#secondperson

You are there before the battle. You are there after it, too.

The destruction and death scattered across the land tear you apart from the inside out. Broken Marui, scorched ground, and bodies left behind burn into your memory in a way no data log ever could. When you came to Pandora, it was never meant to end like this. You are here to observe, specifically to study the tulkun, to understand their intelligence, their social bonds, their culture, and the way they coexist with the Metkayina. That is the purpose you arrive with. That is the reason you were sent.

But money-hungry individuals quickly twisted your work into something else. They barely acknowledge the complexity of Tulkun communication or the depth of Na’vi history tied to them. They don’t care about language, lineage, or kinship. All they see is what can be harvested, what can be sold, and what can be turned into power. Your research, meant to protect and preserve, becomes a blueprint for exploitation.

You sort of grow up with the sea.

it feels like your entire life is spent switching in and out of a rapidly aging avatar, constantly monitored to ensure the altered genes develop properly. Your human mind struggles to reconcile the existence of two bodies. They age separately. They absorb completely different environments. One belongs to steel walls and recycled air. The other belongs to open water and endless horizons.

The avatar body is your access point to the world. Without it, you are confined to a floating lab that was meant to be temporary but slowly becomes permanent. Even freedom has limits, though. The base needs power, clean, renewable energy that won’t further damage Pandora. Ocean turbines become the solution, generating enough energy for you and your four other team members to operate and breathe freely.

You are the one who installs them.

With the base positioned far outside the reef, maneuvering the surrounding waters is extremely dangerous for any human. Strong currents, unfamiliar depths, and predators make even short excursions a risk. But you don’t have to worry about that. You exist in an avatar bred specifically for these conditions, an unusual hybrid, designed to survive where humans cannot.

Most of your life is spent aboard ships. You don’t remember Earth at all. What you do know is that you exist in two bodies. One is trapped in a small lab, sustained by machines. The other is free, able to swim, explore, and live. It has never been difficult to know which one you prefer.

You have two childhoods.

They don’t happen at the same time, but your brain stores them as if they do. When you first enter the avatar body, it is six years old. You, however, are already an adult in your human body. Being mentally grown while inhabiting the form of a child is deeply unsettling. Your thoughts don’t match your movements. Your instincts lag behind your understanding. It creates a strange disconnect, almost forcing a kind of regression as your mind adapts to the body rather than the other way around.

Monthly check-ins become routine as the avatar ages at an accelerated rate, one month for every two avatar years, until it eventually reaches full maturity. It is an odd process, one you don’t believe could ever be replicated successfully. But for you, it works.

Your avatar body is not quite Omatikaya, nor fully Metkayina. You have the long limbs of the forest people, but your musculature and nearly fin-like arms are designed for the water. Your tail is thin and elongated, built more for balance than speed underwater. Star-like dustings scatter across your skin, reminiscent of the forest clan, but everything else reads Metkayina. You think you could blend in, at least to some degree.

They removed the extra finger during adolescence.

It is an obvious outlier, and with how much you already stand out, they convince themselves it will help you fit in better. Even though you are not born into this body, you feel the absence immediately. The scar where the finger once was lingers like a phantom ache, making you feel more separate than before. The opposite of what they intend.

But none of that matters anymore.

What matters is that you no longer have a mission, only information. And information is power. You know what the bases are doing; somehow, they have yet to cut your connection to their computers. You know what they are planning. You can help the Na’vi if you can find a way in.

And you already know how.

Jake Sully.

You arrived at the base before he ever did. You hear the stories as they circulate, how he learns their ways, how he trains, how he earns the trust of the Omatikaya and becomes one of them. You watch it unfold from a distance, long before the war forces him into legend. Then he went and did it all over again with the Metkayina.

He is your opening. You are certain of it.

Convincing the other scientists is another matter entirely. In your human body, you are not much younger than them. But they see your avatar as their child. They raised you. They protected you.

And that makes reasoning with them far more difficult than it should be. But you have your ways.

Your nightly routine begins the same way it always does.

You swim as close to the reef as you dare without being noticed, careful to stay just beyond the glow of woven lights. There, you linger, floating and watching. A few Na’vi remain awake at this hour. Some work quietly in the shallows, hands moving with practiced ease as the waves curl around them. Others simply exist in the water, letting the tide carry their thoughts.

Occasionally, a mated pair sits together at the edge of their marui, bodies leaning toward one another, foreheads nearly touching. They do not speak. They do not need to. Their minds drift together, flowing as naturally as the sea beneath them.

You ache for it.

For that kind of belonging. For that kind of connection to the clan, to the earth, to something that is not observation or distance.

Tonight, something is different.

At the very edge of the village, a lone figure sits with his feet in the water. His posture is tense, shoulders slightly hunched, as if the ocean itself is the only thing holding him upright. You hear him before you see him clearly, a low, broken hum carried on the breeze.

You recognize it immediately.

It is a mourning song.

Something flares inside your chest, sharp and unexpected. His face is hidden in the shadows cast by thick, braided dreadlocks, but the sound of him is unmistakably distressed. There is weight in every note, grief pressed deep into the melody. You do not know him yet, not really, but something in you pulls toward him all the same.

For once, you give in.

You move along the edge of the reef, slow and careful, letting the water carry most of your weight. The waves lap gently against the coral walls, rhythmic and steady. You guide yourself with one hand, fingers trailing through the water as you drift closer, listening.

The song grows clearer.

It is beautiful. Aching. But that is not what stops you.

It is the language.

This is not a Metkayina song.

It is a song of the forest people.

Your breath catches.

This is Jake Sully.

Not just a name whispered through the base or passed between scientists with fascination and caution, but him. The one who learns their ways. The one who becomes one of them. The one who carries war and loss in his bones.

Everything crashes into you at once. This is not how this is supposed to happen. You have plans, careful ones. You are supposed to think this through, decide what you will say, how you will approach him, how to keep yourself safe.

You begin to turn away, preparing to disappear back into the dark water.

“Who’s there?”

His voice cuts through the night.

It is rough and worn down to something raw and unguarded. The sound of it sinks into you, heavy and intimate. You can hear the aftermath of tears in it, the gravel, the depth, the quiet break beneath the strength. You freeze where you are, heart pounding.

You want to hear him again.

Being careful to maintain the proper accent, you respond softly.

“I was listening. I did not realize how close I had gotten.” Your voice is quiet, barely carrying over the waves. “Your song is beautifully tragic.”

There is a pause.

You expect him to turn fully toward you, to question you further, but instead his shoulders rise and fall with a slow breath. When he finally speaks, his voice is lower, steadier than before, though the strain beneath it remains.

“It is not meant to be heard,” he says. “But… I guess the ocean does not keep secrets.”

He shifts slightly, one hand braced against the woven edge of the marui. The water ripples around his calves. He does not look at you.

“They are songs I learned from her people,” he continues. “From the forest. Songs for the dead. For those who do not return.” His gaze drifts back to the water, unfocused, as if he is seeing something far beneath the surface. “All I can do to help is fight. I keep diving through the waves searching for weapons in the destruction and instead seeing them there, just around the hull of a fallen ship.”

His voice tightens on the last words.

You remain still for a moment, letting the water hold you, before slowly swimming the rest of the way to the edge of his marui. The woven fibers brush against your forearms as you rest there, close enough now to feel the warmth radiating from him. When you lift your head, your eyes meet his.

The war lives there.

It is etched deep into his gaze, a constant storm he cannot escape. He does not blame himself, not truly, but he needs to. You can see it in the way his jaw clenches, in the tension running through his shoulders. The warrior in him fights endlessly to take control, to push him forward, to force him to keep moving, keep planning, keep attacking. Anything is better than stillness.

Something about the two sides warring inside him resonates with you.

“Sometimes I feel trapped,” you say quietly. “Like no matter what path I take, it is the wrong one. I find myself needing to blame someone else and myself at the same time. But sometimes…” You hesitate, then finish softly. “Sometimes there is no one to blame.”

The ocean hums quietly around you.

Slowly, without thinking too much about it, you lift your hand and rest it against his knee, partly submerged in the water. The contact is light, tentative.

He flinches instantly.

His reflexes take over as his hand snaps around your wrist. For a split second, his grip is firm, automatic, the response of a soldier who has survived too many close calls. Then he realizes what he is doing.

His hold loosens immediately.

You realize he is not hurting you. He never meant to. His hand trembles slightly as he releases you, fingers lingering for half a second too long before pulling back. He looks startled, almost ashamed.

“Sorry,” he mutters.

You shake your head gently. “It is alright.”

He exhales, dragging a hand down his face. Up close, he looks exhausted. Not just tired, but worn down to the bone. Like something inside him has been pacing a cage for too long with nowhere left to go.

“I do not know how to stop fighting,” he admits. “If I stop, I think I will fall apart.”

You nod, understanding more than you want to.

“Maybe fighting does not always mean attacking,” you offer. “Maybe sometimes it just means surviving the night.”

Jake looks at you then, really looks at you. There is no answer in his eyes, only the quiet recognition of someone who knows exactly what you mean.

After a moment, you pull your hand back and ease away from the marui.

“I should go,” you say softly.

He does not stop you.

