Untitled

The bags under his eyes told you it wasn't laziness keeping him from the paperwork—it was exhaustion. The kind that came from holding together the infrastructure that kept Bridgehead from becoming a glorified camping trip with guns.

He shifted his weight and rubbed the back of his neck, fingers digging into the knot of stress there. Good man. Tired man. "Sorry, Y/n... Half the admin team's gone."

You sighed through your nose, ears flicking back. 

Of course he hadn't finished. Half of everything was gone now, the resources, the men. Half the point, if you let yourself think about it too long.

You didn't.

After Quaritch's colossal screw-up—the one that left Ardmore in a body bag and scattered the RDA forces like buckshot, you'd been the unlucky bastard promoted to pick up the pieces. Shovel the shit and smile while doing it.

All because Quaritch couldn't keep his dick in his pants and his vendettas in check. All because Ardmore got herself killed trying to clean up his mess.

Most days it felt like holding water in your fists.

"Think of your families," you'd told them, exhausted. "Back on Earth, dealing with all that other bullshit. Make them a home here. You're the pathfinders. The originals.They'll give you land, titles, the whole fucking package when this pays off." You'd leaned in, let your height—this body's height—loom just enough. "Focus on the job."

It had worked. Mostly. People liked being told their suffering had a purpose.

"Thanks, ma'am." Samuel's hand twitched toward a salute before he caught himself, an old habit. "I'll get it to you."

"Yeah." You took another sip,and let the bitter cut of coffee settle on your tongue. It tasted different in this body, everything did. "You do that."

You were easy. That's what set you apart from Ardmore

She was military—came from military—and it showed in every clipped tone, all that rigidity she'd dragged from Earth still locked in her shoulders. 

You weren't like that. You knew what a militia was. Knew it stayed a militia no matter how many star-generals they pinned to their chests or how crisp they wanted the salutes. The force was stitched together from ex-cops, ex-military, ex-something—people who'd left their last lives behind and came here looking for a new one. Or running from an old one, same difference.

You wouldn't force order where it didn't fit, nor would you pretend this was anything other than what it was. That slack in the leash earned you something close to loyalty. Or at least, it kept the grumbling to a manageable pitch.

"Any word from Quaritch?"

You glanced at Wainfleet beside you. Head bald, skin smoothed to a shine. You remembered him paying the sci-ops guys to keep it that way—some chemical treatment so the hair wouldn't grow back. Couldn't stand the thought of stubble creeping back—Didn't see the appeal in the constant shaving, he said.

"Nope." He didn't even look up.

You clicked your tongue. "Fucking figures."

Lyle's grin split wide—an actual grin, the kind that pushed against his eyes. “You’re gonna beat him blue, ma’am?”

You muffled a slow smile. “Nah—purple.”

He laughed again and his hand came up like he might touch your shoulder—hovered there for half a second—then dropped back to his rifle strap instead.

The guy was well-liked across the sector, a proper Pandora veteran, the kind with stories that kept circling back in mess halls and smoke breaks. Everyone knew his name and his face—and you knew well enough that having him at your side lent you borrowed credibility.

Because to put it plainly: You weren't one of them.

You hadn't crawled through boot camp or earned your scars in some dusty colonial firefight. You weren’t a grunt, never bled in some Earth-side military operation. You never even held a rifle except in the training sims they'd made you run through. 

The RDA didn't hire you to shoot blue savages or burn forests. They hired you because you understood how people worked.

That was it.

That was the whole trick.

You'd spent most of your life watching a political science and communications degree gather dust on your wall, and the one time you did use it, you applied it in different ways. Like organizing. Like getting people to listen. Like—eventually—striking against the RDA for fair wages.

You'd been good at it. Too good, maybe.

You'd managed to fuck over their operations back on Europa, enlisted over twenty thousand workers to strike—which sparked others, simultaneously, across three colonies. A domino effect. Beautiful, at least you thought so.

The suits gave you two choices: a bullet or a badge.

You took the badge.

You really should have taken the bullet.

You rounded the hall and stopped.

Varang. Quaritch's girl.

She'd agreed to stay after you'd laid out the terms—RDA would compromise, let her operate with autonomy, provide resources, turn a blind eye to whatever the hell she wanted, so long as she delivered bodies and intelligence. You'd even let her keep Quaritch, despite the fact that the bastard deserved a firing squad for his third catastrophic overreach of authority.

"Shit, forgive me Varang.” The Na'vi left your mouth in textbook precision, the overly formal dialect you'd drilled into yourself. Because barely anyone cared enough to understand na’vi.

Varang stood directly in your path. A head shorter, which meant she had to tilt her face up to meet your eyes. Strange, considering her kinds usual advantage. 

"You are pardoned," she murmured.

The usual smirk was gone. In its place sat something harder to place—a grimace, but you thought it was something uglier.

She didn't hiss, which was what you'd braced for, honestly. The woman had this quality that made your skin prickle between fascination and the goosebumps of hair standing up on your neck. Unsettling and magnetic in equal measure—thats what it was—like watching something beautiful rot slowly. 

You glanced at the queue hung against her shoulder.

You heard about how she lost in the battle, and that loss had carved her face into the youth it was, hidden in some faux confidence. But you could tell, always. Varang didn't say much these days.

Still.

You shifted aside to let her pass, but caught it—the flicker of her eyes tracking down, then up again, and where they dragged, they lingered before leaving.

"I think someone sees somethin' they like." Wainfleet's elbowed you. You cocked a brow, the corner of your mouth twitching despite yourself.

“She looks like she wants to eat me.”

"Two girls eating each other out, count me—"

"Oh, shut the fuck up, Wainfleet."

"Yes ma'am."

.

.

.

