welcome to my mess

You pull back from the water in a single motion, Tsireya already flipping upright beside you, her hand catching your arm without thinking. Around you, others are surfacing, murmurs rising.

Another horn.

Someone yells from the cliffs, the words drowned by the wind, but you already know what it means.

You and Tsireya lock eyes — and then you’re moving.

By the time you reach the village edge, the square is already in chaos. Riders rallying their skimwings, elders shouting orders. Ronal in the center, Tonowari, spear in hand beside her.

“My Spirit Sister and her baby have been murdered by the Sky People!” Ronal’s voice cuts the air like a blade, sharp with grief and fury.

A tremor ripples through the gathered clan — a collective cry of offense, outrage, mourning. Some of the women wail aloud; others hiss, baring their teeth in disbelief. Elders mutter prayers under their breath, young warriors clutch their spears tighter. The sound grows not like a wave but a rising storm, tumbling with pain.

Tonowari steps forward, spear already in hand, the gold of his tattoos catching fire under the sun. His jaw is clenched, voice low and building like thunder:

“This war has come to us. We knew of this hunting of our tulkun people.”

He pauses, gaze hard as reefstone. “But it was over the horizon. Far away.”

A beat. You feel the stillness before the break.

He slams the butt of his spear into the earth with a sharp crack. “Now—” he snarls, tongue flashing in anger, “it is here!”

The warriors echo his cry, fierce and unyielding. A war cry rises from their throats — guttural, rhythmic, swelling in strength like the tide.

“No, you—you gotta understand how the Sky People think,” your father’s voice breaks into the noise, his tone tense, layered with urgency. “They don’t care about the Great Balance—”

“We do not answer to Sky People!” someone near the front shouts back, followed by hisses and jeers of agreement.

You flinch. Your ears fold back from the roar of it — the rage and heartbreak in every face around you. Warriors pressing forward, hunters standing with chests high and proud. Even the children are listening with wide, fearful eyes. The air is sharp, too sharp. Even the sea seems still.

Neteyam’s voice breaks through — low, strong. “Listen to him!”

But the clan is spiraling. The pain in Ronal’s voice has shaken something loose, and now it won’t stop rising. It’s no longer just grief — it’s pride, fury, a thirst for retribution.

You shove past a cluster of Metkayina boys shouting back at Jake, shouldering your way through. Tsireya’s hand finds your back for a moment, guiding you through the crowd. You see her father — tall, immovable — and your own family just behind him. Kiri, tense. Tuk, hiding behind Neytiri’s leg. Lo’ak’s jaw set tight. Neteyam, squared to protect, voice lost in the surge.

You reach him. Gently, you place a hand on Neteyam’s shoulder, grounding him — grounding yourself. His head turns just slightly toward you, eyes flicking to yours. He nods once.

The people are swelling again. Angry. Grieving. Proud.

And loud.

You see your father falter — just for a second. His shoulders taut, voice thinning against the noise. Your family stands close behind him, Neytiri’s hands at Tuk’s shoulders, Kiri watching the crowd with wide, unsettled eyes. Neteyam at your father’s side, lips parted like he might step in again. But no one can be heard. Not anymore. The clan’s cries grow teeth.

Then—

Kxelya.

Her scream slices the chaos in half.

High and piercing, it tears across the sky above you like a blade of wind. All heads snap upward. She’s perched further than usual, wings outstretched, talons tight on the rock’s edge above the gathering. Her body tensed, shifting restlessly, feathers slicked down in agitation. You know that sound — not just warning. It’s protection. She’s sensing you.

Your own chest flutters like the beat of her wings. A tether between you and her, pulled taut.

And just like that —

Silence.

Heavy. Thick. A lull beneath a crashing wave.

You feel every eye turn toward your father again.

He steps forward, slowly. The hush holding.

Then he lifts it — the red pinger — the thing that changed everything. Large, ugly, its metal casing still damp with seawater. A smear of dried blood clings to the seam. The scent of salt and rust clings to it, unmistakable. You remember when Lo’ak first pulled it from Payakan’s flesh.

