#corporal wainfleet

Hushed voices fluttered around you, the cafeteria packed to the brim with both science pukes and military. Your jaw worked as you chewed the tough RDA slop the cook had slapped onto your plate, the slightly acidic taste familiar on your tongue.

Michael, your coworker, slammed his hand on the table, his holopad flashing in warning at the rough impact.

“I bring you…”

He paused for dramatic effect.

“…gold.”

All eyes snapped to the corporal, his lips tipped in a grin of pure glee. His finger tapped against the holopad on the table, buttons flashing beneath the pressure. A sea of words spread across the glass screen, a raunchy title in bold letters hovering above the text.

“‘He’s an Eater’ by our anonymous Shakespeare, Miss Anon.”

Your table fell as quiet as a morgue, curiosity surrounding it like a wall of silence.

He’s an Eater.

The corporal to your right, Manon, snickered. Her shoulder bumped against yours as she struggled to read the text on the small screen.

“Is this today’s… what did you call it?”

You gulped, your throat bobbing with the motion, and wiped your mouth clean. Leaning against Manon’s side, you glanced at the title.

“A headcanon.”

The private in front of you, Nino, snapped his fingers and groaned.

“I almost had it–it was on the tip of my tongue.”

A soft huff left your lips at his dramatics and you rolled your eyes, stealing a soggy fry from his tray. It looked far better than the half-eaten mystery meat on your plate, and you made a mental reminder to ask for fries instead of the lunch special tomorrow.

“Sure you did, Nino.”

The private ignored your teasing remark, his eyes already boring holes into the side of Michael’s head. The cacophony around you slowly died down as the corporal took his seat at the head of the table, arms folding across his chest.

“Are you ready for a lunch break full of romance, toe-curling ‘headcanons,’ and ball-clenching sex?”

A collective aye! spread across the table, followed by a triumphant oorah! when Michael grabbed the holopad.

It had become routine for your little soiree to keep up with the filthy writing that had spread across Bridgehead. You supposed you found it fun for a while.

Now it was nothing out of the ordinary.

Michael’s fingers tugged his glasses down until they rested on the bridge of his hawk-like nose. He cleared his throat, and silence settled over the group once more as he zoomed in on the text.

“He towered over me, his body like a muscular cage.”

You toyed with the flash-frozen peas on your tray, your eyes glued to the corporal as he gestured animatedly. The story spilled from his mouth, dramatic as hell, descriptions of the Colonel's hulking frame delivered like poetry.

A few of your companions snickered, their eyes flicking toward the large table in the corner of the cafeteria.

“His bruising grip on my thighs tightened as he slammed me against the wall, his clothed cock-”

Your gaze followed theirs, landing on the obvious pack of blue Marines seated on oversized chairs.

Team Deja Blu sat around their table, raucous laughter bubbling from them, some halfway through their lab-grown meals.

“He tore at my skirt, my panties discarded in a crumpled heap on the floor. He knew I was W-E- T-”

Alexander, the newest addition to your little squad, coughed violently, the processed meat stuck in the back of his throat.

“Do we always have to be this descriptive?”

All eyes snapped toward him, silent and pointed.

“If you don't wanna listen, private, you can go sit with the blue Colonel over there.”

Alexander balked at Nino’s words, his skin turning pale as paper before he stuffed his mouth with more mystery meat.

Poor guy.

Michael spared him one final pitying look before clearing his throat again. All attention snapped back to him.

“Anyway- he knew I was wet. How did I know?”

He paused, eyes twinkling with mischief as he leaned conspiratorially over the table.

“He could smell it.”

Nino giggled, stuffing a soggy fry in his mouth. Your eyes met his and you both struggled to contain your laughter.

“Now that I think about it, he does look kind of like a cat, doesn’t he?”

Manon shrugged beside you, her lips wrapping around the rim of the plastic cup in her hand.

“I guess he does. He can probably smell from miles away. I’d bet my left boot-”

Michael cleared his throat again, pushing his glasses back up their precarious perch.

“Should we finish the story before lunch break is over, or do we want to discuss Na’vi biology?”

Manon’s mouth snapped shut immediately, the private who had spoken falling in line right beside her. They looked like they’d been thoroughly scolded, and you struggled not to laugh at their expressions.

Michael released a soft puff of air before continuing, describing in avid detail just how rough the Colonel’s tongue (supposedly) was.

You zoned out almost immediately, your gaze drifting back to the group of oversized blue Marines across the cafeteria.

At the head of their not-so-little table sat the Colonel himself.

His massive frame hunched slightly over the table, elbows planted against the surface. From this angle, the tattoo curling around his tricep was clearly visible, the faint lines of his ribs just barely showing beneath the vest stretched across his torso.

His lips tilted into a small smirk as he listened to something one of his subordinates was saying, a single canine flashing briefly in amusement.

Quaritch looked like a dangerous cat, his ears flickering as he brought his food up to his lips.

He took a bite from his sandwich–one that looked far better than anything on your tray–and leaned back in his chair, adjusting the straps of his vest with slow, absent movements.

Your name fluttered over to your ears and you snapped back to attention, all eyes on you.

“Yes?”

Nino tilted his head, a fry swinging in the air as he twirled his wrist.

“I asked if it's true, Chief.”

Your eyebrows furrowed as you tried to remember what he'd said, but he spared you the effort, his lips tipping into a sly smile.

“If the Colonel can actually smell your arousal, I mean. We all know your preferences.”

Your mouth snapped open, eyes wide in disbelief at his audacity.

That little fuck.

Nino snickered and stuffed the rest of the fries into his mouth before you could flip the tray onto his head.

It was no secret that you found the three-meter-tall recoms attractive–hell, Deja Blu probably knew too. But Nino? He had no room to talk.

Michael rolled his eyes, pulling off his glasses and hanging them on the pocket of his shirt.

“Don't tease her, Nino. Need I remind you of your little rendezvous with Zdinarsik?”

That made the private pause. His cheeks turned the same shade of red as his hair and he leaned back in his chair, arms crossed.

“’S jus’ a one-time thing,” he muttered thickly, fries still packed in his cheeks.

Manon snickered beside you and pointed a finger toward Deja Blu’s table.

“Ignore this jarhead, hot stuff. He’s jealous you get to spend time with the blue behemoths while he’s stuck scraping shit off the toilets.”

You grinned at Manon’s words, your eyes flicking to Nino, who was too busy trying to chug water to fire back with a comeback.

It was true - everything they’d said. Well, you weren’t sure about Deja Blu’s heightened sense of smell, but the rest had happened. Nino had slept with a surprisingly satisfied Zdinarsik, and then he'd been demoted to toilet-cleaning duty for “compromising a prime asset.” As if his jizz could ever possibly impregnate a completely different species.

You chuckled as Nino flipped everyone the finger, his chance at redemption already gone as the clock struck 1200.

Your feet carried you through the cafeteria, your hand lifting in a lazy wave as you headed in the opposite direction. 

It was time to return to your duties, and you walked with almost a pep in your step towards the exit. 

Your friends waved back, their frames disappearing through the massive glass doors leading to the barracks.

The recoms had already left for their afternoon briefing, their table clean and empty as you passed it on your way out.

Your fingers wrapped around one of the exopacks stacked along the wall. It was slightly cold to the touch as you tugged it over your face, pressurizing it a second later.

The heavy bag hooked easily onto your belt as you stepped through the airlock, the massive hangar looming before you.

It had become sort of like a second home to you - hell, you’d probably spent more nights in the building than your own bed.

You wouldn’t have it any other way, though.

It was your safe space.

A massive truck rolled past you, its enormous tires still studded with broken Na’vi arrows. They resembled winter tires back on Earth, the splintered shafts flattened into the rubber like crude wooden studs.

One of the welders perched high along the wall gave you a quick nod, sparks raining down around him as his torch spat blue light.

You lifted a hand in greeting.

One of the science pukes assigned to monitor Deja Blu nearly collided with you on her way out of the hangar. Her cheeks were bright red, eyes glued to the holopad clutched in her hands.

A still image of a very familiar blue face stared back from the screen.

Colonel Miles Quaritch.

She hurried past you without noticing, practically fleeing the hangar.

A quiet huff of laughter slipped out of you as you shook your head, lips tugging into a knowing smirk.

She’d probably retreat straight to her quarters and read the newest addition to Miss Anon’s list of steamy one-shots.

Your lips twitched. Another victim of the elusive writer.

Your boots echoed through the vast hangar as you crossed the floor, your keycard spinning lazily around your finger. You whistled under your breath while pressing the card against the terminal.

Machinery whined to life, the lift lowering your ride.

The Samson descended slowly from the rack above, metal groaning as it settled onto the hangar floor.

You clicked on your flashlight, the beam sliding across the aircraft’s polished hull. The keycard disappeared into your back pocket as you crouched beside the landing gear, sweeping the light along the hydraulic lines.

No leaks.

Good.