You slip back into the water, letting the sea close around you, and swim toward the distant silhouette of the ship. The sounds of the village fade behind you, replaced by the steady rhythm of your own breathing. When you reach the docking bay, you guide your avatar body into its restraints, the familiar hum of machinery surrounding you once more.

Waking up human is always hard.

Your limbs feel heavy, like they are filled with sand instead of bone and muscle. Your head is fuzzy, thoughts slow and sticky, as if you are moving through them instead of thinking them. All of your senses are dulled and dampened. Today is worse than usual. Switching back last night is physically painful in a way you are not used to, a deep ache that lingers in your chest and behind your eyes, and you do not know why. It is something you should bring up to your coworkers.

You are not going to.

They would make you stop. They would pull you back, slow the process, ground you in this body for longer than you can stand. You cannot stop. You need to go back. You need to be Na’vi. Existing in the small, fragile body of a human feels like punishment. A curse. The bane of your existence compared to the overwhelming, intoxicating relief of being in your avatar.

Before you can return, the tests come first. They always do.

Needles prick your arms. Lights flash in your eyes. Cold instruments press against your skin as you are poked and prodded from every angle. After all these years, you feel less like a colleague and more like a project, or worse, a child being monitored. You are not sure which is more demeaning.

You go through the motions anyway. You laugh at their jokes. You crack small comments to lighten the sterile tension of the medical procedures. They smile back at you, fond and familiar. You want them to still see you, the you from before the avatar. The you who studied beside them, who debated theories and worked on the very body you now crave to stay inside.

But that person feels distant.

You do not feel like them anymore.

You are not sure you feel like a person at all. The moment they tell you that you are cleared, you slip into the pod as quickly as you can. You barely wait for them to finish their instructions. You are desperate to be back in your body.

The link engages.

Pain explodes through you.

It is worse than the night before. White-hot and blinding, tearing through your chest and spine. You let out an involuntary groan, sharp enough that they almost stop the transfer. You refuse to let them. You cling to the sensation until it breaks.

Your eyes open.

The sea stretches endlessly in front of you, blue and alive. You are lying on a cot inside a barren medical room, but even here, surrounded by stale equipment and dull metal, everything feels sharper. You see more. You feel more. Your body hums with awareness.

This is the real you.

Before anyone can stop you, you slide off the cot and push through the door, stepping out onto the dock-like porch that extends over the water. You inhale deeply. Salt, kelp, wet stone, life. The sound of waves fills your ears, steady and grounding, sending calm through every muscle.

The pain fades into nothing.

Your goal today is simple. Find an ilu. With one, you could explore farther, dive deeper, truly move through the water the way you are meant to. No one is going to teach you, and from what you have observed, ilu are among the gentler creatures to bond with. A flying mount would be ideal, but that would require help, and that is a thought for another day.

For now, find an ilu.

It should not be that hard.

It is.

Hours pass. Every ilu you approach spooks or slips away before you can even attempt to bond. Eventually, the scientists step outside and signal that they need samples, as well as something edible. You do not mind. That part of the job is always your favorite. Not the figuring out what is safe to eat. But the exploration.

You dive into the depths, weaving through coral groves and sunken structures. You carry a strange bow you once found underwater, broken and abandoned. You fix it as best you can. It works, barely, but it is enough for small prey.

Color surrounds you as you swim. Light fractures and bends, scattering across coral and fish alike. You spot something that looks edible and follow it carefully. It darts ahead, weaving through the hollowed remains of a wreck that is unmistakably human. You slow, lift your bow, and take aim.

The creature pauses.

You fire.

The shot goes wide. The recoil sends you drifting backward, and before you can correct yourself, you collide hard with something solid.

You squeal underwater, losing most of your air in the shock. You spin, bow raised defensively, heart pounding.

It is Jake.

He is holding large crates you immediately recognize as RDA weapon containers, heavy and cumbersome. His hair floats in pieces around his face, and the light catches on the star-like markings across his skin, making them shimmer as he moves. Your eyes track him instinctively, taking in the long lines of his body, the tension in his muscles as he holds himself steady against the current.

You lock eyes.

He looks surprised. Sad. Curious.

You point upward. He follows your gesture, then looks back at you, head tilting slightly. You point again and start moving, not waiting to see if he follows.

You need air.

You break the surface and gasp, lungs burning. You are farther from the reef than you intended. Your bag bobs beside you, filled with shells, coral fragments, and plant clippings. A moment later, another head breaks the surface.

Jake.

Beside him floats a small boat, weighed down with weapons.

You stare at each other. Neither of you speaks. He turns away first, clearly not viewing you as a threat, and begins hauling the crates onto the boat. You swim closer, curiosity getting the better of you, peering inside.

Firearms. Too many of them.

You almost ask why before realizing you have no idea if you are meant to know what those are.

You swallow the question.

“What are you doing out here?” you ask instead.

“Collecting,” is all he says continuing to pick apart what he’s found in the crates.

The boat rocks gently as you pull yourself up beside him.

The woven craft is sun-warmed and slick with seawater, rough beneath your palms. For a brief moment, you are acutely aware of how close you are to him, of the way his presence seems to take up space even when he is still. Jake does not move to help you, but he does not move away either. He simply watches, eyes tracking you with an intensity that feels practiced rather than invasive, like a soldier assessing terrain.

Water streams down your arms and tail, dripping between the planks and back into the sea. You steady yourself, settling near the edge, keeping a careful distance. The crates behind him creak softly as the boat shifts, their weight pulling the vessel lower in the water.

“What clan are you from?” he asks.
 His voice is calm, measured. Curious, but cautious.

“Ta’unui, It’s not too far away,” you reply. You school your expression into something neutral, something unremarkable. You have learned how to do that well.

He studies you for a moment longer than necessary, head tilting slightly as if the answer confirms something he already suspected. “Thought so,” he says. “I been lookin’ for you all mornin’, actually.”

That catches you off guard. Your tail flicks before you can stop it. “Hard to ask around for someone when all you got to go on is ‘that Na’vi with the captivating eyes,’” he continues, a faint hint of humor ghosting his tone. Not a smile. Just the suggestion of one.

Your ears twitch. This was not how you imagined this interaction going. You had not imagined it at all.

He shifts then, reaching down to lift one of the crates and wedge it more securely against the side of the boat. The muscles in his arms tighten with the effort, tendons standing out beneath blue skin. You look away quickly, focusing instead on the water lapping against the hull.

“Seen these before?” he asks, lifting the lid of a crate.

Inside, metal gleams dully. Shapes that do not belong in this world. Guns. Too many of them.

Your chest tightens.

“The RDA are comin’ back,” he says, quieter now. “People keep thinkin’ it won’t happen again. They’re wrong.”

He hands one to you without ceremony. It is heavier than you expect. Awkward in your grip. Four fingers instead of five change everything, the balance unfamiliar and wrong. You turn it over slowly, feeling the cold metal against your palm, the weight of it dragging your arm down. You are too aware of how easily you know this shape, how instinctively your hands want to adjust.

Jake watches you closely. Something flickers across his face before he reaches out and takes it back. “Yeah,” he mutters. “That figures.”

He gestures toward the bow strapped to your side. “Your speargun’s busted.”

You bristle immediately. “I snapped the thread underwater. Had to make do.” Not entirely a lie. Not entirely the truth either.

He crouches slightly, reaching toward it. “Tension’s off. Slightly too loose, and you’re fightin’ the recoil instead of lettin’ it work with you.”

You shift back instinctively, but he is already reaching for your hands, movements slow and deliberate, giving you time to pull away if you want to. His fingers close around yours, warm and firm, guiding rather than gripping.

“Like this,” he says softly.

He adjusts the threading, showing you how to redistribute the tension. His hands brush against a scar where your finger should be.

You flinch.

He freezes instantly and pulls away, palms lifting in a wordless apology. “Just tryin’ to help.”

“Well maybe you shouldn’t be so handsy with someone you just met,” you snap, tail lashing once behind you.

He studies you, eyes narrowing slightly. Not angry. Thinking. After a beat, he exhales. “Fair enough.” Then, quieter, “Want some help huntin’? I could use the distraction.”

You hesitate only a second before slipping back into the water. “Well,” you say, already diving, “are you coming?”

The water closes over you like an embrace.

Jake follows.

Underwater, everything changes.

Sound dulls, replaced by the steady rush of blood in your ears and the distant song of the reef. Light fractures into ribbons, dancing across coral and stone. Jake moves with practiced ease, powerful strokes carrying him effortlessly through the current. He stays just behind you at first, not crowding, letting you set the pace.

You glide through coral arches and narrow channels, tails flicking to adjust direction. Fish scatter at your approach, flashes of color darting between shadows. Jake signals for you to slow, tapping two fingers together and pointing ahead.

He cups his hands and makes a low, resonant sound, a vibration more felt than heard. The water seems to respond to it, rippling outward.

A school of fish shifts, curious.

You watch him, mirroring the sound. The vibration hums through your chest, strange but grounding. The fish circle closer this time. He gestures, showing you how to angle your body, how to let the current carry your scent away instead of toward them. You adjust, heart pounding as the prey drifts within range.

You fire.

The shot is clean. The fish jerks once, then goes still.

Jake’s approval is subtle. A nod. A slight widening of his eyes.

You move together after that, falling into an easy rhythm. He signals dangers before you see them, guiding you away from sharp coral and territorial creatures. You learn quickly, adapting your movements to match his. When you miss, he does not comment. When you succeed, he lets you feel it.