Jake holds it high enough for all to see. His voice is clear now, sharp in the quiet.

“You tell the tulkun,” he says, “that if they are hit with one of these…”

He pauses. Lets the weight of it sit in the air. “They are marked for death.”

Another beat. Then quieter: “Call for me. I’ll silence it.”

There’s a shift — a subtle one — as Tonowari straightens. His grip loosens slightly on his spear. His jaw unclenches.

He looks to Ronal. She gives a single nod.

“Tell the tulkun.”

Your heart’s already moving.

Your eyes snap back to Kxelya. She’s still watching — shoulders tight, feathers ruffling like static against her sides. You don’t need words. Your mouth moves anyway: Keep Kiri and Tuk out of trouble.

She launches a breath later, wings tearing the air, catching the wind without hesitation. You track her until she disappears beyond the canopy, a shadow cast over the sea.

“Go,” Tonowari commands.

“Go!” someone else echoes — you’re not sure who. And then it begins.

Everyone moves at once.

Hunters sprint to gather gear. Riders call for their skimwings, for their ilu. Tsahiks shout instructions, messengers already taking to the sea.

You hear the shuffle of movement behind you — and then Lo’ak’s voice, sharp in your ear:

“I have to warn Payakan about the pingers.” His words tumble fast, breathless.

“No, you have to keep your skxawng ass here,” Neteyam snaps back, arms crossed, tone level but firm — older brother energy locked in. They’re already squaring off, again.

You don’t have time for this.

While they argue, you move. Fast.

Your feet hit the sand in practiced rhythm as you jog toward the ilu pen, grabbing a harness on instinct. You whistle, low and quick, and an ilu surfaces in response — blue-striped and lean, one you’ve ridden before. As it paddles toward the dock, you sling your bow across your back, checking the strap with a tug. Arrows rattling quietly in your quiver.

You turn and toss a spare saddle — hard — in Neteyam’s direction. He fumbles but catches it, blinking in surprise.

“What—?”

“We’re going with you,” you say, voice even. Lo’ak meets your eyes, already nodding. He knows better than to question it.

Neteyam’s brows draw together. You see it in his face — the tension, the impulse to protest. But you tilt your head at him, pointedly. You know what you’re saying. You’d rather be with him than behind him. Better to go together.

He sighs. Shoulders sinking just a little.

“Fine.” His voice is quieter now as he listens to his older sister.

You press a hand to his shoulder before pulling yourself up onto the ilu. Lo’ak climbs aboard his own with fluid urgency, fingers already working at the reins.

Beside you, Lo’ak is already moving, cutting through the waves with practiced ease. His hair sticks to his cheeks in long wet strands, mouth set in a determined line, fingers quick as they tighten around the reins. Neteyam flanks your other side silently — his movements smooth, controlled — but you can feel the tension humming off of him like a drawn bowstring.

Then—

You dive.

The sea rushes around you in an instant, folding you into its cool arms. Sound dulls. Light filters down in shafts, dappled and shifting. The current dances through your hair as your ilu kicks powerfully beneath you, the reef rushing by in a blur.

And faintly—faintly—you hear her voice.

“Tari! Neteyam! Lo’ak!”

Tsireya.

Your chest twists at the sound of it, carried faint and far through water, blurred by distance and urgency. But none of you look back. Not now. Not when every second ticks like a war drum. You only lean forward, urging your ilu faster, slicing through the surf.

You meet Kiri and Tuk halfway.

They’re waiting on a rise of coral, wide-eyed and flushed with worry, clinging to their own ilu. Kxelya circles just above, wings casting moving shadows across the sand, beak open in sharp whistles as she scouts the waterline.

“You two stay!” you shout, slowing just long enough to point at them. Your voice vibrates strangely underwater, distorted and fierce. “Kxelya is looking for you. Stay with her!”

“But we—” Kiri starts, brows furrowed, reaching out.

“Stay!” You don’t raise your voice, but it cuts all the same. The command in it is clear. Final.

There’s no time to explain. No time to comfort.

