#selfinsert

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.