At one point, you get distracted chasing each other around the reef. You turn a corner to hide in a small gap in the coral. Before you can, Jake catches up to you and tugs at your tail. You smile and whip around to smack him in the arm, but instead freeze. A larger predator looms above you two. Without thinking, you make a classic military gesture telling him to turn around slowly because there’s something on his tail. Jake shifts in front of you swiftly, spear raised, body angled protectively. The creature veers away.

He turns to look you in the eyes. his hand instictlivly finds his way to your waist, keeping both of you stready in the current. His hands are rough and giant and spread warmth across your side. His eyes are that of a man haunted, a man who promised to keep his family safe yet failed over and over. He’s a man terrified of injury being caused to anyone near when he could prevent it. You signal you’re ok and he nods gently dropping the hand on your side.

You immidietly miss the contact.

You dive deeper, the pressure building as the light dims. Jake keeps pace easily, unbothered by the depth. He points out a narrow trench where fish often hide, motioning for you to wait while he circles around.

You hold your breath, heart thrumming, as he disappears into shadow. Moments later, he emerges on the other side, making the same low call. The fish scatter straight toward you.

You strike again. And again.

By the time you surface, your bag is heavy, muscles aching pleasantly from the exertion. The sun has shifted, casting the water in warmer hues. Jake hauls himself onto the boat first, then turns, offering you a hand without comment. You take it.

“You said you’re from the Tawkami clan?” he asks, helping you sort through the food piled between you. Fish are laid out carefully, shells clicking softly as he moves them aside, methodical even now.

“Hm… oh, yeah. Like I said, it’s not that far away.” Your focus stays on your hands, fingers busy separating edible cuts from what needs to be discarded. You do not look up. You do not notice the shift in his posture.

“So that’s next to that small RDA base around the corner?” he asks, his tone deliberately casual, almost lazy.

“No, that’s on the other side of the reef,” you reply without thinking, words coming easily, automatically. Your attention is still on the food, on the repetition of the task, on anything but him.

He stills.

The water around the boat goes unnaturally quiet, as if even the waves are listening.

You still too.

The realization hits you all at once, sharp and breath-stealing. He intentionally said the wrong village. Worse than that, he asked you in English. And you answered in perfect English. You did not hesitate. You did not stumble. You did not question it. And somehow, impossibly, you just confirmed there is an RDA base nearby.

Your stomach drops.

In less than a second, movement blurs behind you. A strong arm locks around your shoulders, hauling you back against him. Cold bone kisses your throat as a knife presses just beneath your jaw, sharp enough that you feel the promise of blood without it breaking skin.

“What are you?” Jake growls into your ear, his voice stripped of warmth and patience, all soldier now. “And why did the RDA send you?” His breath is hot against the back of your neck, each exhale controlled and measured. You can feel the tension radiating off him, coiled tight, ready to snap.

Your own breathing turns shallow and uneven, heart hammering so loudly you are certain he can feel it through your back.

The ocean rocks gently beneath you, uncaring, as the space between hunter and prey disappears completely.

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The knife is gone from your throat.

Instead, you are tied, rope pulled tight around your wrists and torso, pinned against the back of the boat with nowhere to move. The weave presses uncomfortably into your spine, damp and cold, the gentle rocking of the water making the situation feel unreal. Jake kneels on the other end,he looks like like he hasn’t decided what to do with you yet.

He looks tired.

Not just angry. Not just wary. Mostly tired.

The kind of exhaustion that settles deep into the bones, that comes from carrying too much for too long. His shoulders are tense, but they droop slightly, like even holding himself upright is work. He drags a hand over his face, breathing slow, controlled.

Then he looks at you again.

Up and down. Slowly. Carefully.

“Your avatar is… strange,” he says at last.

His voice is low, not accusing, but not gentle either.

“At first glance, you read Metkayina,” he continues, eyes sharp as they trace you. “Your skin tone’s right. Your build’s right. Strong limbs, built for the water.” His gaze lingers, narrowing as he looks closer.

“But then I started noticing things,” he says. “Your tail’s thinner than it should be. Longer. Not made for speed underwater, more like balance jumping through trees. And the fins on your arms…” He tilts his head slightly. “Too small. Like they were forced to grow that way.” He exhales through his nose.

“Close,” he mutters. “But not exact.”

You swallow, the rope biting into your wrists as you shift slightly.

“I’m not with them,” you say quickly. “We left a long time ago. Before you even got on this planet.”

He doesn’t interrupt.

“There’s just a small base,” you continue. “Me and a few other scientists. We were studying the Tulkun. That was the goal. Communication, intelligence, social bonds. To do that, we needed an avatar that could exist with the Metkayina without causing harm.”

You hesitate, then push on.

“We didn’t have real Metkayina genetic data,” you admit. “So we manipulated what we had. Adjusted it. Watched it carefully.”

Jake’s eyes flick back to your face.

“The avatar, we had to keep taking it in and out of stasis. Checking it at every stage. Making sure the altered genes were developing properly.”

Your voice softens.

“When I first entered it, the body was a child . I wasn’t. I was already grown. They monitored me constantly. Every phase. Childhood. Adolescence. Adulthood. I lived through all of it consciously.”

You let out a slow breath.

“We didn’t know what the RDA was going to do to the Tulkun back then. Not at first. And when we heard what you were doing with the clans… when we realized you were fighting back… we cut communication.”

His jaw tightens.

“They’ve mostly forgotten about us,” you add. “Only the higher ranks knew what we were doing. And once you became a problem, we weren’t important anymore.”

Jake steps closer.

His eyes drop to your hands.

“These scars,” he says quietly, nodding to where your missing finger should be. “Did they do that?”

“Yes.”

You don’t sugarcoat it.

“They removed them during adolescence. They said it would help me blend in.” You swallow. “They had to do it while I was awake. While I was in the body. They needed the natural healing response to activate correctly.”

His fingers twitch at his side, all five on either hand in tact, marking him as forever alien.

“I’ve lived two lives for so long,” you continue. “Human and Na’vi. They treat my bodies differently. It just makes the divide worse. I don’t really understand time anymore.” You meet his gaze.

“I’m not truly human, Jake. And I’m definitely not RDA.”

There’s a long silence.

Finally, he starts untying the rope, rough and conflicted, like he’s arguing with himself through every knot. When your wrists are free, he straightens abruptly.

“Go,” he says. “I can’t… I don’t know.” He shakes his head. “Just don’t come back. "You’re floundering like a kid out here. You’re gonna get yourself killed.”

You stare at him.

“That’s it?” you ask. “You really think sending me away fixes anything?”

“I’m not doing this again,” he snaps. “I’m not bringing another unknown into the clan. Not after…” He stops himself, jaw clenched. “Eywa doesn’t send signs anymore. Not for me.”

“That’s not what I’m asking,” you say sharply. “I’m not asking you to believe in signs. Or destiny. Or whatever you think Neytiri believed in.”

His head snaps toward you, fury in his eyes hearing her name from your mouth.

“I’m asking you to think.”

“You think I don’t?” he fires back. “You think I haven’t thought myself sick trying to protect what’s left?”

“You’re protecting ghosts,” you say. “And you’re doing it alone.”

He stiffens.

“They took Jake Sully in once,” you continue, voice steady but fierce. “Not only because Eywa chose him, but because he learned. Because he listened. Because he fought for his place.”

“That was different,” he says immediately.

“Was it?” you challenge. “Or did someone take a risk on you when you didn’t deserve it yet?”

His silence is answer enough.

“I can help,” you say. “I have information. I know how they think. And if you send me away now, you’re wasting that.”

Jake looks at you like he wants to argue.

Like he wants to walk away.

Like he’s terrified you might be right.

“I need to think about this,” this is all he says before dismissing you.

With a sigh, you hop off the boat and head back toward the base. The water around you is warm, glowing softly beneath the surface, bioluminescence blooming with every movement you make. It lights up the night in gentle blues and greens, alive and beautiful.

It betrays how you feel inside.

Still, it brings you comfort.

You know you have to tell them. You know it has been too long since you last recorded a proper video log. You keep pushing it away, letting the days blur together. That is a problem for tomorrow.

Tomorrow always is.

Waking up is agony.

Pain runs through your limbs, sharp and pulsing in a way that makes your breath hitch. What is usually dull and distant now feels immediate, overwhelming, like your body is protesting the separation more loudly than ever before.

You groan, reaching one hand weakly out of the link chamber, fingers curling as you gesture for water.

The scientist nearest to you moves quickly, pressing a cool glass into your hand along with a couple of pain relievers.

Lara.

She has always been good to you. For the longest time, she saw you as you, not just the avatar or the project attached to it. You were around the same age, and she was young enough when everything started that she never developed the strange, half-maternal instincts the others did toward the gestating body.

“Thanks,” you murmur after swallowing the pills and draining the glass.

“Of course,” she says easily, smiling as she reaches out a hand to help you up.

You take it, stifling another groan as you rise to your feet. The room tilts for a moment before settling.

“You haven’t done a video log in a while,” she says gently. “I think it might help.”

You meet her eyes, skepticism clear on your face.

She just shrugs, already turning away.

You knew this was coming.

Lara had been a friend once. Now she is who they send to make sure you comply. The realization sits heavy in your chest. You really are alone here.