You dive again before either can reply. Behind you, Kxelya lets out a sharp, displeased screech — warning or approval, you don’t know — but you feel her presence shift upward as she banks and soars back.

The reef gives way to deeper waters. You pass the outcroppings of pale stone and twisted roots of sea plants that sway like ghostly hands. The water here is darker. Heavy. Charged.

Then, a distant cry. A deep, panicked bellow that thrums through your bones.

Payakan.

When you surface again, you see him —

Massive. Agitated. His form thrashes the waves, causing white spray to fly like mist around him. His fins cut the water in short, frantic bursts, eyes wild and rolling. And he’s headed straight for Lo’ak.

“Payakan!” Lo’ak cries, reaching out even as his ilu shrinks back instinctively from the great creature’s speed.

The tulkun swerves and reveals his side.

And then you see it.

Buried in his side — jagged, cruel — The red tracker.

Still clinging. Still glowing faintly with mechanical life.

“Shit!” someone blurts.

You don’t know who. Maybe it’s you. Maybe it’s all three of you.

It doesn’t matter.

“No time,” you bark, already dismounting. The ocean surges as you slide off your ilu and kick toward Payakan. “Move!”

The water pulls at your limbs, but you reach the tracker fast, fingers already wrapping around its blood-crusted edge. You can feel the heat of it through your skin. The way it pulses — like a warning. A threat.

Lo’ak is beside you in an instant, jaw tight. Neteyam comes next, muttering something low under his breath. Then Tsireya, Aonung, and Rotxo. All of you grab whatever part you can — the base, the seams, the jutting hooks that have lodged themselves in his hide.

Then—

A smaller pair of hands joins yours.

You glance over. “Tuk-Tuk?” you gasp.

And beyond her — Kiri.

“I told you to—”

“We’re staying with you,” Kiri says, face set. She’s trembling slightly, but her eyes don’t waver.

Your jaw clenches. You want to argue. But the ship —

You glance past Payakan.

It’s there. Coming.

Just beyond the surf. A silhouette creeping over the waves like death on wings.

You shake your head. “Fine.”

Then louder, “Come on—pull!”

You anchor your feet against Payakan’s side, using the natural grooves of his armor for leverage. Lo’ak grips the other edge. Neteyam wraps his arms around the base and heaves. Tsireya, Aonung, and Rotxo pull in time with you. The tracker groans, metal straining.

“Lo’ak!” you call, catching him distracted — his eyes locked on the ship instead of the task.

“Call Dad!”

He hesitates. The color drains slightly from his face. He fumbles, nearly slips, then digs for the radio tied around his belt. Saltwater flickers off the antenna as he raises it to his mouth, calling frantically.

You don't catch the words — too focused — but the desperation is there.

Your muscles burn as you wrench at the tracker. Kiri grips a ridge and pulls. Even Tuk adds her strength, teeth clenched.

The glow of the tracker flickers.

“Hurry!” someone cries.

Then — with a burst of movement — Neteyam shouts, using the pull of his ilu harnessed to the tracker as added force. The creature kicks, yanking, and—

With a horrible squelch —

The tracker rips free with a sickening tear slick with blood and oil. Payakan bellows, writhing in the water, but there’s no time to soothe him.

“Hand it over!” You bark, voice hoarse with strain.

Neteyam lobs the device toward you. It’s heavier than it looks, dense and jagged in your grip. The moment your fingers close around it, the beeping — sharp, shrill, relentless — drills into your skull like a warning bell. It pulses in time with your racing heart.

You dive without hesitation.

The water greets you like a slap — cold, bracing, silencing the noise of the world above. You slam the tracker against your ilu’s side, tying it quickly to the saddle straps, fumbling with slippery fingers as the beeping grows more urgent.

You surface only long enough to yell, “Go that way! I’ll lead them away!”

You point. The opposite direction. The open sea.

“Tari!”

“No!”

“Wait!”

A chorus of voices rise — Lo’ak’s, Tsireya’s, even Tuk’s small cry cutting through the chaos — but you grit your teeth.

