#tulkun

Jake slowed his Turak down as the two of you approached her. You stood up behind Jake and used his steady shoulder for support. 

“Alzhey!” you called to her, waving as she let out a sound of glee. You laughed and looked down to catch Jake’s reaction. He was smiling wide, mouth slightly agape as he took in the sight of the Tulkun. He looked up to you and grinned widely, happy to see you so overjoyed.

Alzhey had a stone ring pierced through her right head crest and she loved any kind of adornment. She was vain, but kind and thoughtful. You loved her as if she was your blood sister. 

You used Jake's shoulder again as you slid into the water to swim over to her. You grabbed hold of her fin as you had a thousand times and climbed on. You greeted her, “I see you, sister,” you signed with your hands, saying the words alongside the motion so Jake could understand.

His kids were not far behind, all 4 rode ilu’s up to Alzhey’s side and you were excited to introduce them all to her. They had been talking about the Tulkun homecoming for several days as the Metkayina people amped up their excitement. When you had asked if they would like to meet your spirit sister, they had all quickly agreed. Jake in particular said he wanted to meet the Tulkun who was so deeply engrained into your soul and it made your heart melt at the words.

Alzhey let out a sound that told you she meant the same, ‘I see you’.

“How are you?” you asked. 

‘I am well sister. How are you?’ Alzhey replied.

“Very good,” you smiled, still signing out your words.

‘I see you have people with you. A new family?’ Her eyes flicked over each of the Omatikaya Na’vi before landing on Jake.

You stopped speaking and just signed to Alzhey, ‘Yes, I met a man,’ you grinned shyly.

‘A handsome man. Is he kind to you?’ she asked, her concern for you evident.

You nodded vehemently, ‘Very kind. I think I love him, sister.’ you signed back.

“I get the feeling you’re talking about me!” Jake called over. You turned around to roll your eyes at him and he laughed.

"Oh she's talking about you." Lo'ak said with a look of playful disgust on his face. Your eyes widened as you remembered he understood some sign language and Tulkun's language from Payakan.

Tuk giggled then and broke the tension as the Sully's laughed. Despite your embarrassment, you relished in the happy respite from all the fear and discord that had overtaken the clan recently. The Sully’s in particular needed the normalcy.

"Now I gotta know," Jake exclaimed, moving closer to you.

You ignored his words. “This is Jake,” you waved him over and he abandoned his Tsurak to swim over. He stopped a couple feet away from her fin and lowered his head in respect. He laid a hand on her in greeting and Alzhey made a happy sound. 

“She is glad to meet you. She hears of your bravery even below the water's surface,” you said, translating.

You almost missed the way Jake’s cheeks reddened, “I am honored to meet you, Alzhey.” Jake said.

Tuk sunk into the water and started swimming to her father. “This is his youngest daughter, Tuktirey,” you signed and spoke. Tuk reached Jake and you both helped her climb upon the tulkun’s fin. The rest of the kids drew closer. “She is brave like her father, and very smart.” you told Alzhey and Tuk nodded in agreement.

“Hi!” Tuk chirped cheerily, waving excitedly at Alzhey. The tulkun made a sound in response and Tuk smiled in joy.

You moved on to the next closest Sully. “That is Neteyam, the oldest,” you told her, pointing to the tallest child after signing the words.

“Hello Alzhey.” Neteyam gestured the sign for I see you, ever his polite self. Alzhey made a sound of appreciation at the show of respect.

“Neteyam has passed his Omatikaya Iknimaya and Uniltaron trials and has now chosen to undergo the way of the Metkayina. He will be a revered warrior on both land and in the reef,” you smiled proudly at Neteyam and he grinned sheepishly back.

“My name is Lo’ak.” Jake’s youngest son signed for himself. Alzhey said that she was impressed and Lo’ak smiled proudly.

“Lo’ak is very loyal, and adapts well to reef life. He takes after his father in many ways, one being his stubbornness,” you grinned as Lo’ak and Jake both playfully glared at you. “But they both wield it as a virtue instead of a hindrance,” you appealed. Lo’ak shrugged as if he couldn't argue with that.

“And that is Kiri,” you introduce the last Sully child and Alzhey says hello. Kiri waves and swims over. “She has a profound connection with the ocean. She is the Omatikaya tsakarem and is learning much about herbs and Eywa from Ronal,” you explained as Kiri placed a hand on Alzhey’s rough skin.