Jake Sully’s face flashes through your mind, the raw grief in his eyes as he sang into the waves. The sound of it lingers in your head. You feel drawn to him in a way that makes no sense, like he would understand something about you that no one else ever has.

With a sigh, you give in.

You record the log.

You should be sleeping. You are exhausted, barely holding yourself upright. That is how it slips. You ramble, words tumbling out without their usual careful filtering. Jake Sully this. Jake Sully that. You finally met him. You talk about the water, about the song, about how lost he looked.

You do not stop yourself.

You finish the recording and go straight to bed, unaware of what you have just given them.

You're shaken awake.

Hands on your shoulders, fingers pressing too firmly, voices too close and overlapping. Your heart jumps as you bolt upright, breath sharp and uneven, the room spinning as sleep fractures into panic.

Lara is there.

Smiling.

Too brightly.

The rest of the scientists stand clustered around your bed, bodies forming a loose semicircle, faces intent and expectant. No one looks surprised that you’re disoriented. The room feels suddenly too small, the air too thin, like it’s being pulled out from between them. They’re holding things, tribal clothing folded with careful hands, woven wraps, fresh fruits beaded with condensation, sealed flasks of water.

Things your avatar would need if headed outside.

If headed to them.

“We need you up,” someone says, already stepping closer. “We need you ready.”

“For what?” you ask, your voice rough with sleep, throat dry and aching.

Lara exchanges a glance with the others before answering, her smile never quite fading. “We have to celebrate,” she says, carefully. “And then, we think it’s time you speak to the Metkayina directly.”

The words don’t land right.

“What?” you say slowly, the fog in your head sharpening into something colder.

“You’ve been observing long enough,” another scientist adds, impatience bleeding through their tone. “This is what the avatar was bred for.”

Your stomach twists, a slow, sickening pull.

Something is wrong.

They usher you out of bed before you can protest, hands guiding at your elbows and back, steering you down the corridor toward the main control room. No one answers your questions directly. No one holds your gaze for more than a second or two. Their excitement buzzes under their skin, thick and contagious, but it makes your chest tighten instead of lift.

They begin gathering more supplies. A large waterproof duffle is thrown onto the floor, its sides bulging as various random items are shoved inside. Cables, scanners, ration packs, things no one really needs all at once. It’s almost bursting at the seams.

Your fellow scientists gesture you toward a long table covered in human delicacies you don’t get to see often anymore. Cheeseburgers wrapped in paper gone translucent with grease. Fries piled high and steaming. Hot dogs lined up neatly. A giant white-frosted cake sits in the center, untouched, pristine.

Being so far from the main base, you haven’t had anything like this in a long while.

It doesn’t comfort you.

It makes you extremely suspicious.

And then you see it.

Your video log is pulled up on one of the screens.

Paused mid-sentence.

Your breath leaves you in a quiet rush. You remember what you said, soft and unguarded, words slurred with exhaustion. Talking about Jake. About the way he sings, low and broken, like he’s holding himself together by habit alone. About how he looks like someone who has already lost everything and keeps going anyway.

You feel cold.

That is when it clicks.

They aren’t asking.

They are using you.

You are not a liaison. You are leverage. Proof of concept. An experiment that finally worked.

Your chest tightens as the truth settles in, heavy and suffocating. You are not human here. Not really. You are a body they designed, a bridge they want to cross without consequence.

You step back.

“No,” you say quietly, the word barely more than breath.

They barely hear you.

You step away again, then turn and practically run toward the communications room. No one stops you. They’re too hyped, too busy reveling in what they think is coming, in the fact that their experiment finally paid off.

Rushing into the com room you gather portable radio equipment, which is tapped into the RDA system subtily enough they don’t even know you’re listening. This is your in, the thing you can offer, protection in knowing what’s coming.

You gather it in your arms and dash to your room.

Back in your quarters, you move fast, heart pounding so hard you feel it in your ears. You grab what you can with shaking hands. Portable scanners. Early-warning devices. Anything that might detect movement in the water, anything that could give the Metkayina even a moment’s notice.

You pace as you work, breath shallow, muttering to yourself.

“What do I even say,” you whisper. “To Ronal. To Tonowari. How do I explain this without sounding like—”

A distant sound cuts through the hum of the base.

A vibration ripples through the water beneath your feet, so deep and powerful you feel it in your bones before you hear it. You know where it came from instantly.

You know what it came from.

Your blood runs cold.

You rush outside just in time to see it breach too close to the reef. A tulkun’s massive body breaks the surface awkwardly, restrained, a large buoy keeping it half above the water. It thrashes weakly, movements uncoordinated, wrong.

You hear it echo again, it’s practically screaming in pain for help.

There is shouting in the distance.

Shouting rises in the distance. The Metkayina respond fast. Spears flash in the moonlight. Ilu scatter as the water churns, the clan converging in a desperate attempt to help the beautiful creature.

But not before damage is done.

The Tulkun goes silent, stranded on the beach, away from it’s pod.

It dies, alone and in pain.

You feel it’s loss rack through you.

You stand frozen, watching the water settle, knowing with absolute certainty that this will not be the last time.

They are coming.

And if you don’t speak now, if you don’t warn them properly, more will follow.

You grip the equipment tighter and turn back toward the sea.

You know where you need to go.

As you exit your room, Lara intercepts you.

She steps into your path too smoothly, like she’d been waiting.

“Heading out without tasting your cake?” she asks lightly, glancing back and forth between you and the rest of the scientists. They look confused. Worried.

They think you might run off.

They can’t know you are doing exactly that.

“Keep it cold for me, will you?” you say, forcing a small smile. “I’m eager to head out, show that I can be useful.” As you speak, you gesture toward the window, toward the water beyond the glass.

Toward the mourning Metkayina gathered below.

They move slowly, reverently, guiding the tulkun’s body back toward open water, toward where it can rest in the arms of the Great Mother. The glow of the sea seems dimmer around them, subdued, as if the ocean itself understands loss.

Lara follows your gaze. Her smile falters for just a moment before she nods. “We’ve packed offerings for you to bring,” she says, gesturing toward the large duffle waiting nearby.

With a practiced smile, you grab the bag and drag it toward where your avatar is resting.

You’ll grab it now.

You’ll discard it later.

Once you’re free.

Once you’re out of here and among the clan, you don’t know how long you can go without switching back into your human body. The thought claws at you, sharp and panicked.

You’ll stay awake as long as possible to stay away from them.

From the people using you.

The people who don’t see you as Na’vi nor human.

Just a tool.

Quickly, you pack the radio equipment and other devices into a small waterproof backpack, checking seals twice with trembling fingers. This is all you need. Everything else is noise.

You’re ready.

As you lay back into the link pod, the familiar coolness wrapping around you, your thoughts race. You rehearse words in your head, arguments and pleas layered over one another.

What you’ll say.

How you’ll convince them.

You know what you can ask.

You hope Jake won’t interject.

You just hope they’ll like what you’re offering in return.

The link connects.

You stifle your cry of pain.

Everytime you link it gets harder.

Your limbs are on fire, tiny pins prickle behind your eyes.

You still, let the pain wash over you.

Then.

You open your eyes.

The body that has always felt like home feels more like a cage now, limbs heavy with urgency, skin humming with borrowed life. You grab the supplies and slip out through the hatch, movements quick and purposeful.

A group of ilu drift.

Yet, they don’t pass you.

They slow, hovering nearby, curious eyes tracking your movements.

“Thank Eywa,” you whisper under your breath.

You sink into the water and float closer to them. They don’t scatter like normal. No sudden flicks of tails, no sharp turns away.

Slowly, gently, you raise a hand toward the nearest one.

It cocks its head, studying you.

You know what you must look like, some odd Metkayina figure weighed down with human-made luggage, out of place even in your own skin.

You drop the big duffel behind you on the platform and adjust the backpack on your shoulder.

The ilu inches closer.

Holding your breath, you reach out and try to pet its head.

It freezes.

For a long, terrifying moment, neither of you move.

Then it accepts your touch.

You exhale shakily.

Taking the win, you lift your kuru slowly.

And bond.

The connection blooms gently, careful and curious. There’s confusion there, a sense of unfamiliar thought patterns brushing against instinct, but also warmth. Welcome.

“Let’s go,” you whisper.

Together, you make your way toward the village.

Seeing the village up close is mesmerizing. The marui rise gracefully from the water, woven and curved like living things. Soft sand beaches glow under the bioluminescence, clear rippling water brushing against the shore in quiet rhythms.

A large Metkayina approaches you.

You know who this is immediately.

“I see you,” you say in their language, bowing your head.

He cocks his head slightly, studying you.

“I seek uturu,” you add, your head still bowed.

“Lift your eyes,” he says.

Slowly, you do.

“What’s with everyone seeking uturu these days,” he mutters, clearly not meant for your ears.

You bite back a laugh despite yourself.

“Why have you come?” he asks, directly now.

“I want to learn your ways. I want to help. In return, I seek shelter…a place to be safe.” You try to sound confident, but your voice betrays you, trembling with anxiety.

“Are you not of a neighboring clan?” he presses. “Has your village been burned? You rode an ilu here. What do you mean, teach?”

The questions come one after another, sharp and relentless.

Your offering might not work.