You'd see Varang a few more times after that—mostly in the infirmary, where Quaritch was still recovering from his burns. Which, had left him looking wrong. The flesh puckered and raw, wrinkled kinda like an old prune. You watched her trace those marks sometimes, fingers following the scars with a focus that left no interpretation of tenderness and more apathy.

You watched him settle uneasily, even in sleep. Sometimes she'd dig in hard, pressing until the marks flared red and violent again. You wondered what the purpose was. To harm? To feel?

You came upon one of those instances again.

You were just visiting—making rounds through the injured, playing the role expected of you and trying to lift morale by playing the usual smiles, the usual compliments, sprinkled with a few well-placed words. The song and dance you got good at. You liked to think that since you were nicer than Ardmore and more reliable than Selfridge or Quaritch, they responded to you better.

Technically, they did.

"Y/N!" One of the amputees lifted his nub in greeting, waving it like a flag. "You come to visit us again?"

You nodded. Had to crane your neck down, but you settled your weight into a crouch, shimmying forward until you were eye level. "Yes, sir."

A gesture over your shoulder brought the cafeteria workers forward, arms laden with slices of pie and bottles of cheap booze.

"Shit, are we dying?" one said.

Those who could manage it shuffled upright, reaching for the offerings with eager hands.

"It's Thanksgiving on Earth," you lied. Not that they'd know. You helped distribute the forks, metal clinking softly against plastic trays. "And you men deserve some pleasures, yeah? What do you think?"

Several cheers.

You chuckled, folding yourself up again. Your ear twitched at the sound of a muffled gasp, and you glanced back toward the movement. Still had to get used to it—you'd even tied your tail to your calf since it kept hitting people in the face.

And there she was, the witch of the RDA.

Quaritch was deep in sleep, bandaged to the nines, heart monitor beeping its steady rhythm. Varang's fingers pressed into his skin again, nails finding the seams of scar tissue, digging until his breath hitched even in unconsciousness. You frowned. The nurses didn't intervene anymore. The doctors couldn't, really.

What would they do? Threaten her? The eight-foot Na'vi warrior?

"Fuckin' bitch."

You glanced back at the man who muttered it—Corporal Hayes, both legs gone below the knee—his eyes fixed on the glass partition. One of them shook his head, mouth twisted in disgust. "One of their ikrans ate Ted. She hissed at me when I got too close, and Quaritch just scolded her. Like she was a goddamn pet."

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the beds.

Varang and Quaritch were separated into another glass sector. The men wanted nothing to do with him anymore. Three times he'd led good men to their deaths. The first time, he was a martyr. The second time, the men still believed—though murmurs started coming up. The third time?

Three strikes and you’re out.

"Don't call her that." Your voice was firm, already cutting through the low grumbles. "I don't want that language, alright? Not from any of you."

You sighed, moving among them now, to rest a hand on Hayes's shoulder. Gentle, you reminded yourself. Not too much force. They huffed, sullen but obedient like children.

"I know you're all tired. I know you're angry." You paused, and shifted your weight. "Don't have to be in the field to see it written all over you. But we can't let those natives sow discord, yeah? See what happens when you focus too much on those blue monkeys?" You jerked your chin toward the glass partition, where Varang's silhouette loomed over Quaritch's prone form. "That's what happens. So just keep it distant. Impersonal. Shoot them if you have to, but don't make it personal. I don’t want love stories or vendettas. Just the mission."

They nodded, glancing back at the Na'vi woman and her pruned-up man. A few clicked their tongue.

You frowned, shifting your gaze to Wainfleet. He caught it immediately, giving a subtle nod as if he'd already known what you were thinking. He stepped forward, voice low and easy as he picked up the conversation, drawing their attention back.

You grabbed the last slice of pumpkin pie and the remaining bottle of booze, then turned toward the glass separator.

The door hissed open.

Varang's fingers were bloody when you entered, although the door shut behind you, sealing the sterile air of blood inside. She sat hunched beside Quaritch's cot, hands knotted together, tail draped lifeless across the floor. You saw even from your location that her knuckles were split, and underneath the beds, her nails were rimmed dark.

Blood or paint, or just as likely—both.

"Varang,"

You said it the real way. Na'vi on your tongue instead of the clumsy English shape most defaulted to. Ardmore didn’t like using the language, and selfridge couldn’t be bother to know it.

She didn't turn, but her ears flicked. She knew.

“Brought you something.” Her gaze slid sideways and tracked your approach as you settled beside her, weight shifting until you found your spot. 

"Y/n."

Your brows lifted. "You know my name?"

Her lips twitched—something that wasn't quite a smile. She looked back at Quaritch's motionless form. "They say it fondly."

…Strange.

You pushed the pie closer, insistent. "You gonna eat? Not as good as the real stuff on Earth. The spices are genuine enough, but the pumpkin…" The words flattened, You tried again. "It's artificial. But it tastes right."

She accepted it slowly, eyes narrowing. "Why give this to me?"

You shrugged. "You haven't eaten, not since you and him came back." A pause. Your voice dropped. "Come on, let me see you try it."

She went very, very still.

Her pupils dilated.

"You bite first."

Ah. There it was.

You almost laughed. Would've, if her hand hadn't drifted—so casual toward the blade strapped to her thigh. "It's not poisoned. Jesus, Varang. If I wanted you dead, I'd gun you down. Not waste precious chemicals on pastry." You reached beneath her hands and took a generous bite, chewed deliberately, swallowed. Opened your mouth, then stuck out your tongue. "There. Proof. M’ not convulsing. Not even foaming at the mouth. I'm pretty alive, don’t you think?"

Varang frowned. Her eyes traced the baby canines you had—blunt things, rounded at the tips. Nothing like a true Na'vi's.

Cute.

She leaned forward and sniffed, nose wrinkling before she took a cautious bite.