“Just go!” you shout, not giving them time to argue. “Go, now!”

Your words land like stone. You see the moment they register — the reluctant twist of Neteyam’s mouth, Lo’ak’s fury, Kiri’s silent panic. But they move.

You watch them veer away in different paths, guiding their ilu down and out, Payakan following their lead in a desperate surge of water.

Only then do you go.

You kick your heels into your ilu, and she leaps forward like a shot, tracker still beeping behind you. You don’t look back.

You take a hard turn toward the deeper trenches, drawing the threat as far as you can.

And then—

The sea explodes.

A wall of sound and pressure slams into your body. The tracker’s signal has worked — you’ve drawn their fire. Gunfire tears through the water, muffled but unmistakable, the streaks of light slicing down like arrows through fog.

Your ilu swerves, barely dodging a sharp burst that blasts coral to ash behind you. Schools of fish scatter in terror. Sea plants rip from the ground. Everything becomes a blur of motion — chaos and light and bubbles and heat.

You grit your teeth and keep going.

Then the sounds shift.

The dull thump of explosives gives way to a sharper crack — faster, higher-pitched, precise.

Bullets.

You glance up — and your stomach turns.

Shapes. Wings. Ikrans.

Three of them cutting across the sky, casting shadows over the churning surface. Too fast, too coordinated.

And worse — they aren’t Na’vi.

They’re the Avatars.

You hear it before you see it — the telltale whirring. Machines.

A quick glance over your shoulder reveals long, black shadows slipping beneath the waves — submarines, chasing after your family’s retreat like wolves on a trail.

Your mind whirls. You need to go faster, need to—

The water breaks violently above you.

You don’t see the dive coming.

Suddenly — claws.

They slam into your shoulder from behind — digging deep, hooking under your skin like a vice. You scream, a ragged, guttural sound that bubbles and bursts from your throat.

Pain sears through your side. Your ilu shrieks and thrashes beneath you — but you’re already lifting, yanked into the air in a blur of water and wind.

Your legs kick wildly. Cold air rushes across your skin. Blood runs warm down your back.

The claws shift — a second jolt of pain shoots through you as you're hoisted higher. Struggling against the crushing grip, you twist—

And freeze.

Above you, straddling the ikran, riding its back like a shadow stitched to the sky—

Is him.

Colonel Miles Quaritch.

A cruel, satisfied grin twists his face, blue skin painted in soot and blood, eyes gleaming with recognition.

“Well, well,” he drawls, voice dripping with mockery. “We meet again, little warrior.”

He leans forward in the saddle, tightening the ikran’s reins with ease — too practiced. His silhouette swallows the sky around you. Everything else disappears under the weight of that grin.

“Miss me?”

Your eyes burn, your shoulder screaming, but you meet his gaze — blood in your mouth, fear in your veins.

You rasp through clenched teeth, “Kiss a shark, demon.”

Then you move.

It’s not clean or elegant. It’s survival.

You twist your torso against the claws, gasping through the pain. With one blood-slick hand, you reach back, fingers finding the familiar length of an arrow in your quiver. No time to aim — you jam it between the ikran’s talons.

“Sorry,” you mutter — not to Quaritch, never to him — but to the ikran.

It screeches, sharp and visceral, its whole body bucking. The claws spasm open. And then you’re falling.

The wind tears past your ears. The world flips. And the surface of the sea rushes up to meet you—

CRASH.

You're swallowed whole.

The impact shatters your breath. It knocks the air from your lungs, the light from your eyes. Everything is soundless, colorless, pressure and motion and pain. For a heartbeat, you don’t know which way is up.

But then—

Clarity.

Your body protests, but you force it forward, blinking through the blooming red around you — your own blood, drifting like a flag. Bubbles streak past your vision, distorting everything. Faint bursts above tell you Quaritch hasn’t given up.

You swim.

Your strokes are uneven, your left arm faltering from the claw wounds, but you move. The world narrows to instinct and urgency — dodge the bullets, follow the current, keep going.