You might have to reveal all your cards.

That thought terrifies you most of all.

“I am not from near,” you say carefully. “I bring gifts. Things I found in old RDA bases, things that can warn you of danger before it happens.” You gesture to the bag on your back.

He looks at you then.

Really looks at you.

His gaze sharpens.

He knows.

He absolutely knows.

You’re fucked.

“We do not touch metal, friend,” he says slowly. “You should know that...Maybe you have lost the ways. Maybe you are right to seek guidance.” As he speaks, more of his people begin to gather around you, a loose circle forming in the sand.

Then.

Ronal strides across the sand.

Tsahik.

The crowd parts instinctively for her, bodies shifting, whispers dying the moment she steps forward. She doesn’t speak at first. She just looks at you, sharp eyes dragging over every inch of your body with practiced precision.

Then her hands are on you.

Not rough. Not gentle either. Clinical. Assessing.

She circles you slowly, fingers brushing along your arms, pressing into muscle, tracing the lines where fins meet skin. Her touch lingers there longer than comfortable, thumb rubbing at the smaller membranes as if weighing their usefulness.

“These are wrong,” she murmurs, not to you, but to herself.

Her hand slides to your shoulder, then down your side, palm flattening briefly over your ribs as if feeling for structure beneath the skin. You hold your breath, terrified that she might feel something that doesn’t belong.

She moves behind you.

Your tail is next.

She grips it firmly, lifting it slightly, testing the weight, the flexibility. Her brows knit together as she runs her fingers down its length, noting how thin it is, how it tapers differently than it should.

“Too long,” she says quietly. “Too light.”

Your pulse roars in your ears.

Ronal releases your tail only to step back into your space, her hands rising to your face. She tilts your chin upward without asking, forcing you to meet her gaze. Her eyes flick between yours, sharp and searching, as if expecting to find something else staring back.

She leans closer, examining the bridge of your nose, the shape of your jaw, the subtle angles that don’t quite match.

Her fingers move to your ears, tugging one gently, checking the cartilage, the curve.

Then your hands.

She takes one, turning it palm up, her thumb pressing against each finger in turn. One. Two. Three. Four.

She pauses.

Your heart stops.

She flips your hand over, checking again, then repeats the process with the other. Satisfied, or at least momentarily appeased, she lets your hands drop.

She circles you once more, slower this time.

Her gaze sharpens as it drifts toward your upper arm, toward where the faintest scar hides beneath the glow of your skin. Her fingers hover there for half a second too long.

You pray.

She withdraws.

“You are odd,” Ronal says at last, straightening. Her voice carries easily across the gathered crowd. “Different.”

She studies you one final time, head tilting slightly, as if rearranging pieces in her mind.

“What is your parentage,” she asks, “and what clan claims you?”

Silence stretches.

The air feels tight, heavy with expectation.

You open your mouth.

Nothing comes out.

And then the sound of rushing footsteps cuts through the moment.

Jake Sully is charging toward you.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

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Part One Part Two

Tag list:

@strawbaerriesvt

@thatgirljas13

@krys0210

There you are, standing on the beach, trying to defend yourself to the clan.

The sand is cool beneath your bare feet, damp from the tide, clinging to your skin as if even the shore is reluctant to let you go. You can feel eyes on you from every direction, heavy and sharp, curious and suspicious all at once. The murmur of the clan presses in, low voices overlapping, a wall of sound you can’t quite make out but feel all the same.

Then there he is, marching up with a vengeance, shoving through the gathered bodies like the ocean parting around a rock.

Jake Sully doesn’t look at you at first. His jaw is tight, shoulders rigid, his stride purposeful and angry. You recognize that look. You’ve seen it on soldiers before, on men who think they’re walking toward a problem they can eliminate.

“Jake Sully, do you know this Na’vi?” Tonowari says, confusion clear in his voice as his gaze flicks between the two of you.

“They are no one of consequence, and they are leaving now,” he says, already reaching for you, his hand firm as he starts to usher you away.

You won’t stand for this.

He doesn’t get to choose. Tonowari and Ronal do.

You step out of his grasp, the sudden movement sharp enough to draw a few gasps from the crowd. His fingers brush empty air, and the tension spikes immediately.

“I am a scientist. I am here to help and protect what humans have destroyed,” you say, forcing the words out evenly, trying to project confidence you don’t actually feel.

Your heart is hammering. Your mouth is dry. You’re very aware of how small you feel standing here, alone, but you keep your spine straight anyway.

Tonowari goes still, his expression thoughtful as he glances toward Ronal.

Ronal glares at you.

“You seek to ‘protect’ what your people have destroyed,” she says, the sneer unmistakable, her lip curling as if the words themselves taste foul.

“They are not my people. They see me as a test subject, not a person. I do not care for them, and they only wish to possess me.”

Your voice shakes despite your effort to steady it. Ronal’s features soften just a touch, the sharpness in her eyes easing as you continue. You explain to them what you explained to Jake. How they experimented on you. How they chopped off two of your fingers as a child, while you were awake, so the pain would force the body’s healing response to activate faster. How you lived two lives that feel separate from each other but are forever intertwined, neither one fully your own.

The beach grows quiet.

Ronal and Tonowari listen. Ronal’s face continues to soften as she takes you in properly now, really seeing you. She sees your pain. Sees that the humans were cruel to you just as they were cruel to her people.

Tonowari keeps looking between you, Jake, and Ronal, clearly weighing the consequences of every choice. As you’re speaking, Ronal lifts her palm.

You stop.

You dare not take even a breath.

“If you are to stay here, you must prove you are different, prove you can learn.” She looks you deep in the eyes. “Can you do that?”

“Yes,” you say, the word coming out breathy, fragile.

You can’t believe it.

You did it.

“You will stay with the others like you. Jake, take them to your marui.”

You turn your face and see Jake stiffen. Sweat runs down his brow, and his fists twitch as he clenches them. He looks like a warrior ready to pounce.

She turns on her heels and walks away, disappearing toward what you assume is the Tsahìk tent.

Your thanks die on your tongue as Jake’s hand clamps around your arm, his grip bruising.

“Tonowari, they will only bring more hurt to the clan. They cannot stay,” he says, his voice as hard as the pressure digging into your skin.

“My mate has spoken,” is all Tonowari says before gently patting Jake’s shoulder and following after Ronal.

Jake starts silently tugging you through the village.

You barely resist, too overwhelmed to do much more than stumble along behind him. Your gaze darts everywhere as you finally enter the village you’ve dreamed of, always just out of your reach.

The murai arch overhead, their structures both sturdy and fluid, shaped as though grown rather than built. Sunlight filters through their woven canopies, painting the ground in shifting patterns that ripple with the breeze.

The air smells of salt, living water, and something faintly sweet you cannot name.

It is beautiful.

Achingly so.

For a moment, you forget the pain in your arm. Forget Jake’s anger. Forget the humans waiting behind you.

You have never felt closer to where you were meant to be.

Jake finally stops, turning toward you with an expression carved from equal parts fury and exhaustion.

“You just don’t know when to quit,” he mutters.

Pulling into his, now also your, Murai you see them.

The structure feels lived in, warm in a way you’re not used to. Woven fibers creak softly as you step inside, the water below reflecting faint bioluminescent light up onto the curved ceiling. It smells like salt, like home, like something you’ve been chasing without realizing it.

The infamous Sully children.

A small girl ducks behind another girl, this one older, taller, with dark hair and features that stop you dead in your tracks.

She looks achingly familiar.

Your breath catches before you can stop it.

You step forward without thinking, too fast, too close, and gently grasp her face, tilting her head side to side as if confirming something fragile might vanish if you look away.

This is Dr. Grace Augustine’s child, you know it instantly.

The realization is immediate, bone-deep. It feels impossible and inevitable all at once.

You didn’t know where Grace has been but you know she can help you, you also selfishly miss her.

Miss Grace. Miss her voice, her sharpness, the way she saw you when no one else bothered to. This feels like touching a ghost.

“You look just like your mother,” you say in almost a reverent whisper as you step back to look at her.

Your voice comes out softer than you intend, like speaking too loudly might break the moment.

“You knew my mother?” She says this with a slight gasp.

Her eyes widen, something fragile flickering there, hope and fear tangled together.

“She is the greatest scientist I’ve ever worked with, where is she I’d love to speak with her.” You say with an excited grin.

She steps back her features falling, “She’s dead.” She almost whispers it but you catch it.

The word lands heavy. Final.

For a moment everything goes quiet, the Murai fading to a dull hum as the weight of it presses down on you. The loss of someone you knew, someone you admired, someone who treated you like a mind instead of a specimen. The loss of one of the only people who could have helped you with your issue. The last thread of certainty snapping.

The practical loss hurts almost as much as the emotional one.

You swallow it down.

You have had too much practice at that.

Still, when you look at her, you see the immense grief in her eyes, the kind that settles early and never really leaves. You recognize it too well.

It mirrors something in you, raw and unhidden.

You take a knee so you are face to face with her, lowering yourself deliberately, making yourself smaller, less threatening.

“What’s your name,” you say with a gentle smile.

“Kiri,” she mumbles.

Barely audible.

“Well Kiri, you are just as beautiful as your mother, and I’m sure just as smart,” you say, trying to get her to meet your eyes, trying to give her something solid to hold onto. Trying to pass something on. Something Grace would have wanted her to hear.

