him as a man of the Metkayina clan. He had earned that pain. He had earned that mark.

Varang didn't hesitate. She didn't skirt around it to show respect. She dipped her fingers deep into the bowl, scooping up a heavy dollop of the red mud. With a single, deliberate smear, she dragged her thumb directly over the black tattoo.

Spider watched, his heart sinking, as the mark of the Sea People disappeared under the crimson sludge. She didn't stop until the blue ink was completely gone, buried under the color of the volcano.

In the morning the fire had long since died, leaving only a pile of grey ash and the faint, bitter smell of smoke hanging in the humid dawn air.

Quaritch mounted his banshee, the beast hissing and snapping at the damp morning mist. He checked his harness, then cast one last, hard look at Varang. She stood near the edge of the cliff, arms crossed, her expression unreadable as the early light caught the intricate patterns of her skin.

"I’ll be back by nightfall with your weapons" Quaritch shouted over the beating of leathery wings.

Varang merely dipped her chin in a slow, singular nod.

Satisfied Quaritch yanked the reins, with a screech that echoed off the canyon walls, he dove into the fog, disappearing.

As the sound of his flight fade, Varang watched the empty sky for a long moment, a cold, calculating smirk slowly returning to her lips.

She turned on her heel, her tail lashing behind her with predatory excitement. She whistled, a sharp, piercing sound that cut through,instantly, three of her best hunters emerged from the foliage, their eyes yellow and alert, weapons at the ready.

"He wants his son" Varang addressed them, her voice low and steel-hard. "He wants the air-breather."

She walked past them, trailing a hand over the rough bark of a tree.

She knew what Quaritch meant, she had never had anyone to care over, never cradled a child, but she understood the nature of ownership. Her people did not coddle, they conquered, they held tight to what was theirs.  

She knew one thing a weapon is safe when it is sheathed. A beast is safe when it is tethered. The logic was simple To keep a thing safe, you must possess it. You must cage it.

That was the only way to ensure the boy survived, Quaritch hadn't needed to say the words explicitly, she could read between the lines.

"Kill him?" one hunter asked, gripping his spear.

"No!" Varang snapped “Capture him, minimal damage” she ordered  as she mounted her banshee her warriors following behind.

------

Ever since Spider was blessed by Eywa, his life had become something out of a dream.

The change was a miracle that even the Tsahìk couldn't fully explain. He was still small, still pale-skinned, and still lacked the heavy carbon-fiber bones of the People. But the mask was gone, the glass barrier that had separated him from Pandora his entire life had been shattered. Now, he tasted the salt in the air and felt the humidity on his lips.

He was practically a Na'vi now, minus the blue skin and the height. People in the village still looked at him weirdly, a human scampering over the roots and diving into the reef, but now, he could make tsaheylu, he could bond. The path was open for him to become a warrior, a hunter, or whatever he wanted to be, he finally belonged.

Spider stood waist-deep in the turquoise shallows of the Awa’atlu lagoon, the warm water lapping against his bare chest. He held a fishing spear poised, his golden dreadlocks tied back, letting the sea breeze hit his face unfiltered.

He watched a fish dart between the coral below, his focus absolute. Gotcha, he thought, muscles tensing to strike.

When suddenly the sound rolled across the open water like thunder, a deep, resonant war horn that vibrated in his chest and shook the birds from the mangroves.

Spider froze. The fish vanished into the deep, but he didn't flinch, the laughter of the Metkayina children playing further down the beach died instantly. Slowly, Spider lowered the spear, the water swirling around his legs. He shielded his eyes against the blinding reflection of the sun on the ocean and looked up.

Shadows swept over the sparkling water, fast and jagged. High above, a formation of banshees broke through the cloud layer, diving toward the reef.

Spider’s heart stopped.

These weren't wild ikran, and they weren't Metkayina riders.