And yet—

Every kick, every ripple, disturbs the world around you.

Corals sway violently. Fish scatter. Eels vanish into holes. Something large and unseen bolts from its den in the sand.

The reef is angry.

You're not alone.

Suddenly, you feel it.

Pressure. Movement. A rush of current slamming sideways.

You twist just in time.

A dark blur tears through the water beside you — massive, fast, and aimed straight for you.

It crashes through a bed of coral, ripping rock and reef to shards. The sound of it vibrates in your ribs. You’re hurled sideways, scraped by stone and stinging salt.

You don’t need to see it to know.

Skimwing.

The blood must have drawn it. Or the explosions. Or both.

It’s not just fast — it’s furious. You glimpse it now through the haze: long, sharp-finned, beaked like a knife. Its eyes burn with wild agitation. It’s not hunting. It’s reacting.

You curse silently. Of all things.

One predator above, another below. No time to think — only survive.

The skimwing doubles back, teeth flashing. You dart behind a column of branching coral, but it slashes past, a blur of motion and muscle, snapping inches from your calf.

Your shoulder pulses with agony, slowing you. You won't outrun it like this.

You weave through a broken coral forest — twisting, ducking, swimming sideways to stay low. The skimwing follows, faster, relentless. Its tail lashes behind it, leaving swirls of chaos in its wake.

Bullets spark faintly above. Quaritch hasn’t lost you either.

You clench your jaw. You have to shake one of them. You won’t survive both.

A plan forms, half-shaped and desperate.

You spot a dense outcrop ahead — a maze of hard, jagged coral, thick enough to hide your trail. A gamble.

You swim for it.

The skimwing dives, chasing — too large to turn as tightly as you can. It crashes through the coral, scraping its side against the reef, momentarily snarling in frustration, trapped in the narrowing gap.

You whip around, lungs burning, blood still trailing in long, thread-like ribbons.

It’s stuck — just for a second.

But a second is all you need.

You tighten your grip on the knife sheathed at your hip. Eyes lock onto the beast’s narrowed pupil. You don’t know if it will work. You don’t know if you’ll make it out.

But you’ve made your choice.

___

Above, the air is thick with gunpowder and tension.

Quaritch’s voice cuts the silence. “Hold fire.”

The smoke drifts between the reefs and clouds, mixing with steam rising from the shattered water below. No movement. No clear view. Just the murky outlines of coral torn apart and bubbles boiling upward.

Lyle circles slowly on his ikran, scanning the surface. “Is she dead?”

Quaritch doesn’t answer.

His eyes scan the surface, narrowing against the glare. Bubbles. Ash. A slick of blood that fades fast in the chop. But no body.

He knows better than to assume.

You were a blur in the forest — fast, low to the ground, a shadow between trees. You moved like your mother but when you struck, it was with your father’s defiance.

He remembers the way your arrows flew — precise. Purposeful. Trained. And unrelenting.

So no. You weren’t dead.

Not yet.

Something coils low in his gut. Not quite dread — something colder. Something he doesn’t like admitting he feels.

He lifts his head toward the still-churning water. Silent. Waiting.

Because you’re a Sully.

And Sullys don’t die easy.

Then—

Splash.

A scream. One of his own disappears beneath the waves, ikran shrieking as it loses its rider. A blur of gold and silver — a fin, quick as lightning. Then nothing.

The others shout, spinning mid-air, blasters raised, wings flapping hard to stay aloft. Shots crack through the air, carving into the ocean, but they hit nothing. Too slow. Too blind.

“What the fuck was that?” one of them yells.

Then—

A second splash. Louder.

This time it breaks the water with force, like a rock hurled from the deep.

It’s the skimwing.

Its wings slice the sky wide, droplets flying off in a glittering spray. Massive and sharp and furious. Like a blade pulled from the sea.

And on its back—

You.

No saddle. No reins. Just the bond.

Your legs barely holding your place between its fins, one hand tangled in the ridge of its neck. Hair wet and matted, skin streaked with blood and sea grit. But your bow is drawn. Eyes sharp. Expression cold.