You straightened and angled the beam toward the rotor housing. The blades sat clean and still.

No cracks. No debris. No loose bolts.

A quick sweep of the vents made you pause.

Pandoran insects–none of them small–clustered along the intake grates.

You grimaced.

Great.

Turning toward the communal workbenches, irritation prickled under your skin. The place looked like a bomb had gone off: tools scattered everywhere, oil-stained rags tossed wherever someone had dropped them.

Apparently the other pilots and maintenance techs stopped caring about basic cleanliness the second no one was around to yell at their asses.

A fuel truck rumbled past behind you, the heavy smell of its contents thick in the air.

You grabbed the only halfway-decent rag from the pile and walked back toward the Samson.

“Fuckin’ bums,” you muttered.

The insects came off the vents with a few irritated swipes. While you were at it, you wiped a smear of grease from the nose camera.

There.

You stepped back, mentally running through the checklist again - everything looked good.

The Samson was ready for today’s routine flight.

A shiver of anticipation coursed through your body and you bit the inside of your cheek.

Time to join the jarheads.

You headed for one of the massive doors lining the hangar wall, nodding to your old co-pilot, Jimmy, as you passed.

He waved you off lazily. His gray moustache curled when he grinned.

The man had traded flying for mechanic work years ago. Old coot said the hangar suited him better.

If you were being honest, the place definitely needed him.

You returned the gesture with a mock salute before slipping through the heavy metal doors.

Machinery whined around you as scientists crowded the vast room beyond, tinkering with half-finished equipment and massive consoles.

You ducked to avoid a swinging mechanical arm.

“Sorry!” the tiny woman operating it squeaked.

You just smiled and waved her off.

At the far end of the room stood Team Deja Blu, huddled around a massive hologram of Pandora’s terrain. The projection cast the entire space in shifting greens and blues, mountain ridges and dense jungle canopy sliding slowly across the walls.

Colonel Miles Quaritch loomed over one unfortunate scientist. The science puke’s fingers trembled as they fumbled across the screen of the holopad, the image hovering above the table flickering uselessly between zoom levels.

Quaritch’s lip curled in visible impatience, hands planted firmly on his hips. His shadow loomed over the scientist, and you could see the way his muscles twitched as he tapped the belt slung from his narrow hips.

He watched the man struggle to enlarge what currently looked like nothing more than a brown blur, his impatience growing with each second.

Behind him, one of the recoms snorted, their massive frame leaning against the table.

“C’mon, doc,” Prager muttered. “It ain’t that complicated.”

The scientist’s hands started shaking even harder, his fingers trembling as he pushed his glasses back on his nose.

Poor sod.

You huffed quietly through your nose and started toward the group.

The science puke spotted you immediately. Relief washed over his face so quickly it was almost comical.

Yeah, you understood that feeling.

You offered him a knowing smile.

“Give me that, Lorris,” you said, holding out your hand. “I got it from here.”

The man practically sagged with relief. His arms moved in a blur as he shoved the holopad into your hands, nearly dropping the fragile screen in the process.

“Thank you–”

He cut himself off, snapping a clumsy salute toward the Colonel before scurrying back toward his desk like a cockroach afraid of being stepped on.

He was cute and sweet, in a nerdy sort of way.

One of the recoms chuckled under her breath.

Too sweet for Bridgehead.

You shook your head, amused, and tapped the holopad. The device immediately responded, the brown blur sharpening into the massive wings of a banshee.

A quick swipe shifted the display again.

A thanator filled the projection, jaws parted in a snarl.

Your eyebrows pulled together as you opened the report beneath the image.

Heavy footsteps entered your peripheral vision. A pair of massive boots stopped beside you, their neatly tied laces speckled with dried mud. The hologram light washed over them in shifting shades of green and purple.

Your eyes stayed on the holopad as you skimmed the report.

Recent sightings.

Multiple.

Shit.

Their numbers had grown over the past few weeks - a gathering of some sort?

The holopad dimmed slightly as a large shadow fell across it.

“Did you take that outta his hands so you could read it for yourself?”

You shrugged, finishing the last line before closing the report and glancing up.

Quaritch stood directly beside you now.

His arms had moved from his hips and were crossed over his chest, broad shoulders blocking half the light from the projection. The glow of the hologram slid across the hard planes of his face as he peered down at you.

He looked almost bored.

Key word - almost.

The tip of his tongue pressed thoughtfully against one canine as a thick finger tapped slowly against his bicep.

A gesture you had come to recognize as a sign of his impatience - and it made you want to annoy him even more.

The Colonel lifted an eyebrow, his golden eyes boring into yours.

Your boss sure was hot.

Behind him, one of the recoms leaned forward slightly, trying to get a better look at the display.

“So?” Lyle asked. “How screwed are we, Chief?”

Your eyes tore from the Colonel’s, one hand resting on your hip. You rubbed the back of your neck, gesturing with the holopad towards the massive thanator.

“Depends.” You tapped on the screen, the image of the beast rotating slowly in the hologram. “How attached are you boys to your limbs?”

A couple of the recoms snorted.

Mansk leaned closer to inspect the map, his palms pressing against the table.

“Multiple sightings?”

You nodded, zooming the display out until several red dots appeared across the jungle terrain.

“More than multiple. Seems like a small pack has moved into the valley we’re supposed to scope out today.”

The Colonel muttered from his position behind you, his voice flat.

“Good. Been a while since somebody tried to eat us.”

The recoms quieted slightly and shared cocky looks.

You pointed at the markers.

“Thanators don’t usually stack up like this unless there’s food or territory involved. Either way, that clearing we were planning to land in?” You gave a small shrug. “Way too big of a risk.”

Lopez gave a low whistle.

“Well ain’t that great.”

Ja leaned back, tail flicking behind him.

“What’re the odds they leave if we park for a bit?”

You huffed.

“About the same odds as you outrunning one.”

A few quiet chuckles spread through the group.

You tapped the display again, bringing up the terrain scan. The red markers washed across your mask, and you squinted at the glare.

“I can land the Samson if you really want me to,” you said. “But I wouldn’t recommend leaving her parked for long. Those things get territorial, and I’m not sticking around while a thanator decides to chew on the landing gear.”

The recoms shared a look, shifting into arrogant stances. Lopez leaned against the table, cracking his knuckles.

“Relax, Chief. If one shows up, we’ll just wrestle it.”

“Yeah,” Fike chimed in. “You ever seen Z-Dog fight a thanator?”

You snorted. Cocky idiots.

“I’ve seen Z-Dog fall out of the troop bay.”

That earned a few laughs and you grinned at them, your fingers thumbing the edge of the holopad.

Quaritch’s finger stopped tapping against his arm.

“We’ll go,” he said flatly.

The room quieted again and you looked back up at him.

His expression hadn’t changed. His eyes stayed glued to the projected terrain, flickering over the biggest cluster of red markers.

“You’ll land us close as you can,” he continued. “Then you stay in the bird until we return.”

Lyle groaned dramatically, his tail lashing behind him in annoyance.

“Aw c’mon, Colonel. Chief could help us track.”

Quaritch didn’t even glance at him.

“Can’t have her following and giving up our position.”

His eyes flicked back to you. One long finger extended from the crook of his crossed arms, pointing straight at you.

“That bird stays in the air. You don’t leave it. That’s final.”

You gave a small, perfectly agreeable nod. Yeah, you could definitely do that.

“Works for me.”

While you loved exploring the vast jungle surrounding Bridgehead, you didn’t want to do it while being hunted by a beast the size of an AMP suit.

Behind the Colonel, Z-Dog chuckled.

“See? Chief’s got the right idea.”

Lopez nudged her with an elbow, earning himself a smack on the shoulder.

“Yeah, you’re just jealous you ain’t the one sittin’ in the comfy chair.”

You turned off the holopad with a quiet click.

“Don’t worry,” you taunted. “I’ll keep the engine warm for you.”

Your fingers raced over the console: one final check before takeoff. The recoms sat behind you, hands gripping the handholds hanging from the ceiling. They looked like a cluster of massive blue cats, squeezed next to each other in the back of your Samson.

You clicked your tongue in annoyance at Wainfleet’s wandering fingers, leveling him with a glare before pulling down your shades.

He responded with a chuckle, hands lifting off the emergency button on the wall.

You tugged the receiver down to your mouth, pressing the small button on the side of your headset.

“This is Viper One, requesting clearance for takeoff.”

You waited a beat, the faint crackle echoing in your ears as you gripped the throttle.

“Viper One, you’re clear for takeoff.”

You tapped against the console, running a gloved finger over the metallic ridges.

“Don’t fail me today, sweetheart.”

The aircraft ascended, sharp wind whipping the recoms’ queues around their hulking bodies. They released puffs of air, hands gripping the handholds tighter, legs bracing as the Samson climbed.

“Chief, couldn’t you be less aggressive with it?”

You heard the telltale sound of a smack and Lopez grunted.