She looks at you then, really looks at you, studying your face the way children do when they are deciding whether someone is safe.

After a moment she uncrosses her arms and gives you a small smile, tentative but real.

She opens her mouth to say something, but before she can, the little girl runs up to you with a grin that seems entirely unaffected by the tension in the room.

“I’m Tuk,” she says.

“Hello Tuk, you are also very beautiful,” you grin as she hangs off of you, all limbs and laughter and warmth.

Her weight is grounding. Easy.

A boy walks in then, a human boy with blue stripes, and behind him you see the other Sully boy.

The shift in the air is immediate.

“Dad who the fuck is this,” the Sully boy says as soon as he spots you.

The words land sharp and unapologetic.

You stand and reach out a hand on instinct, the same gesture you have used a thousand times in labs and briefing rooms, an offering of neutrality.

He walks right past you.

“Who is this and why is she here,” Lo’ak marches straight up to his father.

“Woah woah, I don’t want her here either Lo’ak, Towanari requested we take her in,” Jake says, and you freeze.

Some part of you hoped he would be happy you were here.

Or at least neutral.

Or just…not this.

Or that the conversations you shared, the honesty, the strange understanding, had meant something.

You feel something break inside you. The moisture from the ocean on your skin no longer feels cooling. It suffocates you and presses in on your body and in your lungs.

You wonder whether the secret conversations in which you both shared worries and deep fears meant anything to him.

Your face wants to fall, instead, you plaster on a smile, muscle memory taking over. The muscles of your cheeks fighting back.

“Well Jake, Lo’ak, you’re stuck with me now whether you like it or not, we can be professional or just ignore each other, I would prefer the former but it’s up to you.”

Your smile drops immediately after. The tense muscles unable to hold onto the lie any longer.

You stand there with a stone cold professional stare, walls snapping back into place.

Then you turn back to the girls.

A real grin stretches across your face.

“Can you girls show me around the village, might as well start learning early.”

Kiri and Tuk smile and grasp your hands, pulling you out of the Murai, their worlds tumbling over each other as they talk about all the things they are going to show and teach you. Their voices overlap, excited and bright, a flood of sound that fills the hollow spaces inside you.

You turn your face one more time to look back.

Lo’ak’s face is twisted with frustration as his father most likely tells him all the necessary details like a war commander.

Your day is long, but rewarding.

The girls first help you learn to free dive.

You are not the worst at it. Training to work in the primarily water-filled parts of the planet meant you had taken a couple of courses in your human body, but your avatar body is something else entirely. Your lungs hold air for far longer, the slow release of breath as you descend becoming almost unnecessary the more times you dive.

Muscle memory translates surprisingly well.

Your avatar body is amazing.

It listens. Responds.

The water feels like it is made for you.

After a while of diving and gathering, Tuk drags you to shore. She wants to show you how to weave.

She says your clothes are too plain.

She’s not wrong.

To be fair they’re woven from manmade materials instead of the living breathing threads of Pandora.

You let her scold you for it. A smile fights its way on your face as you watch her little face scrunch in mild anger.

You spend the rest of the day with the girls on either side.

They don’t let you drift.

They talk constantly, about home, about how they ended up here, about Neteyam and Neytiri, about the rest of the stubborn males left behind. It is nice to have constant chatter around you. Your heart feels full, being accepted by these two girls, especially knowing you will never see Grace again, but you carry a part of her with you.

You listen more than you speak.

It’s nice to have constant chatter around you.

Nice not to think.

Eventually the eclipse comes and the girls bring you back to the Marui.

The light shifts, the world dimming into blues and purples.

The boys are already in their hammocks.

They don’t look at you.

A hammock has been moved to the very corner of the room and you know that’s yours.

They do not trust you.

They may never trust you.

You accept it. for what it is.

You help Tuk into her hammock, tucking her in carefully. You give Kiri a hug and thank her for being so welcoming. Then you stride to the darkest side of the tent and lay down.

Your eyes close, but your mind refuses to follow.

Opening them you stare at the dark corner you’re in.

Shadows stretch and breathe. The air stale and lacking of warmth.

You don’t want to sleep, you don’t want to go back to your frail body, you don’t want to see the scientists ever again.

The thought alone makes your stomach twist.

If it was possible to move your body to a new location you would.

Disappear. Run.

But the only people who could help you wouldn’t, and you know that, and that hurts.

More than you let yourself feel.

You sit up, deciding sleep will not take you.

Not tonight.

Climbing out you silently creep to the edge of the dock outside the Murui and dangle your legs in the water.

The cool shock is grounding.

Beneath you is a rainbow of bioluminescence.

Living light.

You watch small schools of fish-like creatures swirl around your legs before swimming away.

Unafraid.

The ocean is calming, but grief tends to stick.

It always does.

Slow silent tears run down your cheeks.

Uninvited. Unstoppable.

Your face is still, but they won’t stop coming.

You don’t wipe them away.

You’re alone again.

That truth settles heavy.

You thought you would be seen in this family of stragglers.

Recognized.

You were wrong.

The realization stings.

The last spark of hope dies in you.

Quietly.

You’re trapped, again.

Just a different kind of trap.

One that almost fooled you.

The thought settles heavy in your chest as you sit on the edge of the dock, legs dangling uselessly over the water. The night air is cool against your skin, the ocean below alive with soft pulses of bioluminescence that bloom and fade with every small movement. It should be beautiful. It should be calming.

Instead, it feels like a reminder of everything you cannot escape.

“Not tired?”

You jump out of your skin as you hear Jake’s voice behind you.

Your heart slams painfully against your ribs, breath hitching as your shoulders tense, fingers curling instinctively into the rough weave of the dock beneath you.

“Why does it matter, you don’t have to worry about me killing you in my sleep if I’m out here. That is why you stuck me in the corner right? Tactical planning”

The words spill out sharp and defensive, edged with something brittle and ugly that you do not bother trying to hide.

Your defenses rise immediately, creating a wall.

It is easier to snap, easier than continuing to cry and letting him see just how vulnerable you are, hunched over the water with tears still threatening to spill. Anger is safer. Sarcasm is safer.

The walls hurt to put up.

They always do.

The first person to have an honest conversation with you in years is someone who despises you. Someone who sees you as a risk, a liability, something that could hurt his family if left unchecked.

Yet he spoke so honestly to you the first time you met.

The memory stings now. It makes your chest ache.

So, the walls must stand.

They have to.

You hope he is here to tear them down.

You know he isn’t.

He sits beside you then.

Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, but not touching. The dock creaks softly beneath his weight, the water lapping quietly below. You brace yourself, waiting for the jab, the reprimand, the dismissal.

It does not come.

You thought he would jab back, he doesn’t bother.

That surprises you more than anger would have.

“I’m also not the best at sleeping, marine thing, want to make sure my family is safe,” he says, staring out into the water.

His voice is low, steady, not defensive. Just honest.

“You don’t have to worry about me. Jake the big strong warrior, Toruk Makto, used to be marine. I’m just a scientist. A small unimportant creature in a world full of important ones like Toruk Matkto. A scientist who will leave and never come back if you ask me to.”

You say it staring at your feet in the water, watching the glow ripple around them, distort them, make them look like something unreal. Your voice is quieter now, exhaustion seeping through the cracks in your defenses.

He looks at you then.

Really looks at you.

Not past you. Not through you.

“You would give up that fast?”

The question catches you by surprise. There is no accusation in it, only curiosity.

You turn to see his face, brows drawn together, eyes searching yours.

“Jake, I gave up years ago, I didn’t come here thinking it would work out. I came here because it was the only thing I could do. I lost my will when I lost my bodily autonomy. The minute they forced me back and forth no matter the pain, no matter how fucked up it is to be a child as a full human adult. I knew it was over.”

Your gaze never leaves him.

You need him to hear your words.

Really hear them.

You need someone. Anyone. To feel your words, to understand the pain you have grown numb to through repetition and survival. You feel like, if anyone, he really might be able to understand.

Jake inhales slowly, a confused look crossing his face.

You pause. He might’ve understood too much.

He seems to have caught something, his marine instincts kicking in, picking apart everything you said with surgical precision.

You still, heart pounding.

Tracing back through what you just said, repeating it in your mind, you cannot fathom what minute detail he might be latching onto.

“It was painful to switch back and forth?” he asks, quiet, probing.

“Um…yes?” you say. Emotionally is what you meant…

“Emotionally or physically,” he says a little louder.

Your face says it all.

You did not realize you had revealed that much. You did not realize you had revealed anything at all. Sure, you had thought about telling him someday, or telling him just enough to bring you to his unknown base of scientists, but you did not think saying this little would make it so apparent.

“It physically hurts to go back and forth?” he repeats.

“Um…yeah actually, pretty badly,” you fold instantly, tension draining from your shoulders as the truth leaves you exposed.

“It shouldn’t,” he says.

“Yeah no shit I know that,” you respond weakly.

“Does your team know?” he continues, relentless now.

“No…kinda…it doesn’t matter Jake they won’t care,” you say, exhaling sharply.

He grabs your shoulders then.

Sudden. Firm.

“I need you to tell me everything, be very specific.”

“Um why,” you try to shake off his grasp but it is firm. He is starting to get your hopes up and that is dangerous territory.