The chewing is what got you. She didn’t seem to like the texture, at least you thought so at first. Her brow furrowed, ears swiveling back as she worked it over her tongue, testing, a hint suspicious. But then she took another bite, and then another. Her tail began to sway, just slightly, or until she noticed you watching and went rigid.

"You stare."

Her ears went flat against her skull.

"It's nice is all."

"Why?"

Quick now—she finished in four more bites then licked her fingers clean. You watched the pink of her tongue catch the flakes of crust, the smear of filling at her knuckle.”

"Well..." You blinked. "Hunger's pretty common on Earth. You see fat humans here 'cause the RDA feeds 'em well. Or well enough. They eat as much as they can. But on Earth? Just about everyone's skin and bones." A whisper now. "It's nice seeing people eat when you’re used to hunger."

Your eyes glazed over, seeing some memory you didn’t voice. Varang saw it, and her tense shoulders slowly relaxed.

Quaritch's monitor beeped.

Beeped again.

That took you out of your stupor. Great. Way to be emotional in front of the woman who probably wants you dead. You stood, knees cracking faintly. "I uh, I gotta leave." You grumbled it in apology. "Enjoy the booze. Grab more if you'd like." You patted her back—and you were moving toward the door when she finally spoke.

"It was like that for my people as well."

You lingered, and although it did not show in your face you felt a jutting bout of empathy, likened by your restrictive trail that wished to sway.

"When the fires came we didn't have anything to eat." Her spine curved inward. You just listened, gave her that space. "I remember the hunters tried, really tried..." She said it slowly, and she too slipped somewhere terrible and unvoiced. "My father did nothing."

Now that—that was pure hate. Her hands became fists. You heard the wet sound of it, the fresh blood welling.

"He prayed," she continued, her voice suddenly became flat. "Prayed to Eywa while we starved. While my mother—" She stopped. "He said it was Her will. That we must accept that balance required sacrifice. As if he was Tsahik and knew the ways." Her laugh became skidded. "The Balance."

You bumped her shoulder.

It startled her—you saw the flinch, but she rolled her expression back defensively. "You did what you did, Varang.” You said simply. "Kept your people alive. Kept them fed. That's what matters." You rose again, and offered something that might've been a smile. You understood, of course you did. Heavy was the head that wore the crown… or something like that. "Good job. I'll check on you and your lover boy, okay?"

Varang just watched.

For a moment—just one—confusion crossed her face. Shadows over clouds. Then she replaced it, smoothing it over with apathy, with that blankness.

But you'd already seen it.

You left her there with the empty plate and the unopened bottle, the door hissing close.

Good job.

When had anyone ever said that to her?

You let the door shut behind you, Wainfleet was already there.

shirtless.

Because of course he was.

He balanced a shot glass on the flat plane of his blue chest—abs flexed, skin gleaming with rampant bioluminescent freckles. The other men had formed a semi-circle around him. God. It was like you were back in college and had just stumbled into aa frat boy ritual.

"Wainfleet! Wainfleet! Wainfleet!" 

Fists pounding rhythm against bedrails, IV stands, anything that would make noise. The chant built and stupid and somehow exactly right for this moment. Someone whistled. You caught sight of one soldier half-hanging off his cot.

Lyle arched until his spine curved like some drawn bow. The glass tipped, amber liquid spilled down the valleys of his chest, pooled in his collarbone, tracing the line of his throat. He opened his mouth and caught it, head thrown back, Adam's apple working.

The room exploded.

"YEAHHHHHH! BOOYAH!"

He snapped upright, arms spread wide, the empty glass held high and empty. His grin was feral. "Who's the dog?! Who!?" He turned in a circle, showing off to his audience. "Come on people! Who?! Who's the fuckin' dog!"

You couldn't help it. A smile tugged at your mouth despite yourself. Stupid. So stupid. But— "You are, Wainfleet. You're a dog."

He spun, ears swiveling toward your voice before the rest of him caught up. His grin went lopsided and sheepish, still riding the high of whatever testosterone-fueled madness this was. "Aw, shit. Teacher's here, boys." He snagged his shirt from where it hung off a chair back, fumbling with the buttons. "Gotta bounce."

Groans erupted around the room.

"Already?" Someone groaned from the back. Martinez, you thought. Hard to tell when they were all piled together like this.

"C'mon, Corp. Just one more round—"

"Turn on the TV at least!" Another voice. Yep, definitely Martinez, whiny as ever. "Nurse keeps shutting the damn thing off."

You folded your arms, leveling them with a look. "Yeah, 'cause you guys fight over it." Your trapped tail flickered, but the tape held it from doing so. "And I do not want to get yelled at by Miss Donna. Again."

Grumbling. Pouting. Grown men reduced to children because they couldn't share a remote. As if they weren't here recovering from a gunfight.

Wainfleet had managed to get his shirt halfway buttoned, though it sat crooked across his chest. He caught your eye and winked. "She yelled at you once and you never recovered."

You rolled your eyes. "She's terrifying."

"She's five-foot-two."

"And she could kill you with a look."

He laughed, the sound low and easy. “Yeah, yeah.” He turned to the men. "Enjoy the pies, guys. Rest well and recover."

You waved. A few waved back, half-hearted. Wainfleet smoothed his shirt down, face settling back into something neutral and military.

He jerked his chin toward the door.

You followed, falling into step beside him as the door swung shut. The earlier sounds of the men were now painfully replaced by the silence, with only the boots of either bodies echoing throughout the hall.

Wainfleet glanced over—rifle shifting against his shoulder. "How is he?"

"Recovering." The word left breezy, lighter than it had any right to. "Wounds keep reopening, but no infections." You kept your gaze forward, tracking the endless grey of RDA hallways. All fucking identical.

I should thank Varang. Any moment when Quaritch is disposed of is a moment I don’t have to worry for his sorry-ass.