The realization hit him like a physical blow. His last encounter with them was still fresh in his mind, a jagged memory that gave him chills to the bone. He remembered the smell of sulfur and charcoal, the rough hands, and the cold metal of a blade pressed against his throat just a few nights ago. He and the Sully’s had barely escaped with their lives

But the sanctuary was gone, they had returned.

Around him, the peaceful lagoon erupted into chaos. The sounds of joy were replaced by screams of panic, Metkayina mothers snatched up their children, diving into the water or running for the walkways. Warriors shouted for their spears, the heavy thuds of their feet vibrating through the sand.

But Spider was frozen, he was far out on the sandbank, isolated and exposed. He was a speck of pale skin against the blue water, far from the safety of the village structures.

If I’m caught, he thought, his chest tightening, I’m dead.

"Tsahìk!" the shout tore through the air from far above him

Spider snapped his head up, shielding his eyes against the sun. Instantly, his gaze locked with hers. She was there, riding the lead banshee. The Tsahìk of the Ash Clan, the same woman who had looked at him with such cold curiosity before trying to slit his throat.

Even from this distance, he saw the recognition spark in her eyes. A vile, twisted smile plagued her face, a look of triumph that was far more terrifying than rage.

She leaned forward, her braids whipping in the wind, and dove.

With a terrifying screech that pierced his eardrums, the banshee tucked its great leathery wings and plummeted straight toward him. It grew larger with every fraction of a second, a falling boulder of muscle and hate, its talons outstretched to crush him.

Spider scrambled back, his heels digging into the wet sand, but there was nowhere to run, the water was too slow, the jungle too far. He had nowhere to go but face the imminent attack.

His hand flew to his back, grasping at empty air. He cursed himself, a sharp pang of regret twisting in his gut, he hadn't brought his bow. He had wanted to train with the spear, to learn the ways of the Metkayina, and now that decision might cost him his life.

He still had his knife strapped against his hip, but his hands were white-knuckled around the shaft of the fishing spear. He held it up defensively, the wooden pole trembling slightly in his grip. It felt pathetic, a toothpick against the storm that was descending upon him.

The banshee slammed into the sandbank just yards away, the impact shaking the ground beneath Spider’s feet, a blast of wind and wet sand hit him, forcing him to squint. The beast hissed, snapping its jaws, its yellow eyes locked onto him like a laser.

With fluid, predatory grace, Varang slid from the saddle before the creature had even settled. She landed silently, her ash-grey skin contrasting violently with the bright turquoise water. She stood to her full height, towering over him, the red war paint on her chest looking like a fresh wound.

Spider’s eyes went wide, his breath catching in his throat. He backed away, raising the spear tip toward her chest hissing at her trying to mask the dread he was feeling.

Varang didn't even flinch. She looked at the spear, then up at his face, her expression unreadable, almost amused amidst the chaos of the raiding party behind her.

"Hello, Spider," she purred, her voice smooth and terrifyingly casual.

Spider’s eyes widened in shock. How did she know his name? Had she heard the Sullys screaming it during the ambush a few nights ago? It didn't matter how she knew; the way the name rolled off her tongue, intimate and mocking, sent a fresh wave of ice through his veins.

"Back off!" he shouted, his voice cracking.

He gripped the fishing spear so hard his knuckles turned white, the wood groaning under the pressure of his fingers. He braced his feet in the sand, trying to look dangerous, trying to look like a warrior. But Varang didn’t look threatened, if anything she looked amused.

She took a slow step forward, a predator closing the distance. Then, with a blur of motion too fast for human eyes to track, she lashed out. Her hand closed around the wooden shaft and with a casual flick of her wrist, she snapped the spear in two like it was a dry twig, tossing the pieces aside.

Spider stared at his empty hands, his brain unable to process the loss of his weapon.  A heavy, grey hand slammed into his chest, driving him backward. Spider hit the sand with a thud, the air leaving his lungs in a pained wheeze as Varang settled her full weight on top of him, pinning him to the beach.