“Chief’s the only reason we ain’t splattered across the concrete right now.”

The offending recom quieted, and a smile shimmied its way onto your lips at Lyle jumping to your defense.

The Samson soared into the air, the next thirty minutes passing with relative ease.

You raced over the thick canopy of towering trees, their leaves whipping in the wind made by the rotor blades. A flock of tetrapteron passed by you, their big bodies so unnaturally colored in comparison to your Samson.

Your gaze flickered briefly to the human-sized beasts, eyes locking with one of them. It released a squeaky squawk, banking sharply to the left and leading the rest of the flock toward a cluster of shrubs.

Cute little things.

Well, not so little.

The aircraft glided sideways, disappearing into the rolling mist of a thick cloud. You glanced down at the radar beeping steadily on your console, fingers flicking a small switch. The console rewarded you with a beep of its own, signaling that you were nearing the drop point.

The grass and shrubbery beneath the Samson whipped in the wind, the rotor blades above like a blur against the sky. You twisted in your seat, an arm wrapping around the backrest as you lifted your shades off your eyes.

“Y’all ready?”

You were met with varied sounds of confirmation, the Colonel’s eyes finding yours as he nodded.

“Hold position.”

He leaned over the side of the Samson and leapt, landing with a muted thump. The dirt beneath his boots shifted from the impact. The recoms followed suit, falling in line around their leader, guns clutched lazily in their hands.

Quaritch stalked toward the dense canopy of trees, two thick fingers flicking outward. His subordinates immediately spread out, each of them moving to cover different parts of the terrain.

Deja Blu was Bridgehead’s ace in the sleeve. If you were resistance, you’d be dead before you ever heard them take off. Thankfully, you weren’t.

You leaned back against your seat, sighing in contentment as you lifted your legs. Your booted feet thumped beside the console, your ass sliding down the leather as you stretched out. You had a few hours on your hands, and you would’ve died of boredom if it weren’t for your favorite pastime.

Your fingers pressed against the small glove compartment built beside the console. It swung open and you reached in blindly, pushing aside various knick-knacks until you found what you were looking for.

The holopad flickered to life as you pressed the button on its side, a hologram of the surrounding terrain painting your face in green. You swiped it away, crossing one booted ankle over the other as you leaned your masked cheek against the palm of your hand.

Your thumb pressed the small icon of the notepad app, scattered notes appearing before your eyes. They varied in colors and sizes, and it took your eyes a second to get accustomed to the visual assault.

You scrolled until you found your most recent project, opening the file with one flick of your finger. A blank page stared back at you, your previous attempts at jotting down your thoughts erased.

Your head lifted from its perch and you straightened, thumbs drawing contemplative circles above the screen. It felt like you were wading in mud, your mind sluggish as it rifled through previous ideas and plans.

Your eyes drifted up to the ceiling of the Samson, unseeing, the cables and pulleys blurring together above.

Shit. No ideas.

You exhaled, your breath fogging the inside of your mask - and gasped.

You knew exactly what to write about.

Your fingers raced over the keyboard, your words filled with typos as you wrote them down.

He uses military language.

Your teeth pressed into the plush flesh of your lower lip and you grinned giddily, pleased with the sudden burst of inspiration.

The Colonel knew how to get you all hot and bothered without even touching you. His voice came out deep and rumbling as he growled: “Hold position.”

The next few hours passed in relative peace, save for the pack of hexapedes that curiously passed by your hovering ride. They dashed away when they noticed your eyes peering down at them from your perch, their six legs carrying them deep into the forest.

You huffed as you scrolled through your work, your fingers flickering here and there to fix the typos you’d made in your rush to get the words down.

Just as you were fixing your very creative typo of the word “cock,” your headset crackled with static.

The Colonel’s voice buzzed through your ears, his southern drawl dragging the syllables until they tangled with the digital crackle.

“Lower the bird.”

You scrambled in your seat, tossing the holopad onto the co-pilot’s chair beside you. It flashed in warning but you ignored it, wiping your palms on your cargo pants.

Your hand closed around the stick as you guided the Samson down, the aircraft settling onto the lush grass below.

The Colonel’s braid whipped behind him as he approached the vehicle, one thumb hooked lazily into the edge of his vest. He crossed the clearing in a handful of strides, reaching the Samson before you’d even settled in your seat.

The recoms trailing behind him sported matching grins, their eyes flicking between one another as quiet snickers slipped out.

Z-Dog nudged one of them with her elbow before gesturing toward the Colonel. It made Lopez chuckle, and he nodded as he responded with a hushed whisper of his own. Zdinarsik caught your eye and pressed her forefinger to her lips.

What the fuck were they talking about?

Quaritch seemed oblivious to their theatrics. His fingers hooked into the handhold as he hauled himself into the Samson, long legs folding as he settled onto the bench. His gaze swept over the rest of Deja Blu, silently urging them toward the humming aircraft.

The Samson tipped slightly as the oversized blue soldiers clambered into the troop bay, the bench creaking beneath their weight.

Bridgehead really needed to invest in bigger aircraft.

You huffed and flipped a switch, fingers tightening around the throttle as you prepared for ascent.

“All right,” you said. “Setting course for Bridgehead.”

You tugged your shades back on just as the oxygen alarm on your mask flashed red.

Fifty minutes - plenty of time.

Pressing the button atop the exopack, you refocused on the center console.

“Change of plans.”

Your fingers loosened on the throttle as you turned in your seat, eyebrows raised in question.

The Colonel leaned against the handhold, gesturing toward the center console.

“Find a safe spot to park. We might’ve found a lead.”

He jerked his head toward Lyle.

“Send her the coordinates.”

Adrenaline spiked at the thought of finally catching a trace of Sully.

Finally.

A minute later, the radar on your console pinged, a bright blue marker appearing in the middle of the map. Your eyes swept over the forest, bouncing between the radar and the trees. The jungle offered no clearing as far as you could see, and you hoped you’d be able to find a convenient one.

Time was of the essence.

You turned back to the console, easing the Samson into the air. Your fingers moved quickly over the controls as you tapped a spot on the map - far enough from the red markers, but close enough to the blue one. It would do.

Deja Blu cracked jokes behind you, nudging each other as they recounted the mission. Wainfleet, Mansk, and Quaritch spoke in low voices, their discussion of Na’vi tracks mostly drowned out by the steady whirr of the rotor blades.

Jake Sully was as elusive as he was famous, and you had to give it to him - the man had balls. It was difficult for you to wrap your head around how he’d evaded the RDA for so long, but hey: you were just the pilot. It was the job of the jarheads behind you to catch him.

That thought didn’t calm your racing heart, however.

You forced your trembling hands to still as you watched the horizon.

The end of the day was fast approaching, and the recoms would have a hard time tracking anyone in the dark. Even with the bioluminescence of Pandora’s jungle, finding Sully wouldn’t be easy.

He was better than that.

The rotor blades slowed as you set the Samson down, flicking the final switch before unstrapping from your seat. Night had settled over the moon, and the cockpit display showed a slight drop in temperature.

You set your headset beside your holopad on the co-pilot’s chair and slipped a small comm earpiece into your ear instead.

The recoms filed out of the aircraft, their laughter and banter fading as they headed toward the clearing to set up camp.

A quiet puff of air left your lips as you scrambled out of your seat—then froze when your eyes met the Colonel’s broad back.

He hadn’t moved from the bench.

His gaze swept slowly across the interior of the Samson.

“Colonel?”

He didn’t look your way. Instead, he reached over and pressed one of the built-in panels along the wall. It popped open, revealing nothing but cables.

He closed it and tugged open another compartment.

“Where’re the masks?”

Your eyebrows furrowed as you looked at his massive form hunched over the storage panels. As if on cue, your exopack beeped again - the alarm louder now as your oxygen dipped toward critical levels.

The Colonel finally glanced your way, one brow lifting impatiently.

Right. Oxygen.

You stepped past the seats and reached for a red crate, popping the lid open. Three charged masks sat inside.

Quaritch grabbed two of them, handing one to you and hooking the other to your belt.

“We’ll be stayin’ a while. Better safe than sorry.”

You nodded and pulled the fresh mask over your face. Air hissed as it pressurized while you fiddled with the nearly depleted exopack.

Quaritch climbed out of the Samson, crossing the clearing toward the rest of Deja Blu.

You finally unclipped the old equipment and tossed it into the crate before dropping to the ground with a soft exhale.

You stretched your arms high above your head, eyes closing as you tilted your face toward the sky. Soft breeze brushed against your ears, and you wished you could feel it on your face, too.

Maybe in another life.

You reached into the Samson one last time, fisting a packet of dry RDA food, and started toward the recoms.

They’d already set up camp, their forms clustered near the treeline. You walked across grass bent from the rotor wash and checked the ration in your hands.

Dried bologna.

Yuck.

You shoved the packet into your pocket, disgust curling your lips.