"Hm."

He was staring. You felt it crawl up the side of your face, settle behind your ear like an itch you couldn't scratch. There was something he clearly wanted to say. A question, you’d think. But his jaw was kept tight, and his tongue licked his bottom lip only.

You sighed. "I'm not going to kill Quaritch."

He stopped mid-stride, boots scuffing metal, then jogged to catch up. "Never said that."

"You're very expressive."

His ears flicked. "Am I?"

"Devastatingly."

Your footsteps echoed down the corridor—his heavy, yours clipped. The fluorescent lights overhead hummed. One had gone out entirely. Budget cuts, the RDA loved those and you had nothing to replace them with.

"...I don't think Quaritch remembers what team he plays for."

He glanced over his shoulder, voice dropping lower, like someone might be listening. Someone probably was. 

"And the men wouldn't care. Probably celebrate, you know. Bring up morale." A pause. "Teach them a lesson."

Your own words used against you.

You looked up at Wainfleet, keeping the flicker of surprise buried deep. Smart boy. Dangerous, if you hadn't caught it so quickly.

"Wainfleet." You stopped walking. 

He stopped too. 

The hallway stretched behind him. Grey against blue, identical as the previous hallway you just passed—again.

"We're limited in everything right now. We start killing each other, what does that say?" You met his eyes. "’You could be next. Fall in order. This is a lesson.’"

He shifted his weight, towering over you properly now. His gaze dropped to meet yours, and you watched his pupils dilate just slightly. "Is that so bad? They like you enough to know it'd be a one-time thing." His tongue clicked against his teeth. 

His eyes fell to your lips. 

"Who doesn't like you...?"

Softer, that last part.

Oh.

Well, that was new.

You kept your expression blank, turning your attention toward the bridge door at the corridor's end. Beyond that lay the outside. Nighttime now, though on Pandora it was never really night, not like Earth.

"Look." You reached up and took his wrists, lifting them between you. "We're blue. We're Na'vi now, whether we like it or not." You held his gaze. "Kill someone like Quaritch—someone who vehemently hated the Na'vi, then turned to their side—what does that say about us?"

His frown deepened. "We're just as likely to turn."

"Exactly."

You released him. He didn't release you. He caught your hands again before they could fall, fingers threading through yours instead, five against five, and for a moment you felt genuinely surprised. You looked up at him, uncertain.

His voice dropped lower—really low. "...You know I wouldn't let anything happen to you, right, ma'am?" The swallow was visible in his throat. Not cocky confidence now. "You don't gotta worry about a mutiny, not from me or anybody." He squeezed your hands gently. "I'd handle it."

He thought this meant something.

"Careful, Wainfleet." Your voice came out quieter than intended. You pulled away. He let you, though you felt the reluctance with it "I don't fraternize with those below me."

"Ouch." The smile returned—strained, forced back into place like armor. He gave you space, then cocked his head, trying for lightness. "What if I make movements, huh? Go up the food chain, play my cards right?"

"As if." You snorted. "You think The Chairman is handing out promotions? We're lucky if they hand out rations."

He grinned at that—genuine this time. "Yeah, well. Gotta have dreams, right?"

The two of you started walking again. You caught them then—yellow eyes peering around the corner. Watching. Hiding. Like an Owl. You found yourself close to acknowledgment, but stayed silent instead, letting your gaze slide past as if you'd seen nothing at all.

Cute. Varang was stalking.

You preferred to let her think she was being clever.

"Hey," you said, forcing your attention back to Wainfleet. "Where'd you learn that trick back in the infirmary, anyway? The—" You gestured vaguely. "Rib thing."

“College.”

You blinked. "College."

"Yup." He popped the 'p', looking far too pleased with himself. "Why do you sound so surprised?" He shot you a look, mock-offended. "I'm educated. I got credentials."

"Hm." You filed that away too. Another piece of the puzzle that was Lyle Wainfleet. "Surprising."

"I'm full of surprises, ma'am."

You didn't know whether to laugh or sigh. "You're telling me you went from actual college to—" You gestured at him, at the blue skin and the rifle and the sheer absurdity of it all. "This?"

"Life's funny that way." He grinned. "Besides, pays better. And the benefits—" He tapped his temple. "Can't beat immortality."

"It's not immortality if they can still shoot you."

"Pessimist."

"Realist."

The bridge door slid open with a hiss. Cool air rushed in, carrying the scent of wet earth with it. By proxy, the jungle too. Pandora at night—alive in ways Earth would no longer be.

.

.

.

“Exports are down—” Crackle. “---40% this quarter, L/n!”

Your hand found the bridge of your nose. Fifty shareholders or maybe more, all screaming through the comm link, each one convinced their panic mattered most. 

It'd been like this for weeks now. Regular calls to dead rocks. They didn't even give you the benefit of a middle man—some random guy who'd understand your exhaustion, who'd roll his eyes when you did and maybe share a drink over the stupidity of your shared employers.

Nah.

They gave you this instead. Bypassed every buffer, every assistant, every carefully constructed layer of don't fucking call me directly just to scream into your ear at 0600 hours.

"Look, I need to focus on recorporating what was lost," you muttered, keeping your voice level despite the tightness creeping up your spine. "Can't run the machines without people fixing them, defending them, operating them. Send more personnel, then we'll talk numbers."

Static crackled. "Send more people!?"

You were grateful for the audio-only call.

Your head tipped back, fingers pressing into your eye sockets until those strange squigly patterns bloomed behind your lids.

"It takes billions of dollars to send one convoy of people. We sent thousands last time!"

What did you expect? you wanted to say. Think it's so easy? Come over here yourself.

"The indigenous population—"

"The savages, you mean." Another voice cut in, sharper. "Those uncivilized blue aliens—we're losing to what? Sticks and stones? We offered them education, offered peace, and—"

The groan tore out of you before you could stop it. You shoved yourself upright and your skull cracked against the ceiling.