She loomed over him, her braids dangling near his face, her yellow eyes scanning his small, soft frame with a mix of curiosity and disdain.

"Indeed... a fragile thing," she murmured to herself, tilting her head as she watched him gasp for air.

But Spider wasn't done. Panic surged, hot and desperate. The knife.

His hand scrambled at his hip, ripping the blade from its sheath, with a guttural cry, he slashed upward blindly. The steel connected, slicing a thin, red line across her forearm.

Varang hissed, her eyes narrowing not in pain, but in annoyance.

"Enough," she snapped.

Before he could strike again, she clamped her hand around his wrist, squeezing with crushing force. Spider cried out as his fingers went numb, the knife dropping uselessly into the sand. She shoved his arms above his head, pinning both of his wrists with one hand, locking him completely in place.

Now completely immobilized, with sand gritting against his back and a heavy hand pinning his wrists to the ground, Spider could only wait for the end. His chest heaved, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.

Above him, Varang shifted her weight. With her free hand, she unhooked a small, dark leather pouch from her waist belt. She used her teeth to pull the wooden cork free, a pungent, herbal scent immediately drifting down to Spider’s nose. It smelled like wet earth and crushed roots.

"Open wide," she said

Before he could try react, she upended the pouch.

A thick, bitter liquid flooded his mouth. Spider choked, his body betraying him.

The reflex to breathe forced him to swallow. He gulped down a large mouthful of the foul brew, coughing violently as the excess liquid spilled over, running down his chin and neck, staining his skin like ink.

He sputtered, gasping for air, his eyes wide with terror as the acrid taste burned his throat like acid.

Poison, his mind screamed. She’s killing me.

She pulled the leather pouch from his mouth, corking it with a practiced motion. Spider lay there coughing, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath, but the air felt suddenly thick and syrupy in his lungs. He tried to glare at her, to summon the strength to struggle again, but his limbs felt like they were filling with lead.

Then, the world tilted.

Suddenly, the noise around him, the shrieks of the banshees, the terrified screams of the Metkayina, began to fade. It didn't stop, it just receded, as if he were sinking deep underwater, the sounds becoming muffled and distant.

His struggles ceased, not because he wanted to stop, but because his muscles simply refused to obey.

His head fell back against the sand, heavy as a stone. He blinked, fighting the darkness, but the edges of his vision were already turning grey. The bright sunlight lost its sting, and the terrifying face of Varang, hovering above him, began to blur, her sharp features dissolved into smoke, her grey skin blending with the darkening sky.

The last thing he felt was the vibration of her voice, though the words were lost to the void.

--

Varang stood over him, watching as the small child succumbed to the effects of her brew. The fight drained out of him all at once, his eyelids fluttering shut, his breathing slowing to a rhythmic, heavy rhythm.

She released his wrists, watching the blood flow back into his hands. On his pale, fragile skin, the dark purple imprints of her fingers were already beginning to bloom, a violent brand of ownership.

Safe, she thought, satisfied.

She stooped down and scooped him up effortlessly, as if he weighed nothing more than a bundle of dry sticks, carrying him toward her waiting ikran.

"Spider!" The scream tore through the noise of the raid.

Varang paused, her foot already in the stirrup. She turned her head slowly, looking past the burning thatch of a nearby walkway.

Emerging from the smoke, running through the shallows with his rifle raised, was Jake Sully. He was far away, his chest heaving, his eyes wide with horror as he saw the grey-skinned stranger holding the boy.

Varang’s yellow eyes met his, she didn't flinch she didn't even bother to raise a weapon. She simply smiled, a cold, wicked curve of her lips that promised nothing but pain, she knew the distance was too great, he had no chance.

"Too late, Toruk Makto," she yelled out. This wasn’t the moment to kill him, she knew that Quaricht wanted to be the one to slit the knife across the throat.