Ja crouched a few feet ahead of you, his back bent as he shoved a motion sensor into the soft dirt.

A bit farther away, Walker toyed with a scanner, her fingers twisting the small lever on its side as she configured it.

You passed by Prager, who sat with his hands between his spread legs. His wrist moved in slow motions as he sharpened his knife. You scoffed softly at him, returning his confused look with a pointed glance at his already perfect blade. He chuckled and shook his head, turning his attention back to his task.

Deja Blu’s infuriating perfectionist.

As you neared the rest of Deja Blu, you noticed that Z-Dog and Lopez were missing. Lyle followed your gaze from his position next to the Colonel, his head jerking toward the treeline.

“Lookout.”

You nodded, shoulders shrugging in mock innocence as you neared the map.

“What?”

You peered down at the old-school parchment, pins stabbed through the paper and into the foldable table beneath.

“Just think that sending two of the loudest jarheads as lookouts isn’t the smartest idea.”

Lyle chuckled and hooked his thumbs on the sides of his vest, one brow lifting.

“Colonel gave the order.”

The aforementioned Colonel didn’t glance away from the map, placing another pin in the middle of the sketched forest.

He leaned back, arms crossing over his chest, and looked toward the treeline. His gaze swept over the recoms loitering around their makeshift camp, finally landing on you.

Your skin prickled beneath his gaze but you held your ground.

He looked away dismissively, turning toward the group of marines.

“All right, wrap it up. We move at zero six hundred sharp tomorrow.”

Deja Blu responded with grunts and nods, their bulky frames moving toward the clearing. Each of them grabbed a rolled sleeping mat, claiming their own spots on the grass. 

Lyle shot Ja a glare as the other recom stole the spot he’d been eyeing.

If looks could kill, Ja would be sprawled out on the ground, deceased.

The not-so-dead recom shrugged and shot Wainfleet a grin as he unwound his roll and plopped down.

You chuckled under your breath and grabbed your much smaller mat, scanning the camp.

There.

You padded over to the only free spot you could find. A yawn tugged at your lips as you unrolled the mat and slipped beneath the covers.

Warmth quickly enveloped you, easing your racing mind.

Tomorrow, you’d think about Sully.

Right now?

Your mind was free to wander wherever it pleased.

You watched the soft clouds shift in the night sky, drifting across the massive silhouette of Polyphemus above.

From the corner of your eye, you could see the Colonel settle onto his own sleeping mat, resting his head on his folded arms.

The bioluminescence of the surrounding plants cast a faint purple glow across his face, and you allowed yourself the guilty pleasure of watching him.

His lidded eyes tracked the drifting clouds the same way yours had moments before. One booted ankle crossed over the other, his body resting on top of the mat rather than beneath the covers.

Your gaze followed the ridge of his nose before dipping to the curve of his lips.

Why did such a hardheaded, bossy man have to be so damn attractive?

You exhaled softly and settled deeper into the mat, resting your masked cheek on your forearm.

Your eyes traced the edges of his ink, a quiet hum rumbling in your chest as you admired the way it stretched across his triceps.

Wainfleet’s thunderous snore cut through your daydream.

You started, your head whipping toward his sleeping form.

He lay sprawled across his bedroll, feet bare and toes spread as one massive hand covered his eyes.

Fucking hell.

Couldn’t a girl enjoy herself in peace?

You scoffed softly under your breath, pressing your hands against your ears. You squeezed your eyes shut, forcing yourself to fall asleep.

You awoke to the sound of shuffling, your eyes squinting as you struggled to see who was making the noise. A quiet snicker drifted over to you and you froze, ears straining to catch the conversation.

“That’s some vivid description right there.”

You could make out Ja’s rasped chuckle, followed by the shuffle of boots against grass.

“Yeah, well, this person knows their shit.”

You shifted as quietly as you could, pretending to be asleep, and rolled onto your other side. You peeked through a small gap between your eyelids, your gaze landing on the holopad clutched in Wainfleet’s hands.

He tapped the screen and looked at Ja, a dorky grin splitting his face as he jabbed at a line of text.

“Did ya know the Colonel likes doggy?”

Even Deja Blu was reading your smut?

What a treat.

You could see one of the blurry blue figures shift from their perch next to Lyle. Z-Dog crossed her arms, the gum she’d been working inflating between her lips.

“It’s just a guess.”

Ja chuckled from his seated position, leaning back and gesturing toward Z-Dog.

“Yeah, sorry. Forgot that you’re the doggy lover in this squad.”

Zdinarsik reached into her mouth and pulled out the wet piece of gum. She smacked it onto Ja’s shoulder, smearing it across his uniform.

The recom hissed, pushing himself up from the crate as he tried to wipe the offending substance off his clothes. It stuck to his fingers and he groaned, trying to find something to clean himself with.

Lyle chuckled as Z-Dog took Ja’s seat as if she hadn’t done anything, and returned his eyes to the screen.

“Shit, this won’t come out.”

“You deserved it.”

The recoms shoved each other as they snickered, dorky smiles gracing their faces as Lyle and Z-Dog tried to avoid Ja’s sticky fingers.

“Shut yer traps.”

The Colonel’s voice rumbled from his sleeping mat, his eyes still closed. His face looked as calm and neutral as if he were still asleep.

You glanced at the three recoms, who suddenly looked like kids caught with their hands in the cookie jar. Or, well - gum jar.

“You’re keepin’ our pilot awake.”

You froze, eyes wide as saucers as your gaze snapped back to the Colonel. He hadn’t opened his eyes, his head still resting on his folded arms.

“Yeah, sorry Chief.”

You licked your lips, the flesh suddenly dry, and waved a hand. Your voice came out rough, and you thanked whichever god was up there that it hadn’t come out squeaky.

“It’s all good. I was having fun.”

Lyle snickered and shot you a grin, the holopad that had been in his hands now lying on a crate.

“Back to sleep.”

The recoms scattered.

Zdinarsik finally settled onto her sleeping mat. Ja disappeared into the forest, and Wainfleet leaned back against the tree, holopad raised to his eye level as he watched the sensors.

You glanced at the Colonel. His expression was unreadable, his breathing calm.

After a minute of silence, you whispered, your voice quiet.

“Thanks.”

Quaritch didn’t move from where he lay.

“For what?”

“For shutting them up.”

He huffed softly, and you watched the rise and fall of his chest.

“Don’t thank me,” he muttered. “Thank the fact I don’t feel like listening to Wainfleet run his mouth all night.”

You snorted quietly.

“Still.”

You lay in comfortable silence, your eyes drooping. Your limbs felt like jelly and you lifted your hand to stifle a yawn.

Then the Colonel spoke again, his voice rough with sleep.

“Go to sleep, Chief.”

“Spread out. Wainfleet, Mansk, on me.”

Quaritch barked orders, his hands planted on his hips as the recoms shuffled through the now-empty clearing. The gear had already been packed away into the Samson, and you sat on the lip of the ramp, digging into the dry rations.

You pulled your mask over your face and took a quick gulp of air before sliding it back down again. Then you stuffed another bite of brittle bologna into your mouth.

The Colonel turned your way, his eyes assessing as he nodded toward the Samson.

“Same as yesterday. Hover and keep watch.”

You nodded, your jaw working as you struggled to swallow the nasty ration. It tasted nothing like the dish it was supposed to replicate, and you tried not to think about what it was made of.

Definitely not meat.

You washed the dry bologna down with a swig of water and tugged your mask back over your face.

“Affirmative, Colonel. Will do.”

Quaritch spared one last look at the extra mask strapped to your hip before turning and heading toward the tree line.

Deja Blu disappeared into the forest, leaving you alone in the clearing.

The soft sounds of Pandoran animals drifted through the air, mating songs and hunting calls twisting into a cacophony of noise.

Back to safety.

You stuffed the remainder of your ration into its bag and stood, wiping your hands on your pants. Then you climbed into your seat and pulled on your headset.

The Samson lifted smoothly into the air.

It hovered a few meters above the clearing, and you finally allowed yourself to relax.

You hummed as you opened your unfinished work. The text on the holopad was far too bright for your still-sleepy eyes.

If you were a vampire, you would’ve been eviscerated.

You lowered the brightness and stretched out in your seat. Then you went back to writing.

Your description of the Colonel’s blue dick wasn’t going to finish itself.

Just as you reached the climax (literally), two massive blue shapes rushed out of the treeline. You straightened in your seat, your fingers wrapping around the pistol strapped to your hip.

Na’vi?

Resistance?

Sully?

Your muscles relaxed when you recognized the two marines limping towards you.

Something was wrong.

Your eyebrows furrowed as you took in their uneven steps.

Z-Dog’s arm was wrapped around Wainfleet’s shoulder, the taller recom half-carrying her toward the Samson.

You scrambled to lower the aircraft and yanked your seatbelt free, rushing out of the cockpit.

You stumbled over your feet as you jogged towards the injured recom, eyes assessing her condition as you neared the duo.