‘What a beautiful family! They will bring you many happy years.’ Alzhey said and you bashfully translated the words verbally. 

Jake looked up from the water at you and smiled, his eyes pouring every thought and happiness he was experiencing into you. 

“They will, sister,” you signed. “I am already happy,” you smiled and Tuk hugged your legs. 

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It was a small, almost unnoticeable adjustment, but you, despite your exhaustion, recognized the inherent wisdom in it. It was the way the reef moved, the way the fish glided. Then, without another word, without even a glance back, he turned. "Still useless," he muttered to his friends, loud enough for you to hear, a dismissive comment that seemed to contradict the unexpected helpfulness of his earlier words.

They laughed, and Ao'nung rejoined them, leaving you bewildered, a strange mix of frustration and a flicker of curiosity stirring within you. The tip, however brief and gruff, was a gift, and you found yourself staring at the spot where he had stood, a new technique to try, and a new, unsettling curiosity about the Metkayina boy who was supposed to be your tormentor.

Your curiosity about the Metkayina boy, however unsettling, was abruptly cut short. Later that evening, as the twin suns dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in a purple mix, you sat on the edge of your family’s marui, watching the last light fade. Suddenly, a ripple of panic spread through the village. Voices rose, urgent and sharp, carrying the terrifying news: Lo’ak was missing. Your heart seized. You knew, with a cold certainty, that Ao'nung had been involved in Lo'ak's reckless venture beyond the reef.

The fleeting moment of shared understanding on the shore vanished, replaced by a surge of protective fury. How could you have been so foolish as to think he was anything but the bully who constantly reminded your family how "different" you were?   Thankfully, Lo'ak was found, safe but shaken, and after he had been tucked into his bed, exhausted from his ordeal, you sought out Ao'nung.

You found him alone, near the water's edge, staring out at the dark ocean. Your anger, simmering beneath the surface, boiled over. You stalked towards him, your ears flattening against your skull, and pushed him back with a shove that surprised you both."Even though Lo'ak said he did it on his own," you hissed, your voice low and trembling with rage, your tail whipping agitatedly behind you, "I know it was you, fish lips! You led him out there!" Ao'nung flinched at the insult, his eyes widening slightly. He remained quiet, taking your accusations, his usual demeanor replaced by a rare stillness.

He just stood there, letting your words wash over him. His genuine words, soft and unexpected, stole the breath from your lungs. The fury that had propelled you forward, the sharp retorts ready on your tongue, suddenly faltered. You couldn't continue the tirade, not against that quiet, sincere admission. Your ears, which had been pressed flat against your skull, twitched with a frustrated tremor. Instead, with a final surge of lingering anger, you shoved him hard against the rough, woven wall of a nearby marui.

The impact was dull, a thud of wood and fiber, but it conveyed the force of your unresolved rage. You scowled, and your fist shot up, knuckles white, before your hand snapped open, palm facing him, in a quick, furious gesture of Na'vi anger. Your tail, still whipping behind you, lashed once more, a sharp crack against the sand, as you spun on your heel. You walked away, your stride stiff with indignation, heading back towards your family’s shelter.

Ao'nung, still pressed against the wall, watched you go. His eyes, usually so sharp with mockery or teenage angst , softened, tracing the line of your retreating form. He noticed the proud set of your shoulders, the way your forest-dweller clothes, so different from the Metkayina's lighter wraps, swayed with the powerful, angry swish of your tail. A strange, unfamiliar admiration flickered in his gaze.  

You stormed back to your family’s marui, the anger still a hot, bitter taste in your mouth. Your tail lashed, a silent testament to the fury you couldn't fully unleash. As you ducked through the entrance, the familiar scent of your family’s space, a blend of forest earth and the new, unfamiliar ocean air, enveloped you.

Neytiri was there, her eyes, sharp and knowing, immediately finding yours. "Where have you been, ma'ite?" she asked, her voice soft, but her gaze was already piercing through your constructed composure. Your ears, still twitching with residual frustration, betrayed you. She saw the tension in your shoulders, the lingering fire in your eyes. Her hand reached out, gently cupping your cheek, her thumb stroking your skin.

"I… I just needed air," you mumbled, unable to meet her gaze. Neytiri sighed, a deep, resonant sound. "I can feel your anger, my daughter. It burns." She pulled you closer, her embrace a comforting anchor. "Lo'ak made his own choice, to take the blame. It was his decision, and he did it to protect his brother, and to protect the bond that is forming." Her voice lowered, a quiet counsel.