She hoisted Spider onto the saddle, securing him against her chest. With a sharp kick of her heels, her banshee shrieked and launched itself into the air, powerful wings beating down the water below.

Varang ascended rapidly, her people following behind , leaving the burning village and the screaming behind, trailing smoke and destruction as they carried their prize.

--

The flight back was unceremonious. The wind whipped past them, cold and biting at high altitude, but the boy didn't stir. He rested heavily against her chest, his head lolling against her shoulder, completely unaware of the world passing beneath him.

As they approached the volcanic peaks of her homeland, the air grew thick with sulfur and heat. They touched down in the center of the village, the heavy claws of the mount scraping against the rock.

Before the dust had even settled, the village began to gather, warriors, elders, and children alike, crowding around the landing zone. They pressed in close, their yellow eyes wide with a mixture of fear and morbid curiosity, stretching their necks to get a look at the "thing" the Tsahìk had brought back.

The demon that could breathe their air.

Hands reached out, fingers pointing at his pale skin and the strange dreadlocks. Murmurs of disgust and wonder rippled through the crowd.

"Is it alive?" someone whispered. "Touch it," another dared.

Varang felt the boy shift slightly in her grip. Her eyes narrowed.

She spun around, clutching Spider tighter to her chest, and let out a sharp, menacing hiss. She bared her fangs, her ears flattening against her skull.

"Get back!" she snarled, her voice echoing off the canyon walls.

The crowd flinched, stepping back in unison. The boy wasn't a curiosity for them to poke and prod. He was hers.

Varang pushed through the heavy leather flaps of her personal dwelling, the noise of the village instantly muffled by the thick animal hides. Inside, the air was warm and smelled of woodsmoke and dried herbs.

She moved to the back of the tent, where a pile of furs lay arranged near a low-burning fire. Gently, she lowered the boy onto the bedding.

As soon as his back touched the furs, Spider groaned. His brow furrowed, and his fingers twitched at his sides, clawing weakly at the pelts. His head tossed to the side, his eyelids fluttering .

Varang watched him, her head tilted, he was waking up too soon

She reached for her belt, unhooking the leather pouch once more.

With practiced efficiency, she knelt beside him. She didn't just pour it down his throat, she knew better than that, a fluid in the lungs could kill a thing this small.

She slid an arm behind his shoulders, hoisting him up until he was propped against her chest. His head lolled back against her collarbone, his breathing hitching.

She tilted the flask, controlling the flow. The dark liquid slipped between his parted lips. Spider’s throat worked reflexively, swallowing the bitter draught despite his semi-conscious state. He coughed once, weakly, but she held him steady until she was sure he hadn't choked.

She lowered him back down onto the furs, the tension leaving his small frame almost instantly, his breathing deepening into a heavy, artificial rhythm.

Varang corked the pouch and wiped a stray drop of dark liquid from his chin with her thumb. She sat back, satisfied, he would remain in the dark, safe until Quaritch arrived to claim him.

As his breathing leveled out into a slow, rhythmic hush, Varang adjusted the furs, tucking them around him with a strange, possessive care. He looked peaceful now, the terror smoothed away by the heavy dose of the sedative.

She sat back on her heels, when she felt a warm, wet sensation trickling down her forearm. Varang glanced down watching as a thin line of dark crimson was winding its way through the patterns of her skin, dripping onto the woven rug beneath her.

She stared at the wound, fascinated. It wasn't deep just a shallow slash, nothing more than a scratch to a warrior of her caliber, but it still stung. She rotated her arm in the firelight, watching the blood well up.

A low, dry chuckle escaped her throat.

It was hard to reconcile the reality of it. The boy looked so small, so incredibly defenseless lying there in the oversized furs. His bones were brittle, his skin thin enough to tear.

And yet, she thought, tracing the edge of the cut with a fingernail, he cut her.