“What happened?”

Z-Dog grunted, her voice pained as Lyle lowered her on the lip of the ramp.

“Feral Thanator. Beast took a big chunk… outta my leg.”

You glanced towards the treeline, expecting the rest of Deja Blu to show up.

Where the fuck was everyone else?

Lyle followed your line of sight.

“They’re continuing the mission.”

You nodded and glanced down at the missing part of Z-Dog’s pants, the blue skin of her calf covered in blood.

Pieces of dirt had stuck to the raw skin, and your lips pursed as you took in the damage.

She needed to get it disinfected, stat.

You climbed into the Samson, grabbing the emergency kit hooked onto the rear wall. It had everything you needed, and more - the perks of being Deja Blu’s pilot.

You crouched in front of Zdinarsik, rolling her pant leg over her knee, and disinfected the raw flesh.

The thanator had taken more than a small bite.

Her calf was a mess of mangled flesh, bloody and raw. Someone had tied a makeshift tourniquet under her knee, the skin below it turning a bruised purple. Thankfully, the thanator seemed to have decided to be generous, because the bite was as neat as it could be.

The female recom hissed, her eyes turning to look at the horizon instead of the gaping wound in her calf.

You pursed your lips, your fingers gentle as you packed the wound with gauze. Military school had trained you how to take care of life-threatening injuries, and you knew your way around gore.

Still, seeing someone you’d grown to care about in so much pain was… difficult.

You had half a mind to grab one of the oversized syringes with morphine and numb her pain, but refrained. Zdinarsik wasn’t known for handling her substances well. 

Lyle’s hands dug into Z-Dog’s shoulders, thumbs pressing against the taut muscles.

“S’all good, Z-Dog. Chief’ll patch you right up.”

Zdinarsik cussed, her eyes closing as her nails dug into the palms of her hands.

“Been through worse.”

You chuckled as you quickly wrapped the gauze around her calf, ripping a piece of tape and securing the fabric.

“Too tight?”

Z-Dog shook her head, eyes finally finding yours. Her eyebrows were pulled into a pained expression and you smiled up at her sympathetically.

“All right. I’ll let the Colonel know I’m flying you back to Bridgehead.”

The female recom’s hand shot out and grabbed your upper arm as you started toward the pilot seat.

“No. They need you here in case things get heated.”

You glanced back at Lyle, who continued digging his fingers into Z-Dog’s muscles, now having moved toward her upper back. His eyes met yours and he shrugged, earning himself a hiss of pain when he pressed extra hard.

“Can’t force her to go.”

You sighed at Zdinarsik’s stubbornness but relented, sitting down next to her. Lyle planted himself behind her, continuing his torture-level massage.

Z-Dog could be hardheaded, infuriatingly so. This wasn’t the first time she’d put the mission above her health.

Your eyes drifted over the two recoms, their massive frames hunched as Lyle worked his barbaric magic on Z-Dog’s upper back. A big, messy scar ran alongside his bare calf and you pursed your lips.

They were all stubborn. Loyal, you’d give them that, but still fucking stubborn.

The three of you sat in contemplative silence, eyes trained to the treeline. The quiet was occasionally broken by Z-Dog’s quiet grunts, Lyle’s fingers bullying the tense muscles into submission.

After a while, the female recom leaned forward, rolling her neck as she pushed Wainfleet’s hands off her back.

“Thanks, Wainfleet. I owe you one.”

Lyle leaned back on his hands, head tipping sideways as he grinned.

“I won’t let you forget that.”

Z-Dog shot him a look over her shoulder, lifting herself shakily to her legs. You scrambled to your feet, grabbing her massive arm in a futile attempt at holding her up.

It was the thought that mattered, right?

She swatted your hands away and looked down at you, a smirk playing on her gaunt face.

“You know what can get me in the mood?”

Uh-oh. You knew that look - usually more energetic, but dangerous nonetheless.

Your eyebrows furrowed as you waited for her to continue. Wainfleet watched both of you from his position on the floor.

“Let me fly the Samson.”

You shook your head immediately, arms forming an X as you stepped back.

“Hell no. You’re injured. I’m not crashing my bird.”

Z-Dog rolled her eyes and crossed her arms, tonguing the inside of her cheek.

You watched her tentatively, prepared to smack her in the calf if she attempted to get behind the pilot seat. She made no attempt at moving, however, and merely sulked at the tree line.

Then she tensed, and you did too.

Zdinarsik’s eyes sparkled as she looked back at you, a mischievous grin tugging on her lips.

“How about Wainfleet?”

The recom gagged from his lower vantage point, mouth stuffed with the remainder of your dry bologna.

You blinked at him.

When the fuck had he gotten his hands on it?

“Me?”

Z-Dog grinned and she looked down at him, limping slightly as she turned his way.

“Yeah, you. You’ve got pilot training.”

What? Since when?

Lyle’s eyebrows furrowed for a second and then he downed the last of your ration. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, and his eyes crinkled in glee.

You threw your arms in the air, gesturing at the two massive marines as they shared growing smiles.

“No way. Why don’t you ask me to give you a joyride?”

Lyle looked at you, eyebrows waggling as he rose to his full height. He shoved the RDA wrapper in his pocket and leaned dramatically towards you.

You could smell the dry bologna on his breath and your lip curled. The man could eat a dead rat and not bat an eye.

“I would love to take you up on that offer, Chief.”

You grunted in disgust, leveling him with a nasty glare.

Filthy flirt.

You pushed him away with a finger on his chest and gestured toward the console.

“You’re fucking disgusting, Wainfleet. Shit, fine. Get on the seat.”

The three-meter-tall marine giggled like a schoolgirl, squeezing between the seats and folding himself in front of the console.

You and Z-Dog followed close behind, the female recom shaking her head when you offered her a seat. You shrugged, the two of you leaning against the backs of the pilot and co-pilot chairs.

Wainfleet grinned from his slightly hunched position in front of the console, fingers flicking the switches as he readied the aircraft for ascent.

You nodded to yourself, your lips curving into a reluctant smile as you watched him follow protocol to the T.

He knew his shit, all right.

Lyle shot you a knowing smirk and grabbed the throttle.

The aircraft rose slowly, and you and Z-Dog swayed with the motion. Your eyes flickered to the female recom but she leveled you with a warning glare.

“Don’t baby me, Chief. I’m good.”

“Fine, don’t bite my head off.”

You lifted your hands off the seat in surrender, quickly grabbing hold of the leather again as the Samson swayed with Lyle’s maneuvers.

Your eyes widened as the aircraft swept over the forest, sticking close to the meetup point. Lyle let out a whoop as he steered the Samson sideways. Wind whipped Zdinarsik’s braid around her head, and a surprised giggle left her lips as she pumped a fist in the air.

“Oorah!”

Both you and Z-Dog responded with an enthusiastic oorah! of your own, leaning farther against the backs of the seats as you watched the trees fly past you.

Lyle did a few more sweeps of the jungle, playing the perfect pilot as he called out different sights, and you rolled your eyes at his theatrics.

His eyes met yours and he waggled his eyebrows. He wasn’t looking at the terrain and you gestured with a finger, earning yourself a playful roll of his eyes.

You smacked the back of his head lightly when he finally landed the Samson in the clearing.

“You still got it, Wainfleet.”

The recom twisted in his seat, a smirk on his lips as he jerked his head your way.

“Way better than the Chief, am I right?”

Cocky little shit. You’d let it slide this time.

You leveled him with a playful glare and took a step back, giving him space to shimmy out between the seats.

Wainfleet straightened as much as he could, head bumping against the ceiling as he struggled to reach the troop bay. The seat squeaked when he pressed himself against it, and you winced at the small scratches his belt left on the leather.

His tail smacked against the console, curling back as he tried to keep it contained. The tip hit the holopad still on the co-pilot seat, the small device thumping to the floor. It flashed in warning, buzzing to life as it lit up.

You bent to grab it but Lyle beat you to it, lifting it and extending it toward you.

Just as you reached to take it out of his hands, he pulled back, his eyebrows kissing his non-existent hairline.

A massive grin split his face when he looked up at Z-Dog. Her eyebrows furrowed as she leaned forward to see what he was looking at.

What…?

Heat rushed to your face when you saw your text still displayed on the screen. Your hands snapped out, trying to pull the holopad out of his grasp.

Lyle lifted the small device way out of your reach, gaze racing over the raunchy smut you’d been writing before they arrived. His eyebrows furrowed and he turned away from you, his shoulders hunched as he read the text.

Shit.

Wainfleet froze, his tail stilling behind his body, and your eyes turned as wide as saucers.

Please, no.

You jumped and grabbed the back of his pant leg, tugging hard.

“Lyle, give it back.”

Lyle turned around slowly, his eyebrows still furrowed. His eyes bounced between your face and the writing.

“This ain’t one I’ve read before.”