Ngh.

You dropped back into the seat, hissing.

"You blew up their goddamn trees!" The words came louder than you meant them to, hot and jagged. "What did you expect!?" One hand rubbed the tender spot where your head met the popcorn cieling. "You send people with a few nuts rattling in their head and a strange affliction to violence. Course they're gonna retaliate."

Silence stretched across the transmission. You had said the wrong thing—or rather the right thing to the wrong people. You already knew what came next.

"Why did they—"

"That is completely—"

"We should have her removed—"

"You care about your job, L/n?"

That one cut through clean. More measured and calm, and for it, much worse. The Chairman.

"You want to return to Earth?" He continued into a pleasant tone.  You could picture him: leaned back in some leather chair worth more than your yearly salary, fingers steepled. Smiling. "See your family again? Your mother's still on Mars, isn't she? Or was it—ah, yes. The Belt now. Lovely this time of year, I hear."

Your throat closed.

"...Yes."

"Good." He made his point. “And I’m guessing, of course, that you want to breathe air that doesn't taste like recycled piss?"

Your jaw clenched. Don't give him anything.

"You make do with what you have," he continued. "I don't care if you have to train the indigenous population yourself. I don't care if you have to build the machines with your bare hands. Those numbers go up, or your supplies get cut by half. Let's see how hard it is then."

The line went dead.

Your tail cracked against the faux leather seat, a whip-snap of pure frustration. The sound echoed in the cramped office—if you could even call it that. More like a glorified storage closet with a desk shoved in.

Dumb motherfuckers.

You let your head fall back, gaze drifting to the ceiling. Eye level—you could see every dent, every pockmark in the textured surface. Eye level. Always eye level now. Eye level. Eye level, Eye—

Your face went lopsided, you caught on the door.

The library.

The library with its neat rows of datapads and archival texts, mostly untouched. The library that sat quiet and unbothered—collecting dust because most RDA personnel couldn't be bothered. Civilians didn't read. Workers didn't have time.

But you did.

Your hands settled on the armrests, fingers tapping now.

The library that probably contained something useful. Some precedent, some case study, some fragment of institutional memory that might help you navigate the ignorance above and the resistance below.

Yeah. That Library.

.

.

.

The walk had been quiet.

Quiet in the way things only got nowadays. The RDA compound—anyone with eyes could see it—stood emptier than it had any right to. You wouldn't say you missed the machinery's constant beeping, or the fresh-faced trainees still shaking off Earth's gravity as they drilled in formation.

There was plenty you didn't miss, honestly. But noise was the thread that stitched Earth to Pandora, and for any human nursing nostalgia, that sound meant beeps and barked orders, the occasional honk from some idiot driver.

You'd overheard a few guys talking about it—the ones who ran excursions to the outer walls, who ventured into the actual jungle.

Too quiet.

Humans didn't do quiet. You didn't either.

Now you saw drunks. Grunts. Maybe a few civilians if they had some problem that needed a higher-up's signature or a second glance. Not that they'd get anywhere. Everything here moved like shit.

You almost tripped over a pothole.

Another thing to goddamn fix.

The list was biblical. You were drowning here—but dorwning would’ve been easier, at least you’d know which way was up.

You sighed and kicked at the loose gravel.

When they'd handed you the title—Administrator of Pandora—it wasn't like you'd wanted it. But it was either you or Selfridge, and that nepo-baby with his chairman daddy could go to hell.

You weren't the best choice for this job, but hell if you were the worst.

And Selfridge? Goddamn worst.

A pair of engineers ambled past, one raised a lazy hand. "Where you headed, Y/N?"

You smiled politely. "Library."

"Nerd," the taller one grinned. "You coming to watch the fireworks? It's Fourth of July back in the States."

You shrugged. "Nah. I'll send provisions. Just clean up after, yeah?"

They whooped and kept walking. You already knew it'd be a mess come morning. That was fine. Meant they weren't too disquiet.

Hm, disquiet.

You wondered if Jake Sully felt it too—this suffocating stillness. The stalemate had bled both sides dry. His people, his adopted people, had lost warriors to violence. Yours to poor leadership, which was just about worse. Shameful, really, that a jarhead with a god complex had outmaneuvered a trained colonel.

But Quaritch's real weapon had never been strategy. It was charm. And the bastard had been a loose cannon from the start.

Still.

He knew how to smile.

You looked at the empty buildings coming forward. The heart of Bridgehead lay here—shops, apartments, the half-constructed buildings that came to a halt. Concrete walls, piles of dirt. A civilization being built. The sound of emptiness.

Did Jake Sully hear it too? Seen it? Empty villages, the silence? You were certain his people were weeping somewhere beyond the perimeter. Could already picture the rituals they'd perform, prayers lifted to that goddess of theirs—benevolent, kind.

Stop. You closed your eyes, fingers curling into fists. They are not the aggressors.

And that was the truth of it, wasn't it? The RDA were the scumbags. Your people—humanity, Earth, whatever the fuck you wanted to call the collective responsibility—had let them. Funded them. Staffed them. The Na'vi were innocents in all of this, fighting for their homes the way anyone would. The way you would.

So why hate them?

Bitterness. You tasted it on your tongue. I feel bitterness for what they have naturally, and what we don't.

Shame followed, swift and equal, until you buried it beneath something sweet and honeyed and charming.

You turned the corner.

Fire came first—the smell of it, the familiar scent. But the ash was what marked Mangkwan territory. Living space, if you wanted to be gentle about it. Though it was full of dead things. Bodies skinned for whatever rituals they gave their dead and dying.

Ash drifted against your skin, leaving behind haze and the black smear of soot. You'd grown used to it. Another thing to endure. Another problem added to the long, long list that Quaritch just coincidentally happened to be responsible for.