You look just like them. Your parents. Every inch of you reads as Na’vi warrior.

Then the arrow flies.

Clean. Direct. It buries into the chest of the nearest Avatar, and he topples mid-air, tumbling like a broken toy.

Quaritch’s eyes widen. “Move!”

His command tears across the open air. “Get up higher — stay high!”

But you’re already gone.

You duck low and dive, the skimwing responding like a fired spear, slicing down toward the sea. Bullets streak past in flares of heat and light, cutting the space where you were a moment before. The wind claws at your face. Your shoulder throbs with every shift of your grip, and your palms are raw, torn open by the beast’s slick, ridged back.

No time to wince. No time to breathe. You just hold.

This isn’t like an ilu — graceful, gentle, predictable. 

This isn’t like your ikran — bonded, trusted.

This is something wild. Something angry. The bond is still fresh, not sealed in trust but in desperation. You feel it in the skimwing’s body: the tremble of resistance in its muscles, the pull as it tries to surge in its own direction, drag you toward the depths again.

But you don’t yield. You can’t.

It shakes its head, almost violently, and you have to clutch tighter to its neck. Your vision spins — reef to sky to reef again.

The skimwing thrashes once, but it hesitates at your desperation. Not submission. Not yet.

But maybe… maybe recognition.

You keep your gaze forward, refusing to look back at the fire and ruin behind you. The pain in your shoulder pulses with every motion, the open wound now dragging against wind and salt. Your body aches, screams.

But your mind is clear.

There’s no room for fear anymore. Only speed.

Your family is out there. Fighting. Bleeding. Maybe falling.

And you have to reach them — before it’s too late.

___

They split, as planned, though none of it feels like a plan anymore — just survival. Ilus dart in different directions, tails whipping the water into frenzy, their riders pressed flat against their backs. Seaweed tangles around ankles, coral whips by in flashes of color and sharp edges.

The crab submarines follow — relentless, mechanical, wrong in this place. They crash through reef and root, stirring clouds of sand and snapping off branches of coral like they’re nothing. The Ilus yelp as if sensing the imbalance, their muscles twitching with borrowed panic, mimicking the fear of their riders.

One by one, the teens dismount — pushing off mid-glide, letting the Ilus swim forward, fast and alone. The creatures become decoys, their darting forms a flickering distraction in the murky water. The group breaks apart fully.

Neteyam, Kiri, Rotxo, and Aonung resurface in a darkened airbell — a pocket of stillness where their gasps echo against the plant. Kiri presses her hand against the smooth leaf above her head, trying to calm her heartbeat with touch alone. Rotxo is whispering to Aonung, or maybe to himself. For a moment, there is only breath.

Not too far, Lo’ak, Tsireya, and Tuk burst up into their own airbell, chests heaving. Tuk is trembling. Tsireya gently takes her hand. “You’re okay,” she whispers. “You did so good.”

But Lo’ak’s eyes are still on the water.

A low light begins to bleed into the airbell — faint at first, then stronger, the glow painting their blue skin in creeping gold.

Tsireya freezes. “It is coming.”

Lo’ak doesn’t hesitate. “We gotta go!”

There’s no time to think. Just breath — one deep pull of air, and then they dive. Again.

The water feels colder now. Heavier. And louder — the grinding churn of the submarine’s claws slicing through the sea plants as it moves toward them, shaking the very water around them.

They twist away, swimming low. For a moment, it looks like they might escape — until a second shadow looms in the distance. Another sub.

Lo’ak yanks hard on Tsireya’s hand, Tuk trailing behind, kicking with all her strength.

But the trap is already in motion.

A loud thunk — then the sudden force of movement as a large net erupts outward, thrown from one of the machines, expanding like a monstrous flower. It catches water, seaweed, and bodies.

Tsireya screams — a sound muffled and gurgling as the net ensnares her and Tuk. Limbs tangled. Fins flapping in panic. Bubbles surge in a panicked cloud around them.

Lo’ak barely slips free, the net brushing his shoulder. He turns immediately, wild-eyed, reaching for the edge.