“I’ll talk to some scientists, to Norm, I can bring you to him,” he says. He sees something he can fix, and he is latching onto it.

“You know Norm?” you say.

He freezes and repeats the same thing back to you, “You know Norm?”

“Of course I know Norm, he was the batch ahead of me, he was like my…boy scout big brother or whatever… I don’t know if he’ll remember me.”

Jake finally smiles.

And you cannot help but grin back, rather confused, something warm and unfamiliar flickering in your chest.

“I’m going to radio Norm in the morning,” he starts to stand, but you grab his arm.

Instict giving you pause.

“Maybe don’t say my name just yet?”

He looks confused by your request, then simply nods.

He has welcomed you in, sort of.

You are a problem.

A problem that can keep his mind off the other parts of his life. A problem he can actually solve rather than run from.

You are about to say something when you hear it.

Loud beeping.

Wrong.

After a moment, you hear someone seizing.

You and Jake dash back to the Marui.

The human boy, Spider, is in his hammock, seizing. The battery on his pack is dead.

The kids are frantically looking around for what you are sure is a backup mask or battery.

Scanning the room, your eyes catch something glinting in a half-shadowed corner by your hammock.

Without thinking, you dash over and grab it.

It is exactly what they are looking for.

You rush toward the boy and replace his mask, making sure it pressurizes properly and suctions to his face to stimulate airflow.

He takes a deep breath then.

The sound is loud in the quiet space.

His eyes stare up at you. At first he looks confused. And then just grateful.

He reaches out and pats your arm with his own.

You smile and step back, allowing the rest of his family to crowd in and make sure he is okay.

They are a sweet family.

Something in you wishes to be part of it.

You do not let yourself hope.

Hope is weak.

Instead you make a game plan.

_____________________________________________ Let me know if you'd like to be tagged!

Part One Part Two Part Three

Tag list:

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Weeks go by.

You make no progress. You thought you would.

The days blur together, one folding into the next, marked only by tides and training and the quiet, aching awareness that you are still standing in the same place you started. Watching. Waiting. Trying.

Kiri, Tuk, and Spider welcome you now, affectionately.

It is easy with them.

Too easy.

Their laughter fills space you did not realize was empty, their hands tugging at yours, their voices constant and bright. They do not question you the way the others do. They do not look at you like you are something to be measured or weighed.

They just accept you.

It feels strange. But you welcome it...As much as you can.

Jake grows colder each day, focusing on some game plan he won't talk about rather than his family or the issues left behind. You watch it happen slowly, the shift almost unnoticeable at first, then undeniable. He is always thinking, always planning, always somewhere else, even when he is standing right in front of you.

You thought you had made progress.

You thought you had begun to connect again.

You guess you were wrong.

As he grows distant, you grow guilty.

Your goal had been to escape humans using you, and now you feel like you're using this family. The thought settles heavy in your chest, impossible to shake. You take their kindness, their trust, their space, and give them what in return? Half-truths. Careful omissions. A presence that is not fully yours.

Spending time with the girls and Spider is bittersweet.

They see you.

They want you to be a part of their family.

Some part of you feels like they needed someone new to help them get over the loss of their mother and brother. The absence lingers in everything, in the quiet pauses, in the way certain topics are avoided, in the way Tuk sometimes goes still for no reason at all.

You hope to help instead of hurt.

Even if you are using them.

Either way... You have not slept.

Not really.

You passed out once, and the experience of a trigger forcing yourself back into the small, fragile human body almost broke your mind. The sensation still lingers, sharp and wrong, like being crushed into something too small to hold you.

You noticed the scientists have you hooked up to a feeding tube and an IV.

You guess they were worried they would lose their only Avatar driver just when it was getting good.

You do not say anything to them.

You link straight back into your avatar body and promised yourself not to sleep again.

As you sit with the kids, watching them draw in the sand, watching Tuk splash in the shallows of the water, sunlight catching in droplets as she laughs, you still, and you think you are hallucinating.

You think your name is being called.

Over and over.

Soft at first, then louder, insistent.

You blink a couple of times, trying to silence the delerium.

It does not stop.

Instead, a hand clamps around your shoulder and you yet again almost jump out of your skin.

You turn.

It is Jake.

He is saying something, but the words blur together, your mind lagging behind your body. Both of his hands are on your shoulders now, steady, grounding, holding you in place.

His face is flexing and contorting with…concern?

You don't know why. But his expression elicits something inside of you that flutters and warms.

His expression is strained, sharp, frustrated, something tight in his jaw, something unsettled in his eyes.

That's all you remember.

____________________________________________________

When you wake up, you think you are hallucinating again.

The world comes back in fragments, light too bright, sound too distant, your body heavy and uncooperative beneath you.

You think you see Norm above you.

He's not looking at you, instead focused intently on the equipment, hands moving quickly, adjusting something you cannot fully see.

Tilting your head slightly, you see an IV in your arm, cords stuck to different parts of your body, running across your skin, connecting you to machines that hum softly around you.

They are muttering something to each other in hushed, concerned tones.

Jake’s voice is lower now, controlled, but you can hear the tension in it. Norm responds quickly, words clipped, focused.

The Tsahìk is sitting at your side, humming softly, her eyes closed. Here arms hover over you, gesturing in circles.

The sound is low and rhythmic, something ancient and grounding, vibrating gently through the air.

You reach your hand out, slow and unsteady, and set it on her knee.

Her eyes slowly open.

Her facial expression relaxes the moment she sees you.

“They are awake,” she says, then stands to leave, nodding once before stepping out of the marui.

Three heads whip in your direction at once.

They start fussing over you immediately, talking over each other, voices overlapping in a way that feels almost suffocating after the quiet.

You recognize Norm.

You recognize Jake.

There is another man there too, sitting slightly back, holding a tablet, eyes flicking between you and the data in his hands.

“You passed out,” Jake says when they finally pause.

“I did…but, I didn’t go back,” you say.

You start to sit up, instinctively, needing to feel it.

Jake presses a hand to your chest, firm, pushing you back down.

“I told him,” Jake says.

You freeze.

The words hit harder than anything else.

“We found a way to block the trigger in the system that sends you back, we’ve been deliberating over it for weeks, we worried it would have massive side effects. It still might.”

Your heart starts to melt.

Slowly.

Painfully.

He was not ignoring you.

He made you his problem.

He spent all this time trying to help you, trying to solve something you had yet to even ask him to fix.

Tears start to spill down your face before you can stop them.

You sit up anyway, ignoring the protest of your body, and hug him.

Instinct.

Appreciation.

Something deeper you cannot name.

He grunts a little at the sudden contact, caught off guard, but gently pats your back, awkward but not pulling away.

You hear your name come from Norm’s mouth and you turn.

Joy overtakes you at seeing him.

A friend.

A big brother, even.

Alive and real and here.

He had come in his human body, and the difference in size is suddenly obvious as you clutch him tightly, your arms wrapping around him without thinking.

He groans slightly, saying, “I missed you too but you’re going to kill me if you keep this up”.

You release him and giggle a little.

“Sorry.”

Norm is the only human left you might be able to consider a genuine friend.

He starts rambling immediately, words spilling out fast and unfiltered.

Asking you questions.

When did this issue start to happen?

It always had.

Has it gotten worse?

Quickly, but you have grown more used to it.

Have you tried anything to solve it?

Nothing at all.

Had you told anyone?

No.

That is when you tell him the whole story.

Everything.

The experiments. The switching. The pain. The silence.

He sits in shock.

Norm won't stop staring at you.

Not in the clinical way the others used to, not like you are something to be solved, but like he is trying to reconcile what he is hearing with what he knows should be possible.

His hand drags down his face slowly.

“This is…” he starts, then stops, shaking his head. “This is completely unprecedented.”

The word hangs heavy in the air.

Unprecedented.

Unorthodox.

Cruel.

All of it sits there between you, undeniable now that it has been spoken out loud.

Jake shifts beside you, arms crossed, watching Norm carefully, like he is waiting for something solid, something actionable.

Norm exhales sharply and straightens, slipping back into something more focused, more controlled.

“Okay,” he says, quieter now, thinking out loud more than anything. “Okay, so the pain has something to do with the transition, the system is pulling you back before your neural link stabilizes fully, it’s basically ripping you between states. There are many tests that need to be run to actually determine what specifically is causing the issue, but that might just end up being cruel and unusual punishment.”

He gestures vaguely toward the equipment around you, then toward you.

“And now that we’ve blocked that trigger…” he trails off again, eyes flicking to the screens, to the readings still running.

“We don’t know what that’s going to do long term,” the other scientist adds, finally speaking up, his voice cautious. “We’ve stopped the automatic recall, but the system wasn’t designed to hold indefinitely without cycling.”

Norm nods once, jaw tightening.

“But it’s working,” he says, more firmly now. “You didn’t get pulled back. That alone means we’re on the right track.”

You sit there, listening, trying to keep up, trying not to let the hope build too quickly.

Because hope has always come with consequences.

Norm looks back at you.

“We're thinking about relocating your human body,” he says, more directly now.

The words hit differently.

Relocate.

Not monitor.

Not contain.

Move.

“Somewhere safer. Somewhere closer to…where we can monitor you're health,” he gestures around, meaning the clan, the water, the life you’ve chosen.