Fucking asshole. Goddamn, selfish—

"Morning." You didn't smile—you'd learned the Mangkwan didn't like that,  thought it was a threat display or maybe just found it disturbing on your flat human features—so instead you softened your voice to something gentler. You were sure they read it as weakness, but you allowed the assumption. At least for now.

They just stared.

Didn't blink, didn't hiss or snarl. Just stared with the widest yellow eyes you'd ever seen. Reminded you of something—what was it called again? An owl. The owl. Yeah, you'd seen one once in an old show. Biggest, strangest eyes.

"L/n."

The whisper came soft. Unusual enough to make you glance back.

They gonna eat me or something…? You just looked forward again. Fuckin' weirdos.

A few more faces peeked out from doorways, from behind hanging cloth. Then you turned another corner and heard it.

Soft footsteps.

Your ears swiveled first. Then your eyes. Then your head—in that order—as the footsteps grew closer, closer, until you met the yellow eyes of Varang.

Owl.

You shook the thought away. She didn't stop, just kept walking. She wore brighter colors today—bright for the Mangkwan, anyway. Purples and whites with the faintest touch of blue and red. Varang looked good. You had to give her that much. Chick had style.

“Varang?” It was hard to keep your surprise in check. She'd stopped mid-stride, and when she did, it was directly in front of you—close enough that you caught the dilation of her iris.

"L/n." Her voice was flat. "You walk loud."

You followed her gaze as it flicked sideways. Three Mangkwan warriors lingered near the cookfire, pretending not to watch. The moment her eyes found them, they scattered.

Her smile returned when she looked back at you.

Tsahik and Olo'eykte.  You knew—somewhere in the back of your mind where thoughts were intuitive—that tyrants always fell the same way. You'd seen how she moved through her people—reverence laced with fear, the kind of devotion that always badly. Somewhere down the line, someone would try to kill her, for all tyrants ended in blood.

Grief for Varang, then. Inevitable grief.

"What?"

"Like a palulukan cub." She tilted her head, hands folding behind her back with unsettling ease. Her hum was carefully musical. "Stomping."

She drove her foot down, so suddenly, and you flinched.

"I'm not—" You caught yourself. Swallowed the irritation before it could shape itself into something she'd remember. You wouldn’t give her that. "I wasn't stomping."

"No?" One brow lifted. She stepped closer, and everything inside of you told you to step back. You didn't. Her gaze dragged down your frame, then back up—slow enough to leave you squirming and heated. "You breathe loud, too."

"Jesus Christ." The laugh came out rougher than intended, formed somewhere between a scoff. This damn woman. "Did you need something, or are you just here to critique my—my fucking breathing?"

Her fingers found a strand of your hair before you could stop her. She rubbed it between thumb and forefinger, testing its texture.

"Soft," she murmured.

Your question hung unanswered in the air between you. With Varang, you were learning, that was standard.

You yanked your hair back. "Really touchy, huh."

"Sensitive." Her lips curled just enough to flash the edge of a canine. "Is this why the Colonel keeps you?"

You paused.

Keeps me?

"Look, lady.”  You straightened your spine, met her stare head-on even though your heart was doing that stupid rabbit-kick thing against your ribs. “Quaritch is lucky I'm keeping him. Dude does not keep me."

"Mm." She released your hair, but her hand didn't drop. It hovered, then shifted—fingers curling beneath your jaw, tilting your face up with a grip that was firm without crossing into cruelty. Her thumb traced the curve of your cheekbone, thoughtful. "You are... pretty. For a demon."

"Gee. Thanks. Really know how to make a girl feel special, don't you?"

Her head tilted the other direction now, reptilian. Studying you from a new angle. "Do you want to feel special, L/n?" She whispered it so softly.

"I—" 

"Varang."

You both turned.

Lyle stood at the mouth of the alley, arms crossed, expression unreadable behind those sunglasses. A wad of pink bubblegum worked between his molars. He popped it before his attention settled on Varang.

"What did I say about you getting too close to the workers."  His voice came easy with that pitched-too-high, dripping charisma. The smile naturally followed—all white teeth biting against perfect baby pink gum. "Soldiers, fine. White collars—that's for me to deal with."

He sauntered forward, his boots crushed ash. "Hm, dolly?"

Varang's frown lasted longer than you’d think, but the smile came soon enough. She released your face with a theatrical little pat. "Lyle." She dipped her head, mockery threaded through the gesture. "Your pet wanders."

You flinched at that. Pet.

Lyle's grin widened. He tilted his head, considering her. "Our Administrator was running an errand." His eyes cut to you. Even through the dark lenses, you knew his eyes were pinned to you. "You done?"

You lifted a brow. Nodded.

"Good." He patted the side of his thigh, whistling. "Come here."

You didn't need to be told twice.

You slipped past Varang, shoulder brushing hers, and felt her fingers ghost across your wrist as you passed.

"There you are. Been looking for you."

Usually he kept a respectable distance. Now, with Varang watching, he slung an arm around your shoulders and hauled you close. "What did I tell you about cutting through the Mangkwan? Not safe, dummy." The affection in his voice was performative, but his grip on your shoulder was real. He popped another bubble.

"Alright, alright. Get off." You shrugged him loose, steering back toward the road that led to the library. He yielded easy, grinning.

“Rude.”

"Yeah, well." You didn't look back. If you did, you'd see her still standing there, watching.

Lyle fell into step beside you, a solid wall at your flank. He didn't speak until you'd cleared Mangkwan territory, until the ash thinned and the smell of smoke gave way to Bridgehead's sterile concrete.

"She touch you?"

"What? No. I mean—" You exhaled through your teeth. "She grabbed my hair. It's fine."