She dipped a cloth into a bowl of water, wiping the last of the dried blood from her forearm. She didn't bother with a bandage, the air would close the wound soon enough

It wasn't long before the silence of the tent was broken by the familiar, high-pitched screech of a banshee landing just outside. Heavy boots crunched on the volcanic rock, followed by the murmurs of her guards stepping aside.

Varang stood up, wiping her hands, Quaritch, She wondered if he would appreciate her gift.

The heavy leather flaps of the tent were shoved aside. Quaritch ducked his head to enter, filling the small space with his massive frame, with a large, heavy duffel bag was slung over his shoulder.

He didn't waste time with pleasantries. He swung the bag forward, letting it hit the ground with a heavy, metallic clank that vibrated through the floor.

"Your weapons" he grunted, his voice rough from shouting orders "As promised."

Varang looked at the bag, then up at him. She smiled, a slow, self-satisfied expression that made Quaritch pause.

"Good" she purred.

She took a step to the side, revealing the pile of furs behind her.

Quaritch’s eyes tracked the movement, landing on the small, pale figure curled up in the bedding. For a second, his brain refused to comprehend what he was seeing. Spider lay perfectly still, his chest rising and falling in a deep, unnatural sleep, his dreadlocks fanned out over the dark pelts.

The color drained from the Recombinant’s face, his ears pinned back against his skull, and his tail went rigid.

"What the hell is this?" he whispered, the rage building instantly in his chest.

Varang gestured to the boy with an open hand, mocking his earlier tone. "Your son. As promised."

Quaritch stepped forward, his fists clenching so hard the leather of his gloves creaked. He looked from the unconscious boy to Varang, his yellow eyes blazing.

"This wasn't part of the deal!" he snarled, stepping into her personal space, looming over her. "I said I wanted him out of this!"

"You wanted him safe. He is safe" Varang stated, her voice devoid of apology.

She stepped closer, her shadow falling over the sleeping boy like a shroud. Her tail lashed slowly behind her, a metronome of irritation at his ingratitude. "He cannot be safe and run free. To protect a thing that is weak, you must possess it. You must cage it" Quaritch didn’t answer.

He stepped past her, and dropped to his knees beside the furs. His large blue hands hovered over Spider for a second, trembling.

He touched the boy’s neck. The skin was warm, the pulse was slow, heavy, but steady.

Quaritch stared at Spider’s face, his eyes narrowing in confusion. There was no exopack, no mask, no hiss of filtration. Just a human boy breathing the toxic air of Pandora as if he were born to it. It was impossible, a miracle or a curse, but he didn't have time to question it now, he was alive.

"He's out cold" Quaritch growled, the vibration deep in his chest. He looked back at Varang, baring his teeth in a warning snarl. "What did you give him?"

"A brew of the roots" Varang replied calmly, crossing her arms over her chest. She looked down at the unconscious boy with a twisted sort of pride. "It is the same tincture I give our children when they are fevered or in pain. He feels nothing but sleep."

Quaritch turned back to his son. His gaze traveled down from the peaceful face to the small, pale arms resting on the dark fur.

There, circling his wrists, were deep purple bruises, the mark of Varang’s grip, the evidence of a struggle.

A spike of hot, blinding rage shot through him. He wanted to stand up and tear the tent apart, he wanted to grab Varang by her throat and crush the life out of her for laying a hand on his boy.

But then, he looked back at Spider. He was here, he wasn't running through the jungle with Jake Sully, dodging bullets and wild animals, he wasn't being brainwashed to hate his own father. He was right here, within arm's reach, sleeping peacefully.

The realization hit Quaritch like a physical weight, settling cold and hard in his gut.

She is right.

Out there, he belonged to the enemy. But here... here, he was safe. Here, no one could touch him, no one could manipulate him, and no one could take him away.

They just confirm the leaks. Spider will be able to breathe without his mask! Probably discovering that after his mask breaks.

I wonder if that will put a target on him by the RDA since he is the key for humans to be able to live on pandora.