He grabs at the thick, synthetic cords. Pulls. Fights.

Tsireya is trying to twist her body, her face straining as she shields Tuk with her arms. Tuk’s eyes are wide, clutching the net so tight her knuckles have gone pale blue.

Lo’ak tugs again, roaring bubbles, trying to find the knot, the source, anything.

The submarine looms closer — claws unfolding, whirring like clockwork death.

The submarine looms closer — claws unfolding, whirring like clockwork death, ready to seize what the net has caught.

Above, the surface explodes.

Quaritch breaks through on his ikran, black and massive against the light-streaked water. He’s seen them — Tsireya and the children trapped in the net — and he’s moving in. The ikran dips low, talons spread, aiming to snatch the bundle in one brutal motion.

But he’s not the only one diving.

A sudden crack of water and force slams into him from the side. A blur of movement — scales and fins and muscle — and then your Skimwing rams full force into Quaritch’s ikran.

The impact knocks the predator sideways, sending a burst of air and spray into the sky. The ikran screeches, wings flailing, struggling to regain its balance mid-air. Quaritch curses, grabbing the reins with one hand, his body lurching forward with the blow.

You don’t wait to see if he recovers.

Your Skimwing coils back through the water with a violent twist, cutting a hard arc toward the net. You hear your name in fragmented cries — “Tari!” — but your focus stays forward, even as blood runs down your shoulder where the ikran had grabbed you earlier, staining the sea in thin red ribbons.

The net is sinking now — too heavy. You can see Tsireya’s arms still wrapped around Tuk, her breath barely holding. Lo’ak is still fighting at the cords, eyes wide as he sees you approach.

Your Skimwing dives beneath the bundle, teeth bared, and bites into the netting. Not to harm, but to drag. The muscles beneath you surge like a living wave, and then you’re rising — slowly, straining — pulling the net back toward open sea.

But the fight isn't smooth. Your grip slips more than once — no saddle, just skin and soaked rope and adrenaline. The Skimwing writhes under you, not yet fully bonded, resisting your pull even as it listens. You grind your jaw and hold fast.

Come on. Come on.

The water is too bright now — flashes of white overhead. You risk a glance upward.

Two shadows.

They’re diving.

Two ikrans scream down from above — one going straight for the net, the other for you and your mount. Sharp claws extended. Riders steady and mean-eyed.

“Hold!” you yell — not at them, but your Skimwing. Your voice rips from your chest raw, commanding.

The creature thrashes. For a heartbeat, you almost lose your grip — legs scrambling for hold, fingers clawed into the edge of its slick armor.

The first ikran makes contact.

It claws at the net — the force nearly jerking it from your Skimwing’s jaws. Lo’ak shouts something, tugging it back the other way.

You twist in time to see the second ikran bearing down on you, talons glinting. Your Skimwing bucks sideways, spinning just out of range, and the ikran skims past with a screech — but not before its claws rake across the Skimwing’s flank. A spray of blood clouds the water. The beast groans beneath you, thrashing again.

The world is a chaos of sound and pressure — screeching beasts above, thudding water all around, the desperate straining pull of the net and your wounded mount beneath you.

The ikran’s claws rake again, this time gripping the Skimwing’s tail — and you scream as your mount bucks wildly beneath you. It isn’t just trying to shake the pain. It’s panicking. The net is heavy. The enemies are closing in.

Then, with a hard, downward jerk, the weight shifts.

The ikran hauling at the net takes control, and you're all being dragged — you, your Skimwing, your siblings — toward the looming shape of the RDA ship above.

You fight it. Gods, you fight it.

Your Skimwing thrashes and you almost fall, but hold. The water is boiling around you — churned with noise and blood and the thrumming panic in your own chest.

Above, you breach the surface. The harsh light of the ship’s floodlamps blinds you for a second — white and artificial and merciless. Then metal. Cold, hard, and wrong.

The ikran lets go.

You’re dropped unceremoniously onto the deck — your back slamming hard against the steel. Pain shoots through your shoulder again, blooming raw and sharp, but you’re already moving.