"Uh-huh." His jaw worked. He didn't look at you. "And you let her."

"What was I supposed to do, deck her?"

"Wouldn't be the worst idea."

You shot him a look. "You're the one who helped Quaritch ally with them."

"Yeah." His mouth twisted. "I'm aware."

Then he glanced back at you, sunglasses sliding down just enough to catch your eyes. "Where you going anyway?"

"Library."

"Nerd."

You reached the entrance together, but where you climbed the steps, Lyle stayed below. His hand drifted to the rail, fingers drumming.

"Hey."

You turned.

"Be careful around her," he said quietly. His voice had lost its edge, gone soft in a way that you knew meant feelings you had to ignore. "You know? She's... well." He trailed off. Shrugged. "We both know what good comes from the Na'vi."

"Nothing." You met his eyes—or where you imagined them to be, behind the tint of those glasses. "I know, Lyle. Thank you."

His mouth did something complicated. "Don't make me come drag your ass out of trouble again. I got better shit to do."

Then he turned and disappeared back into Bridgehead's maze, leaving you alone.

You went in.

The library wasn't exactly open—not in the traditional sense. There was a hall first, narrow, that funneled into the actual collection, and before that, a living space.

Comfortable, if you were generous with the word. Meant for mingling or resting or just killing time before the next deployment. The couches were relatively pristine, as new looking as they’d been when they were first assembled.

You had just crossed the unmanned desk when the doors behind you hissed open. You didn't think much of it. Not until you felt the sudden pull of your tail, yanked free from the terrible adhesive tape.

"Lyle, what the—" You spun, and there she was. Varang again, this time with that unsettling hum building in her throat, a giggle half-formed. Your breath caught. You forced your face smooth, narrowing your eyes. "Jesus—what now, Varang?"

“I wished to follow.” She said innocently. “L/n.”

You squinted at her, exhaling through your teeth.

"Don't call me that—geeze, really don't. I'm Y/n. I told you, didn't I?" The grumble came out rougher than you meant. You glanced toward the doors. Just a few steps and you'd be through, would already be inside if not for the dangerously sexy pyromaniac nearby.

She didn't answer. Just stood there, thinking, wearing that strange smile that set your nerves humming. And there it was again—that no-good prickle crawling up your spine.

She waited.

Oh. She was waiting for you to talk.

"...Uh." You shifted your weight. Damn it. "Everything okay? You accommodated? Got a complaint or something?"

Varang hummed low in her chest, then grinned—the kind full of teeth. She shook her head and began to circle you. "No…" she said softly. She stopped in front of you, fingers finding the linen of your shirt, toying with a loose button before plucking it free with one sharp tug.

She inspected it, tilting her head with the idle curiosity of a child examining a beetle. Then her eyes flicked back to yours.

You noticed, with some concern, that she didn't discard it. Instead, she slipped the button into her satchel.

"I am just curious to know what the false skin is doing."

"False skin?" A laugh escaped you. "Come on. Really?" You shook your head, grinning despite yourself. You glanced to the side, where the entrance to the library sat. Huge metal doors framed by old paper notices listing events no one read anymore. "Somewhere I doubt would be of use to you."

The Sangrur Dux Library.

"I haven't been," she said, following your gaze. "What is it?"

For a moment you stopped. You could describe it in words—written language etched into the remains of trees, symbols meant to capture sound, to hold the thoughts of the writer long after they'd gone. But that felt melodramatic, overly poetic for a woman who found it fun to burn things.

Instead, you jerked your head toward the entrance. "Want to see?" Simple, as all things should be.

You didn't expect her to follow, but she did. She walked beside you in fact.

"A library is a place where humans archive knowledge. Physically," you murmured as the two of you approached. Several workers lifted their hands in greeting, then froze mid-wave when they registered Varang beside you.

She only shrugged, leaning forward and peering up at you through dark lashes with an expression that might've been innocent if you didn't know better. "Strange place for a false skin."

You stopped. Exhaled through your nose. "False skin. Why do you keep saying that?"

"Well." she hummed, one finger tracing the edge of your sleeve. "Quaritch does not wake from his body."

"Neither do I."

"And yet…" She tilted closer until her breath ghosted your jawline. "I believe you keep your humanity far closer than he ever has."

The smile you'd worn moments before collapsed. Your expression flattened into something hard, and different—a face you hadn't shown in years. "That so." The words came slow, measured. You angled your neck until you were level with her eyes, yellow and unblinking. "Calling him Na'vi?"

"Quaritch speaks highly of you," she said, pivoting so smoothly you almost didn't catch the deflection.

You blinked. "Does he."

"He says you are useful." Another step brought her closer; bone clicked faintly against bone where her ornaments met. The sound made you think of wind chimes. "That you understand things. See patterns others miss."

Oh, Miles, you absolute fucking idiot.

"I just do my job," you said, pointedly plain.

"Hm." She stopped at a doorway, one hand resting on the frame. Ash smudged her fingertips. "And what is your job, exactly?"

You met her stare.

"Whatever keeps me breathing."

The smile you gave her was charming—practiced and empty. You opened the door and extended one hand in invitation. "After you." You had your own deflection.

Varang didn’t voice a single thought, but her eyes never left yours. She didn’t take the opportunity, she waited for you instead, and you sighed at her suspicions.

"A library is much like the Tree of Voices, if it helps." You kept your voice coaxing. "We read the voices of our ancestors. Collect their knowledge, their viewpoints." You paused. "Poetic, in its way."

You moved past her into the dim interior.

She lingered in the doorway, and you caught the exact moment her eyes widened. The space opened up before her, taller from the inside than it had any right to be. A chandelier hung suspended in the center, casting warm yellow light across rows and rows of tables. The ceiling stretched up through multiple floors, each one lined with books

Still, it was nothing like the ones on Earth.