"Do not antagonize Ao'nung. This… this can be a fresh start for the bond between our children and theirs. We are guests here. We must find our way, together." Her words were a balm, even as they asked for a difficult forgiveness. You leaned into her, the heat of your anger slowly beginning to recede, replaced by the weary understanding of your mother's wisdom.The days that followed the incident with Lo'ak passed in a blur of quiet tension and the lingering scent of your mother’s comforting embrace.

You tried to focus on your lessons, on adapting to the reef, but a part of your mind kept replaying Ao'nung’s unexpected apology, a stark contrast to the anger you’d felt. The memory of his gaze as you walked away, that strange, unfamiliar admiration, was a persistent, unsettling flicker. Then, the air shifted. A low hum, a deep vibration, began to resonate through the water, through the very ground beneath your feet.

It was a sound that made the Metkayina children, even the usually stoic ones, practically vibrate with excitement. Whispers turned to shouts, shouts to joyous cries. "They're here! They're here!" You were with Kiri and Rotxo, near the communal fire pit, watching the older clan members prepare for the welcoming rituals.

Kiri’s eyes, usually so calm, sparkled with an almost frantic joy. Rotxo, always amiable, bounced on the balls of his feet. The energy was infectious, pulling you into the collective anticipation.Suddenly, a figure burst into the clearing, their chest heaving, eyes wide with exhilaration. "The Tulkun! They have returned! Our spirit brothers and sisters are here!"  

A roar of jubilation erupted. Children shrieked with delight, adults embraced, and the air thrummed with pure, unadulterated happiness. You felt a thrill course through you, a sense of wonder at this profound connection the Metkayina shared with these majestic creatures.Rotxo, his face alight with excitement, turned to you and Kiri. "Kiri, Y/N! Come! You should come with me! You can meet my spirit brother, he's magnificent!" he offered, his voice brimming with genuine enthusiasm.

Your heart fluttered. To meet a Tulkun, to witness such a sacred bond, was an honor you hadn't dared to dream of. You opened your mouth, a hesitant, grateful "I would—" forming on your lips. But the word died in your throat. A shadow fell over you, and a familiar, deep voice cut through the joyous din, firm and undeniable.

"No."

You turned, your head snapping up, to see Ao'nung standing there. His eyes, usually so sharp with mockery or teenage angst , were fixed on you, a new, possessive intensity in their blue depths. He wasn't looking at Rotxo, or Kiri, but directly at you. "Y/N has already agreed to meet my spirit brother." The declaration hung in the air, silencing Rotxo, surprising Kiri, and most of all, leaving you utterly stunned. You had made no such agreement.

Yet, the unwavering conviction in his blue eyes, the subtle set of his jaw, made it clear he expected no argument.Before you could form a protest, Ao'nung turned, a silent command in his posture. "Come," he grunted, already moving towards the water where the clan's ilu waited, their graceful forms bobbing gently.

You hesitated for only a moment, caught between confusion and a strange, undeniable pull. The sheer audacity of his claim, the public nature of it, left you with little choice but to follow.The air was thick with the joyous cries of the Metkayina, the excited splashing of ilu, and the deep, resonant calls of the returning Tulkun echoing from the deeper waters.

It was a symphony of reunion, and you were being swept into it, not as an observer, but as a participant, by Ao'nung.He chose a large, powerful ilu, its skin a mottled green-blue. With practiced ease, he slid onto its back, his body moving with the fluid grace of a true reef dweller. He then looked back at you, a silent invitation. You approached, feeling clumsy and awkward. As you fumbled to mount the ilu behind him, your hands slipping on its smooth skin, Ao'nung reached back.

His hand, strong and warm, settled firmly on your upper thigh, holding your leg in place against the ilu's side. It was a practical gesture, ensuring your balance, but the contact sent a jolt through you, a sudden awareness of his proximity, of the solid warmth of his palm against your skin.With a soft click of his tongue, the ilu surged forward, diving beneath the surface. The world transformed into a vibrant, shimmering realm of turquoise and deep blue.