“But first,” he continues, holding your gaze, “we need to make sure this blockage holds. Right now it’s…temporary at best. If it fails while you’re out here, you could get pulled back without warning. Or worse, you could get stuck in between.”

A chill runs down your spine.

You know exactly what that would feel like.

He keeps going.

“And even if it holds, your body still needs support. Nutrition, hydration, neural stability. We’d have to build something transportable. A system that can stay attached to you, keep your human body alive and your mind anchored in the link without needing a full lab.”

He glances at the other man, then back at Jake.

“That’s not something we can just throw together overnight.”

Silence settles again.

Heavy.

Measured.

Jake’s jaw tightens, but he does not interrupt this time. He is listening, really listening, the way he does when something matters.

Norm softens slightly when he looks back at you.

“We’ll do it,” he says. “We’ll figure it out. But it’s going to take time. Testing. Making sure we don’t make it worse.”

Your hands curl slightly in your lap.

Time.

You have lived your entire life being told to wait.

“For now,” Norm continues gently, “all we can do is monitor you. Make sure the block holds. Make sure there aren’t any immediate side effects.”

You nod slowly.

You understand.

You hate it, but you understand.

Jake shifts beside you again, quieter now, something less tense in his posture than before. Not relaxed, not even close, but not pushing you away either.

Norm reaches out, squeezing your shoulder briefly, grounding.

“We’re not leaving you like this,” he adds, softer. “Not anymore.”

Something in your chest tightens at that.

Not anymore.

It feels fragile.

It feels dangerous.

It feels real.

The other scientist begins packing things up, the hum of equipment slowly lowering as systems are adjusted, readings logged, data stored away for later.

Norm lingers a second longer.

Then he steps back.

“Rest if you can.”

You almost laugh at that.

Rest.

Still, you nod.

One by one, they leave.

The space empties.

The air shifts.

The hum quiets.

And suddenly it is just you.

And Jake.

And the weight of everything that has changed.

Nothing is fixed.

Nothing is safe.

____________________________________________________

Jake is still busy.

You had hoped something would shift after earlier, that maybe things between you would soften, that he would come find you, say something, anything.

He doesn’t.

The rest of the day he spends anywhere but near you.

You need to move on.

He has his reasons.

You repeat that to yourself enough times that it almost starts to feel true.

Spending your nights in the same marui as the rest of the Sully clan is mostly nice.

It has been, at least.

There is a rhythm to it, bodies settling into hammocks, quiet voices fading into the sound of the ocean, the shared warmth of a space that is lived in and real. It has started to feel…safe.

Tonight might be different.

And that worries you.

While you have been spending time with the children, one has still eluded you.

Lo’ak.

He spends his days far out in the water or with Tsireya, always moving, always somewhere just out of reach. When he is in the marui, he is quiet, closed off, eyes sharp and guarded whenever they land on you.

You finally had moved your cot away from the corner.

It felt like progress.

The next thing you saw was Lo’ak storming away, jaw tight, shoulders rigid, disappearing out into the water without a word.

With one problem close to being solved, this feels like the next on the list.

You have noticed, every so often at night, he would wander out.

Quietly.

Alone.

And you decided tonight you would follow him.

You spend the rest of the day resting like Norm said.

Laying in your hammock in the shared marui, staring up at the woven ceiling as shadows shift with the light outside, your body still heavy, still recovering in ways you do not fully understand.

Ronal checks on you a couple times.

She does not say much.

She never does.

But her presence is steady, her gaze sharp and assessing, hands occasionally brushing over your arm or your shoulder, checking without asking.

It is touching to know she considers you someone she is in charge of.

She is not quite affectionate, but she is not cold either.

There is something else there.

Measured.

Careful.

You feel she might pity you.

And that is good enough for you.

As the sun sets, everyone slowly piles in, the marui filling with quiet movement, soft voices, the familiar settling of bodies finding rest.

As the dark fully settles, the ocean outside glowing faintly, you see Lo’ak sneak out.

Silent.

Quick.

You wait only a second before slipping out after him.

Quietly.

At least ten feet behind, using your previous training, stepping where he steps, breathing when the water moves, letting the night cover your presence.

You follow him along the shoreline, past the soft wash of waves, until he stops.

You watch as he kneels at an unsettled patch of sand.

The ground there is disturbed, uneven, like something has been buried and unearthed more than once.

He starts digging.

His movements are rough at first, then more careful as his hands close around something beneath the surface.

He pulls it free.

A broken bow.

It is beautiful.

Worn, but intricately made, carved with patterns you recognize from the forest.

You recognize it instantly.

His mother’s.

He pulls it close to his body, clutching it like it might disappear if he lets go, and begins to hum.

You recognize the song.

The mourning song.

The same one you heard Jake sing.

His voice is quieter.

Unsteady.

His body starts to shake.

Small at first, then stronger, his shoulders curling inward as he folds into himself, pressing the bow against his chest like it might hold him together.

You cannot just watch.

Slowly, carefully, you step forward.

You kneel behind him and drape your body around him, gentle, not trapping, just there.

Warm.

Present.

His shaking pauses.

He tenses immediately.

His head turns sharply, eyes flashing, body starting to straighten as he shoves at you.

“My whole family is gone,” you say gently.

The words land between you before he can fully push you away.

His eyes meet yours.

Really meet yours.

“Earth is dying, as it does famine and disease take over. I became a scientist to fix it, I threw myself into my work. Slowly my family died off. All that was left was my younger brother before I took off into space. I wanted to make a world he could live in. Now I might never know if he’s still alive. I’m all alone. But you aren’t.”

You see it happen.

The shift.

The anger rising fast.

Hot.

Sharp.

He spends some time yelling at you.

The words come fast, messy, tripping over each other.

You don’t know him. You don’t understand how he feels. You don’t understand what it’s like to watch people die in front of you.

Each sentence hits like a wave.

He calls you a liar.

He calls you selfish.

An imposter.

The words are meant to hurt.

And they do.

But you do not interrupt.

You do not fight him.

Slowly, tears start to run down his face.

He tries to hide them at first, jaw clenching, shoulders tightening, but they come anyway, cutting through the anger.

He starts confessing.

Voice breaking.

Saying it is all his fault.

That he went back.

That in doing so he got his brother, and in turn his mother, killed.

The words come out uneven, like they have been sitting inside him too long, festering.

He feels alone.

Because his father can't even look at him.

Can't speak to him like he is his son instead of just a warrior in a platoon.

He doesn't want to be here.

He cannot stand being alive when half of the people he loves are dead or hate him.

The admission hangs heavy in the air.

Raw.

Unfiltered.

You hug him then.

Fully.

Wrapping your arms around him, pulling him in, grounding him the way no one else has.

And he begins to cry.

Really cry.

His body is tense, rigid under your hold, like he is still trying to fight it, still trying to force the tears back.

But they come anyway.

Shaking.

Breaking through him.

You are probably one of the only people he has said all this to and not gotten anger in return.

You let him yell.

You do not yell back.

You do not correct him.

You do not leave.

And something in him needed that.

You break away from him slowly.

Carefully.

Then.

You help him silently re-bury his mother’s bow.

Your hands move together through the sand, smoothing it over, pressing it down carefully, respectfully, like the act itself matters just as much as what is being hidden beneath it. He lingers for a second after it is covered, palm resting flat against the ground.

Then he pulls back.

As you walk back side by side, the distance between you small now, he starts talking.

Quiet at first.

Then more.

He tells you stories about his mother.

About his brother.

His voice shifts as he speaks, the sharp edges softening, grief still there but no longer suffocating him. He talks about how similar they are, how Neteyam carried himself like Neytiri, how he listened, how he never had to be told twice.

How his father probably favored Neteyam since he was a reflection of his mother.

There is no real bitterness in it.

Just something quiet.

Something tired.

He tells you things you cannot help but laugh at, small moments, childhood memories, things that feel normal in a way that almost hurts to hear. You laugh together, softly, the sound strange after everything that just happened.

You try to stifle it as you enter back into the marui.

The space is dim now, filled with the slow, even rhythm of breathing bodies at rest. The woven walls glow faintly from the ocean outside, shadows shifting gently across the ceiling.

You climb back into your hammock carefully, easing yourself down so you do not wake anyone.

The fabric cradles you, familiar now, warm.

Your body finally feels heavy.

Not wrong.

Not forced.

Just tired.

As you listen to everyone’s breathing even out around you, the quiet settling in like a blanket, your mind starts to slow.

The tension drains.

Your eyes close.

Just as sleep begins to take you, you feel it.

A hand on your back.

Warm.

Solid.

Then hot breath near your ear.

Close enough to make your skin prickle.

“Thank you”

A voice you know.

Jake’s.

Soft.

Barely there.

It sends a small, unexpected warmth through your chest.

You blush slightly, even as your body gives in to exhaustion.

And this time, you let yourself drift off to sleep.

_____________________________________________________

Thank you! Lo'ak genuinely just needed someone to listen to him, and I don't have the heart to make Jake seem as heartless as he did in the movie. He'll still treat him coldly as needed for plot but we'll see that he's hurting too, (and call him out when he goes too far). I hope you're enjoying and let me know if you want to be tagged!

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four

tag list:

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@thatgirljas13

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@mildly-good

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@racavalier

@lizzetmv

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