Z-Dog limped a step toward him, but you stepped between them, your arms outstretched.

“Wainfleet. Now.”

He laughed giddily as he finally looked at you with wide eyes.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Of course it had to be Wainfleet and Zdinarsik.

Anyone but Wainfleet and Zdinarsik.

“Holy shit, Chief. You’re Miss Anon?”

Z-Dog’s head snapped your way, the female recom almost forgetting her wound as she twisted her body towards you. She stumbled but steadied herself, her face the perfect expression of shock as she peered at you over your shoulder.

“Hold up. Chief’s the one writing that shit?”

You wished the Samson would swallow you whole as you took a step back, hands raised in front of you.

“Wait- I can explain.”

Lyle chuckled, his eyes still flickering between the text and your face.

“Shit, you better. I knew you couldn’t keep your eyes off us, but the Colonel? Damn, Chief. You’re kinky as fuck.”

Another wave of heat rushed to your face.

The Samson bent and twisted around you, and you knew you had to sit the fuck down.

You took a deep breath as you stumbled to the bench behind you. It felt cold against your fingertips as you blindly reached for it.

You sat down shakily, fingers fiddling with the edge of your mask as you looked anywhere but at their faces.

“Shut it, Wainfleet. Chief looks like she’s gonna pass out.”

You tugged at your collar, closing your eyes and taking a deep breath.

Breathe.

The two recoms quieted, Lyle squatting down in front of you. Z-Dog slowly sat on the bench on your left, wincing softly.

It was quiet for a while, the only sound in your ears the rush of blood.

You knew this would happen - you were careless, and now the two biggest loudmouths in Deja Blu knew your secret.

The universe had a very unique way of saying fuck you.

When you finally opened your eyes, you looked at the holopad still clutched in Lyle’s hands. You gestured towards it and he handed it back to you.

“So… you gonna explain?”

You took a deep breath and looked at him, gaze bouncing between his and Z-Dog’s eyes. They watched you expectantly, tails coiling in impatience.

“Yeah - uh. It just happened, okay? I didn’t mean to upload it. I just… did.”

Lyle’s eyebrows furrowed and he leaned back.

“Upload what?”

“He Loves Doggy.”

Wainfleet’s gaze snapped to Zdinarsik, eyes wide.

“Damn, Z-Dog. You know the name of her first porn?”

You opened your mouth to correct him - technically it wasn’t porn since…

Well.

Yeah. It was porn.

Z-Dog shrugged from beside you, leaning back on her hands.

“There ain’t enough material to go around. This body needs some stimulation.”

Lyle chuckled in disgust, gently pushing on Zdinarsik’s shoulder as they grinned at each other.

“Yeah, I feel that.”

You stayed quiet, hoping that they would drop the subject, but your prayers weren’t answered.

Both pairs of eyes snapped to you, waiting.

Universe: 2. You: 0.

You sighed, rolling your eyes.

“Fine. I uploaded it on accident and I didn’t expect it to… go this viral.”

You shrugged, crossing your arms over your chest as you looked at Wainfleet’s tied shoelaces.

“Then I realized that people actually enjoy my writing and… Here we are.”

You gestured towards the two recoms, your lips twisting in a scowl of shame at being caught.

Wainfleet chuckled nastily and sat on his haunches, his tail thumping against the Samson’s floor.

“It all makes sense. There’s some shit in there that an ordinary jarhead or science puke wouldn’t know.”

Z-Dog nodded, her face contemplative as her nail dug a hole into the wooden bench.

“Yeah, now that I’m thinkin’ about it, there’s some pretty specific facts about the Colonel.”

You fiddled with the holopad in your hand and chewed on your bottom lip.

“I know you two jarheads can’t keep shit to yourselves, but keep this quiet, yeah?”

The two recoms shared a look, eyebrows raised. They knew they had dirt on you and it showed as Lyle tilted his head. A smirk of pure glee spread across his face and he pointed at the holopad in your hand.

“I dunno. The stuff in there is pretty raunchy and incriminating.”

You threw your arms in the air, huffing.

“When have I ever asked anything of you, you bum?”

The recom chuckled and nodded his head.

“Fine. Can do. But you’ll owe us.”

Z-Dog piped in from her position behind you, leaning over your shoulder so she could level you with a fanged grin.

“Big time.”

The forest glowed in the dark, bioluminescent plants swaying in the gentle breeze. You sat on the lip of the Samson’s ramp, Wainfleet and Zdinarsik flanking you as the three of you looked at your holopad.

Surprisingly, their teasing had stopped bothering you.

You’d even let them read your newest draft, the two recoms giving you some surprisingly constructive feedback here and there.

You’d never seen their anatomy before, and it showed. Lyle’s face sported an ever-present dorky grin as he described to you what the Colonel’s dick probably looked like. You took note of his words, nodding as your fingers raced over your keyboard.

Blue, possibly ridged and purple at the tip. Interesting.

A group of blue shapes moved in your peripheral vision, and the three of you looked up, watching the rest of Deja Blu walk back into the clearing. 

You quickly shut off the holopad and slid it into a shallow storage compartment along the bulkhead.

Close call.

The Colonel led the squad, his hands gripping his rifle as he clicked the magazine into place. His eyes found your little soiree, flickering down to Z-Dog’s wrapped up calf.

You could see a glimpse of relief flash in his eyes before they settled on the rest of you.

Wainfleet hopped off the ramp and headed towards Deja Blu. Zdinarsik started, intending to do the same, but the Colonel leveled her with a look that kept her where she was.

It was funny, seeing this almost three meter tall woman sulk. You’d never get tired of it.

You chuckled up at her, and she glared at you, her tail smacking against your lower back.

Just like a sulky child.

You snorted and jumped off the Samson, waving at her as you walked toward Deja Blu.

The Colonel was locked in conversation with Wainfleet, the corporal recounting your speedy patch-up of Z-Dog’s mangled leg. Quaritch nodded, letting his AR hang on its strap as he hooked a thumb at the edge of his vest. 

His eyes flickered to Zdinarsik once more, running over the fresh gauze you’d applied earlier. They then settled on your face as you stopped in front of him.

His head jerked in Z-Dog’s direction.

“You wrap that?”

You nodded. You hoped it was adequate - you didn’t feel like scraping Zdinarsik off the floor if she bled out.

“Yeah. Clean bite. Missed the tendon.”

Quaritch hummed quietly, thumbing the strap of his AR. He felt so big next to you, and you took in the massive weapon strapped to his chest.

A shot from that thing?

Yeah, you’d be very dead.

The Colonel’s voice came out contemplative.

“Lucky.”

Z-Dog scoffed from the ramp, her voice loud.

“Lucky my ass.”

Quaritch ignored her, still looking at you.

“She walkin’?”

“Refused help the whole way,” you said. “So yeah.”

Z-Dog barked from behind you.

“Because I don’t need it.”

That earned the faintest twitch at the corner of the Colonel’s mouth.

“Sounds about right.”

Then his expression hardened again.

“We’re flyin’ back to Bridgehead. Sully wiped his tracks.”

You exhaled softly, disappointment settling deep in your bones as you bit your lower lip.

Of course it wouldn’t be that easy.

You locked eyes with Zhang, his movements jerky as he tugged his AR off his shoulder. He nodded at you and started toward the Samson alongside the rest of Deja Blu.

Their tails lashed behind their backs and you pursed your lips, tearing your gaze away from the oversized marines.

The Colonel and Wainfleet stayed behind.

Lyle’s face had twisted into a scowl so different from the dorky grin he’d worn minutes ago, and you rubbed the back of your neck.

“Well, that puts a wrench in the plans.”

Lyle nodded.

“Yeah. Oorah.”

The Colonel spared you and Wainfleet one last assessing look before stalking toward the Samson. You watched the muscles shift beneath his vest as he reached the aircraft.

Quaritch walked like he hadn’t just taken a massive hit to his pride, like it was a normal day at Bridgehead. He grabbed Z-Dog under the arm and hauled her onto the bench, his eyes flicking briefly over the bandage around her calf.

You watched him for a second longer than necessary.

Then you glanced up at Lyle - and caught the small, devious smile tugging at his lips.

Your eyebrows furrowed.

You jogged beside him, his long legs eating up the distance faster than you could walk.

“What was that?”

He shrugged, his massive shoulders rolling with the motion.

“Nothin’.”

Fucker.

You jabbed a finger into his forearm, hard.

“You flap your gums, I kill you.”

Lyle mimicked locking his lips and tossing the imaginary key over his shoulder, that annoying-ass grin still glued to his face.

Yeah. That wasn’t reassuring.

You glared at him all the way to the cockpit before dropping into the pilot’s seat.

The wind beat gently against the Samson’s hull, the only sound besides the steady whir of the rotors coming from the troop bay. Most of Deja Blu had passed out in the troop bay, their massive bodies sprawled on the ground, the bench, and against the walls.