You clung to Ao'nung's waist, the water rushing past you, cool and exhilarating. His hand remained on your leg, a constant, reassuring pressure, anchoring you to him, to the ilu, to this new, exhilarating journey. The anger from earlier, the confusion of his declaration, faded into the background, replaced by a burgeoning sense of awe and a strange, undeniable connection as you rode deeper into the reef, towards the majestic forms of the Tulkun, towards his spirit brother.

The ilu slowed, gliding to a halt in the deeper, clearer waters. Before you, a colossal form, shimmering with bioluminescent patterns, rose from the depths. It was a Tulkun, immense and ancient, its eyes holding a profound wisdom. Ao'nung slid off the ilu, his movements fluid, and you followed, dropping into the cool embrace of the ocean.

He swam towards the Tulkun, his face alight with a joy you hadn't seen before, a pure, unburdened happiness that transformed his features. He began to sign, his hands moving gracefully through the water, a silent conversation of reunion and affection. You watched, mesmerized, as the Tulkun responded, its massive head dipping, its own fins moving in gentle, sweeping gestures.

Ao'nung turned to you then, his smile wide, his eyes sparkling. He signed something quickly, a flurry of gestures, before reaching out to take your hand. You caught a few familiar signs – this is, friend, my brother – but there was one word, a complex, rapid motion, that you couldn't quite decipher.

As he finished, his ears flattened slightly against his head, and a faint flush of turquoise spread across his cheeks. He looked away for a fraction of a second, a rare moment of shyness from the usually brash Metkayina boy.Then, the Tulkun dipped its head, a silent invitation. Ao'nung grinned, pulling you forward.

With a shared glance, you both grasped the Tulkun's massive fin. Ao'nung, with a playful kick, flipped his body, holding onto the fin from below, facing the shimmering surface above. You, with a surge of courage, settled on top of the fin, your legs dangling, looking down at him. The fin was between you, and your eyes met, a silent understanding passing between you. Your hair, freed by the water, fanned out around your head like a dark halo, mirroring the way his own curly locks spread around him.

You found yourself admiring the strength in his arms, the way his body moved so effortlessly in the water, while he, in turn, seemed to study the delicate curve of your jaw, the determined set of your lips.With a powerful, graceful sweep of its tail, the spirit brother surged forward. The water rushed past you, a cool, exhilarating current. You were flying, not through the air like you once did, but through the ocean, cutting through the depths with incredible speed.

Ao'nung, hanging upside down below you, his joy evident in the wide grin that stretched across his face, let out a silent whoop of pure delight. You found yourself grinning too, a genuine, unrestrained feeling bubbling up inside you. The vastness of the ocean, once so intimidating, now felt like an endless playground.

You felt the powerful rhythm of the Tulkun, the steady, confident presence of Ao'nung, and the sheer, unadulterated joy of being alive, here, in this moment, with them.The light began to fade, the deep blues of the ocean shifting to softer, more muted tones. It was late, time to let the Tulkun rest, to return to their own quiet depths.

With a final, gentle nudge, the spirit brother brought you and Ao'nung back towards the shallows, its immense form slowly receding into the twilight waters. You and Ao'nung mounted the ilu once more, not with the urgency of arrival, but with a languid, contented drift.

As the ilu glided slowly towards the shore, you couldn't contain your excitement. "That was… that was incredible!" you signed, your hands moving rapidly, your eyes wide with awe. "I've never felt anything like it! The way the water rushed past, and his skin felt so smooth, and he was so fast! And the way he moved, it was like he was dancing! And your brother, he's so wise, I could feel it! And you, you were so good at guiding him, and—" You paused, catching yourself mid-ramble, your hands freezing. You glanced at Ao'nung, who had been watching you, a soft, loving expression in his eyes.

He hadn't interrupted, just nodded, a faint smile ghosting his lips as he listened to your excited, breathless signing. A blush, faint but undeniable, spread across your cheeks. You dropped your hands, feeling suddenly self-conscious. "Oh. Sorry. I just got carried away."He shook his head, a silent reassurance, his gaze still warm. The ilu nudged the sandy shore, and you both dismounted, stepping onto the cool, damp sand.

The moon, a sliver of silver in the darkening sky, cast a soft glow over the water. Beneath the surface, the bioluminescent plants pulsed with a gentle, ethereal light, mirroring the faint glow that now traced the patterns on your own skin.You walked to the water's edge, your stride elegant and straight as if you were walking on a branch in the forest, tail swaying softly behind you. You sat on the sand, your gaze fixed on the distant horizon where the sky met the sea.

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.