You roll. Up. Bow drawn in one smooth motion.

An Avatar is approaching Tsireya and the others.

Thunk.

Your arrow flies — dead on. The impact hits squarely in the chest, knocking the Avatar backward with a grunt. He collapses, motionless.

The others shout, scrambling, guns raising.

Your Skimwing, half-draped over the side of the ship, roars in fury — wings flapping as it lunges at one of the mounted Avatars, knocking them into the water below in a thrashing spray. The beast is bleeding badly now — you can see it. But still, it fights.

Still, it listens.

But it’s not enough.

You hear the boots before you feel the hands — a blur of movement behind you.

Then a force slams into your back. You’re driven down, face grinding into the slick deck, cheek pressed to cold metal.

A boot digs into your spine.

You try to rise, but weight pins you in place — and a familiar voice growls low above your head.

“You’re a real piece of work, Sully.”

Quaritch.

You curse, fighting against his grip, but it’s useless. Your limbs feel heavy. Your fingers shake, still curled as if holding your bow, though it’s already been ripped from your grasp.

They move fast. Metal cuffs bite into your wrists, dragging your arms back until your shoulders scream. Then you're hauled roughly to the side and shoved against the outer railing — Tsireya, Lo’ak, and Tuk already there.

All of you now lined up. Shackled.

Exposed.

Helpless.

The cold hits harder now — soaked through, blood still dripping — and the deck tilts beneath you like it’s trying to throw you off. You blink, once, twice, forcing the blur from your eyes. They come into focus slowly. Lo’ak and Tuk sit side by side, both bound with that thick rubber-looking strap. Tsireya’s arm is tied to the railing with the same. But you? Metal cuffs. Clamped tight.

A little extra for the girl who took out more than a few of their own.

And it’s only then that Lo’ak looks at you fully.

His expression shifts.

“Shit—Tari,” he breathes. “Your shoulder.”

You blink again, dazed.

Tsireya turns too, face pale. Her lips part — but she can’t speak. Her hands pull at the cuffs helplessly, rattling against the rail.

Tuk whimpers.

Lo’ak immediately shifts, moving slightly in front of her, raising one shoulder to shield her view. “Don’t look, Tuk.”

You meet his eyes and nod faintly, grateful.

Your mouth feels dry. Your arm is burning. You can feel the blood — slick and warm — trailing down your side.

Still, you manage to speak.

“It’s fine,” you murmur, though your voice is quieter than you mean it to be. Thinner.

Tsireya leans forward, trying to see you better, but she’s pulled back by the cuffs.

Your head sags slightly, heavy from the loss of blood. The deck tilts again — no, not the deck. Just your body giving way.

You close your eyes for a breath.

The sounds around you grow distant — ocean waves lapping against metal, the low groan of the ship, murmurs of RDA voices just out of reach.

The sting in your shoulder dulls to a throb.

Somewhere to your left, Lo’ak is still pulling at the cuffs, breathing hard. Tsireya hasn’t stopped watching you, her expression fixed somewhere between fear and fury, eyes shining wet.

Tuk sniffles softly, her tiny frame pressed against Lo’ak’s side.

Your Skimwing is gone now. You saw it slip beneath the waves after throwing off its attackers — either fleeing, or sinking.

You hope it’s the first.

You breathe in, slow. Wet with salt, tinged with smoke. There's no forest scent, no kelp fronds drifting above your head. Only metal and machines and the slow churn of something monstrous beneath the waves.

Captured.

But not broken.

Your eyes flutter open once more. Across from you, Tsireya meets your gaze. She gives the smallest nod — just enough to say: we’re still here.

You nod back, lips parting in a breathless whisper no one hears but her.

I know.

And then, as the hum of the ship settles and the rest of the day closes in, everything goes still.

Your eyes flutter open once more. Across from you, Tsireya meets your gaze. She gives the smallest nod — just enough to say: we’re still here.

You nod back, lips parting in a breathless whisper no one hears but her.

I know.