It was quiet most of the time. You reveled in the silence, jumping every once in a while at the routine disruption. Namely, Wainfleet’s snores - they rumbled through the aircraft like a broken engine.

Good luck to any woman willing to sleep with him.

You glanced over your shoulder, eyes sweeping the sleeping marines.

Fike was slumped against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest, Brown’s stolen hat obscuring his face. Lopez had slid halfway off the bench, one arm dangling toward the floor. Z-Dog had been given her own space at the back of the Samson, her leg propped on a crate as she leaned uneasily against the wall. Lyle sat next to her, his personal mission of watching over the female recom’s injury abandoned. He leaned his head against hers, his mouth wide open and spewing snores like earthquakes.

Bridgehead’s best, ladies and gentlemen.

Sure.

You turned back to the controls, a tired smile tugging on your lips.

Behind you, you heard the shuffle of fabric. The Colonel leaned against the cockpit doorway, arms folded, one booted ankle crossed over the other.

The air danced around you with his movement, and you felt goosebumps rise all over your skin.

His eyes lazily tracked the jungle sliding beneath the Samson.

“Never seen you fly this smooth.”

You smirked faintly, fingertips drumming against your thigh.

“Only when your crew’s sleeping.”

He glanced toward the troop bay over his shoulder. His eyes bounced between his squad’s faces, the silence broken only by Wainfleet’s snores.

They were hard to ignore, and you jumped at an especially loud exhale.

Quaritch snorted softly and turned his eyes back toward the jungle below, his lips twisting into a tired smile.

“Thought that was the rotor.”

You chuckled quietly, your shoulders moving as you shrugged.

“Wish it was.”

The two of you watched the jungle whiz underneath you, the multicolored trees shimmering with morning dew. Your fingers gripped the throttle loosely, your body relaxed against the leather seat. A gust of wind gently nudged the Samson sideways, and you steadied it.

The Colonel shifted his weight against the wall, one hand gripping the lip of the entrance as he leaned his head into the cockpit. You saw his tog tag dangle next to your face in your peripheral vision, and your fingers tightened on the throttle.

“You good on fuel?”

Quaritch’s voice came out quiet and you looked up at him. His eyes stayed on the console as he tapped a finger against the metal he’d been holding onto.

The man almost filled the cockpit. His position didn’t look too comfortable, either. 

Being the biggest in Deja Blu had its disadvantages, it seemed.

You glanced back in front of you, humming.

“Forty minutes.”

The Colonel’s knuckles rapped against the doorframe and he leaned back against it.

“Make it thirty.”

You snorted and shot him a look as you steered the Samson left.

“Working on it.”

You stayed quiet for a while, neither of you moving save from the small nudges of wind against the aircraft. Wainfleet’s snores drifted toward the cockpit and you zoned out, the sound dulling to a quiet rumble. The Colonel’s voice broke you out of your trance.

“Nice save today.”

You glanced between him and the console, a smile threatening to spill across your lips. You suppressed it and shrugged. It was rare for Quaritch to give out compliments. Even rarer to do so twice in one day.

“Thanks, Colonel.”

Quaritch’s hand tapped against the doorframe one final time before he pushed off the wall, his thumb hooking on his belt loop.

“Wake me when we land.”

With that, he disappeared into the troop bay.

The chatter in the common space turned almost deafening, roars of both agreement and disagreement filling the room. You groaned as you shoved the dry RDA brownie in your mouth, your eyes closing in annoyance.

“Lord give me strength.”

None of your companions paid you any attention, however, fighting for their voices to be the loudest in the room. Slips of paper passed between hands, scribbles hidden like they were trading secrets instead of dumb bets.

Gambling was and would always be the bane of Bridgehead. If everyone didn’t squander their money on good coffee, they’d waste it on stupid bets.

Your eyes drifted to the whiteboard in the middle of the room - a mess of tally marks, names, and wildly speculative job titles. Disgust curled your lips as you tried to focus on your holopad.

“Definitely a xenobiologist!”

One of the scientists scoffed, his finger poking the marine’s shoulder as he pointed at the whiteboard.

“Use your brain, idiot. A xenobiologist would know the difference between a Titanothere and a Soundblast.”

The marine balked, his face growing beet red. He quickly scribbled on a new sheet of paper, earning himself a laugh from the scientist.

“All right, pipe down!”

Michael stepped in front of the whiteboard, a black marker clutched in his fingers. He waved his arms, the cacophony dying down.

“So far we got seven bets on Anon being a scientist, fifteen on her being military, and five on her being a recom.”

Speaking of bets.

Manon chuckled from her seat next to you, looking pleased with herself as she scribbled on a sheet of paper.

“What’s so funny?”

She added a small heart next to her writing, her fingers deftly folding the white paper.

“Anyone who voted on Anon being a recom is an idiot. She clearly writes from a human point of view. The size difference is a dead giveaway.”

You snorted, your fingers rubbing against your temples as you glanced at the whiteboard.

It made sense why everyone would focus on Miss Anon. Hell, she was the only form of rebellion that everyone could have a piece of.

Still - why ruin the mystery?

Wasn’t her anonymity, well, your anonymity, the reason the Quaritch smuts had gotten so popular in the first place?

Manon quirked an eyebrow your way and leaned toward you.

“What?”

You shrugged, your fingers toying with the wrapper of the borderline stone hard brownie.

“I still don’t get why everyone is betting on this. It’s not like we’re ever gonna find Anon’s identity.”

Manon chuckled, her shoulders lifting in a playful gesture.

“Who knows? There’s been rumors spreading throughout the base. Someone has insider information.”

That made you look at her.

Someone had insider information.

Your stomach dropped.

There were only two people on this entire base who knew.

Z-Dog.

And Lyle.

You forced your expression flat before Manon could read the panic written all over it.

“What do you mean by that?”

Manon raised her hand when Michael called out for people who wanted to place bets on Anon being a scientist, and spoke sideways at you.

“Dunno. Heard some of the others talking, saying she’s really a science puke. They said they’d talked to her personally but wouldn’t reveal her identity. Privacy, y’know?”

Your shoulders sagged in relief.

Someone was impersonating you.

Thank the Lord.

Manon speared you with a questioning look. You smiled up at her, toying with the brownie wrapper once more.

“What’s up with your face today?”

You shrugged and twirled the wrapper along the surface of the table.

“Nothing. Just happy she ain’t military. Wouldn’t be able to look any of you in the eyes otherwise.”

The corporal flicked the back of your head hard enough to sting, and grinned when you winced.

“If it was me, you’d be the first to know.”

Guilt twisted in your gut, and you straightened.

You wanted to tell her, you really did.

You had thought about it. More than once.

But the moment never felt… right.

Just as you felt another wave of guilt wash over you at her kind eyes, the cacophony around you died down. You turned at the same time as Manon, following everyone’s line of sight.

Deja Blu stepped inside, their massive frames swallowing the doorway.

Ja and Lopez grinned at each other as they noticed the bets being placed. Lyle took a deep gulp of pressurized air, his mask slung around his neck. The trio looked positively gleeful at the small gambling ring gathered around you.

And the Colonel?

Quaritch stood at the center of the group, mask clutched in his hand. It looked small in his grasp, and he dragged in a slow gulp of air.

He swept the common room with one dismissive look. His eyes lingered on the whiteboard for a beat longer than necessary.

You could see him read the text, the “Who is Miss Anon?” scribbled in massive black letters.

His gaze flicked briefly to Wainfleet.

“That trash about me still makin’ the rounds?”

Trash?

So he did know about Miss Anon. 

At least his obvious dislike for your writing lowered the chances of him actually reading the smut and putting two and two together.

Wainfleet shrugged, his eyes squinting as he tried to read the paper clutched in one of the scientists’ hands. The man gulped when he noticed the recom’s gaze on him and quickly curled his fingers around the tiny note. That earned the scientist a fanged smile from the massive recom, and he visibly paled.

“Guess so. Seems it’s pretty popular readin’, sir.”

The Colonel snorted softly.

“People got too much damn free time.”

His eyes swept the room once more before settling on you.

You felt goosebumps rise along your skin, but you didn’t let it show on your face. His gaze was electrifying, and it always made your mind short-circuit for one agonizing second. 

You’d gotten used to it.

Wainfleet nodded at you from his position next to the Colonel. His lips were curved in a devilish grin as his eyes ping-ponged between the whiteboard, Quaritch, and your face.

Couldn’t he be more fucking obvious?

“There you are. We were about to roll without you.”

You shot him a glare and stood from your seat, making your way between the chairs and toward Deja Blu. The squeak of your sneakers echoed in the silent common room, and, were you still new to this gig, you would’ve blushed at the attention. 

But you weren’t, and you’d gotten used to the countless eyes following your every move. Watching your interactions with the unobtainable Deja Blu.

If only people knew just how different Deja Blu was from the romanticised idea everyone had of them. How… normal they were. 

All things considered.

You sent a small wave Manon’s way, and she returned the gesture with a shy smile as she glanced at Lopez.

Her little crush was cute, to say the least. Far from your full-blown sexual fantasies about Quaritch.

“We’re going on a mission? Without notice?”

The Colonel looked down at you, his eyes finally taking note of your casual attire.

Deja Blu had seen you out of uniform only a handful of times, and it was evident in their reactions - Ja ogled the casual sneakers on your feet, and Prager grinned at the bracelets on your wrists.

“You’ll get the details in the bird.”

Quaritch looked pointedly at the many pairs of eyes glued to you, and you pursed your lips.

Yeah, it wouldn’t be a smart idea to discuss specifics around unauthorized personnel.

“All right, just let me get changed.”

You walked toward the hangar, mask strapped to your face. Lyle hovered beside you, a dorky grin on his face as he waved back at Zdinarsik. She had to stay behind, and didn’t seem too pleased about it as she flipped him the finger.

“Sucks for Z-Dog.”

You shrugged your shoulders, and Lyle raised an eyebrow at your reaction.

“Y’know what? I’m kinda glad she isn’t coming with.”

Wainfleet’s eyebrows furrowed.

“Why’s that, Chief?”

You whispered your next words, your eyes boring into his.

“Now you can’t tease me throughout the ride.”

He huffed a breath of air and whispered back.

“I don’t need Z-Dog to tease you about your lil’ passion project.”

He eyed the Colonel’s back pointedly and grinned.

Your eyes widened, and you punched his thigh, the recom barely flinching from the impact as he cackled at you. You overtook him, heading toward the Samson.

It was clear that he knew how to push your buttons and reveled in the fact. You were only hoping you’d find dirt on him too one day - hopefully his rumored stash of weird figurines.

“Come on, Chief. I was just shittin’ you.”

You clambered into the seat and strapped yourself in.

No, he wasn’t.

You managed to catch his muttered addition.

“Not.”

Called it.

You rolled your eyes and readied the Samson for the long flight.

HQ had sent orders for Deja Blu to investigate one of the floating islands near the Hallelujah mountains. Pandora’s immune response in that specific area had been a massive roadblock for Bridgehead, and you’d been caught in a swarm of attacking banshees more times than you could count.

But Deja Blu didn’t have that issue - the planet recognized them as one of its own, and you were allowed to tag along due to your proximity to the marines.

Which meant you’d have to follow them into the jungle if you didn’t want the Samson attacked by wild animals.

It seemed like Lyle had come to the same conclusion, a devilish grin splitting his face as he waved at you.

Great.

Moss swallowed the sound of your footsteps as you walked over massive roots. Your pistol swung limply from your fingers as you twirled it in the air, your eyes taking in your surroundings.

It felt almost surreal, being surrounded by so many trees. The Earth you’d left behind had been an overpopulated wasteland, full of people scrambling for scraps.

And the animals?

Almost extinct.

A pack of prolemuris swung from the hanging branches of massive trees, a few of them stopping to curiously observe you. You smiled at the smallest one in the group, the toddler-sized creature scurrying away after its mother.

Yeah, you’d never get used to seeing living, breathing animals.

Lyle’s eyes kept scanning the tree line, the tip of his AR swinging this way or that. A lone prolemuris struggled to catch up to the pack, and he aimed at it. When he noticed it wasn’t a Na’vi, he lowered his weapon, sighing under his nose.

Trigger-happy moron.

“The only thing we’ve found is monkeys. No sign of Sully.”

The Colonel didn’t spare him a glance as he walked ahead of the squad, his rifle cocked and ready.

“If it ain’t blue and armed, keep walkin’,” Quaritch said shortly.

That earned him a snort from both you and Lyle.

The squad pushed deeper into the undergrowth, shrubs catching against your shoulders as you forced your way through the trees.

If only you could smell the flowers around you - although, one of the science pukes had told you that Pandora’s air would most likely smell like sulfur. 

How ironic, considering the moon felt more like heaven than Earth.

Fike kicked a root out of his way.

“Man, if Sully’s out here, he’s hiding better than-”

Ja snorted.

“Better than the Colonel’s little admirer?”

Lopez chuckled.

Your eyebrows twitched and you struggled to keep a straight face. Of course these jarheads would discuss your writing in front of Quaritch.

“Hey, wasn’t there a line in the last one about the Colonel spanking the reader?”

Fike immediately chimed in.

“Yeah - ‘his big blue hands-’”

Quaritch stopped walking.

The entire squad nearly walked into his back.

His ears flattened slightly and he tightened his grip on his gun.

“You boys done?”

Silence.

He turned halfway, his golden eyes cutting across the group.

“Or you wanna keep discussin’ my bedroom habits while Sully slips past us?”

No one answered. The recoms looked anywhere but at the Colonel, their eyes flickering between the trees.

You had half a mind to pipe in with an enthusiastic yes, but you doubted Quaritch would give you a demonstration in front of his squad.

“Thought so. Eyes up.”

You’d never really fallen for the Miss Anon hype. It could be attributed to the fact that, well, you were her, but still. You’d never have the balls to joke about the writing around Quaritch himself.

Deja Blu apparently had an abundance of them.

The next half hour passed in complete silence, the sound of your group’s footsteps louder now that you’d reached a cluster of rocky plants. You and Lyle occasionally glanced at each other, and you leveled him with a glare, his face betraying his need to say something stupid.

You hoped that the squint of your eyes was enough to deter him from annoying Quaritch even more.

Sadly, you knew Wainfleet.

It seemed your glare had the opposite effect on him, because he opened his mouth, ready to say anything to break the tense silence.

Before Lyle could earn himself a tongue-lashing, Mansk stopped next to you. He raised his hand in warning, his eyes downcast.

The recom crouched, shifting from one leg to the other as he looked at something on the ground. Both you and Lyle turned to look at him at the same time as everyone else.

“Colonel.”

Quaritch stalked toward the crouched recom, his frame obscuring your vision as he bent to check what Mansk was looking at. Deja Blu crowded around the spot on the ground, and you lowered yourself to your knees so you could see better.

Their boots made your vision limited, but you still managed to catch a glimpse of what made the squad quiet down like never before.

In the soft mud beside one of the many roots peeked a footprint.

Massive, with four toes.

“Na’vi.”

Lyle uttered what everyone had been thinking.

Mansk pressed two fingers into the mud. It looked wet and shimmery under the scarce light filtering between the leaves above.

The recom rubbed the sludge between his digits and glanced up at the Colonel.

“Still soft.”

Ja crouched beside him. His tail coiled behind his back and he tilted his head.

“Less than an hour.”

Quaritch straightened from his position next to the footprint, his fingertips pressing against his comms.

“Bridgehead, this is Recom Lead.”

Static crackled.

“Send it.”

“We got tracks.”

The ride back to Bridgehead was, for lack of a better word, tense. Your squad had followed the tracks for over three hours, only to reach a massive river. You’d watched Lyle and Prager’s shoulders slump as you all realized you’d reached a dead end.

It was disheartening, to say the least. The sole reason Deja Blu even existed was to catch Sully and put an end to the resistance. And yet, with every opportunity the recoms had found to do so, the insurgents had found a way to halt them in their tracks and erase any trace left.

The Colonel stood near the open ramp, one hand gripping the overhead rail as the Samson cut through the clouds. His gaze stayed fixed on the jungle disappearing beneath the aircraft, his boot resting on the ramp’s edge.

It was as if everyone in the Samson knew to steer clear of him, Wainfleet’s usual loud banter non-existent as Deja Blu sat in relative silence.

Mansk tugged his glasses off his face, his fingers rubbing his tired eyes. From his spot next to him, Ja thumped his foot against the floor, the beat of his boot something akin to one of the pop songs you’d heard circulate in Bridgehead.

You glanced at Lyle, his frame hunched, elbows resting on his knees. He stared at the floor, a blank expression on his usually bright face.

“Three hours for a damn river.”

Walker grunted in agreement, tapping the bench in rhythm with Ja’s boots.

“Serves Sully well, having his legs back to swim away.”

Fike snickered from his position against the wall, the back of his head pressed against the metal.

“Yeah, well he’ll need them when we catch up to him.”

A tired “oorah!” left Lyle’s lips and he raised his head, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“Chief can drop us directly on him, can’t she?”

You snorted from your seat and the Samson glided to the left, your trip nearing its end as you spotted Bridgehead in the distance.

“Yeah, well, as long as his orange lizard doesn’t drag us down from the sky first.”

Ja shook his head and Lyle chuckled at your retort.

“You know that’s impossible, Chief. No one can beat you in the sky.”

You shrugged your shoulders, pulling the receiver to your mouth.

“Let’s hope we’ll never have to test that theory, Wainfleet.”

Your headset crackled when you pressed the button on its side, your voice steady and smooth.

“Viper One, requesting permission for landing.”

a/n: holy shit this is just PART ONE (u best believe I'll ride big boy)