"I don't understand," she said quietly, glancing back at you. Funny, you never heard her sound like that before.

You nudged her forward with two fingers against her shoulder blade. "You'll see."

"But the—"

You pressed one finger to your lips, cutting her off mid-breath. Your whisper barely carried. "It's quiet in here." You leaned close, pointing toward the scattered readers—mostly civilians, heads bowed over open pages. "Like prayer. You don't distract them. They're immersed."

Her gaze followed where you pointed, tracking the stillness, the adoration of the books. She nodded slow.

"I do not pray."

"I know.”

You drifted toward the General Management aisle. 

"But it's not prayer to Eywa or any deity," you murmur, half to yourself. "More like… prayer to the person who wrote it. And to yourself." 

The top shelf loomed—tall as you were. You crouched low, knees folding, squinting at faded titles.

From the jaws of victory the RDA were thrown out, and now I'm hunting for a book on resource allocation.

Varang's tail swept past the gap between shelves, a dark ribbon disappearing into the next aisle over. You heard her pause. The soft scrape of a book falling, then several more. Then nothing.

Minutes passed, you counted five minutes—but time was always a tricky thing in libraries. It passed by too quickly when distracted by the quiet reading.

You kept searching. You kept searching. Your fingers found a promising spine—Principles of Sustainable—

Something tugged at your tail.

"Jesus Christ, what—"

You froze.

Varang stood there, holding Alice in Wonderland pressed against her chest like a child with a prize. Her eyes were wide—enormous, really—golden and unblinking over the book's weathered cover.

"…You want to read that?"

A pause. Her head tilted. "Read? I wished for you to tell me how to connect my queue to it."

Something softened in your chest. You couldn't help it—the smile came on its own. You took the book from her hands, gentle with the spine, and opened it. Pages fanned beneath your thumb. "Humans don't connect like you do," you said gently. "We use written language. See?"

Your finger traced the lines. She leaned in.

"'Presently she began again. I wonder if I shall fall right through the earth! How funny it'll seem to come out among the people that walk with their heads downwards! The Antipathies, I think—'"

You stop. She was staring, transfixed.

"A book to read," she said slowly. "And it is exactly as it says? What your ancestors say?"

You nodded. "Not my ancestors, but someone's." Your gaze flicked to the front desk, the bored-looking librarian scrolling her tablet, completely oblivious to the two seven-foot Na'vi woman standing between the stacks. "I'll help you check this out. Okay?" You looked back at her. "I'll read it to you. Maybe teach you English while we're at it."

She touched a page, frowning, then pinched the corner between two fingers.

Your eyes go wide. "Hey—hey, careful." You catch her hand before the paper tears, laughing awkwardly. "It's just paper."

She tugged harder instead of releasing. Her eyes lifted to yours.  "Paper?"

"Comes from trees."

Her face became scrunched up. You just chuckled and pinched her cheek, she hissed.

"It's a long process," you add quickly, "but yeah, trees. On Earth we mostly use digital formats now—there's barely any left. The original texts are locked in vaults somewhere."

She studied the page again. Her thumb smoothed over it. "Trees. Pandora trees?"

"Yeah."

"Sky-people make this—" she held up the book, "—from trees?"

"I mean, most times. But yes."

Another laugh. This one louder, freer. She pressed the book back to her chest and spun in a small circle, nearly knocking over a display of outdated management theory.

You grabbed her elbow. "Okay, okay—come on. Let's check it out before you destroy the place."

She followed you to the front desk, steps lighter than you'd ever seen them.

The librarian barely glanced up, she scanned the book. Looked at you, then Varang, then back at her screen. "Two weeks. Late fees are five credits per day."

"Got it." You took the book, and tucked your own under your arm, walking with her toward the exit, reading aloud as you go.

"'Are you content now?' said the Caterpillar.

'Well, I should like to be a little larger, sir, if you wouldn't mind,' said Alice: 'three inches is such a wretched height to be.'

'It is a very good height indeed!' said the Caterpillar angrily, rearing itself upright as it spoke.

You glanced at her.

“(it was exactly three inches high)."

Varang giggled.

You smiled back and kept reading.

.

.

.

Varang was everywhere now.

At first, you'd convinced yourself it was coincidence. Of course she'd be at the medbay—half her clan bore fresh wounds that needed tending. Of course she'd patrol the perimeter. That was her duty, wasn't it? Tsahìk and war leader both.

You could justify those crossings without paranoia creeping in.

But the offices? The cafeteria at odd hours when no one else ate?

Yeah…. No.

Still, she'd softened. Somewhere between the first wary glances and now, you’d done something right, because now you two were—if you dared to voice it—sort of… companionable. 

Most visits ended with her pressing a book into your hands—not always stories, though she'd listened raptly to Alice in Wonderland, The Wizard of Oz, Willy Wonka.

You noted, very hesitantly, that she seemed to enjoy children's books. A fact you absolutely did not mention to her face.

Sometimes she'd drag over manuals instead. How to Assess the Gears of a Working Car: 101. Five hundred fucking pages. Font size four. Hell, it could act as a damn sedative yet she'd settle cross-legged on the library floor, chin propped on one fist, and listen to your voice for hours. The cadence mattered more than the content, you suspected.

The rhythm of English filling the library's quiet corners while hours dissolved unnoticed.

So you taught her to read.

She learned quickly. A natural reader, once you showed her the structure. "This is a period," you'd whispered, finger tracing the punctuation. "It means to stop."

The surprise was that she'd listened at all.

During that time—which must have been a month or so—you'd sent Wainfleet to handle the opposition. Scattered factions, mostly. Fleeing traitors who'd holed up in abandoned RDA installations, setting their own camps which was a big no-no to the conglomerate.

“I want you to fucking destroy them.” One of the shareholders said. “Take their damn head and put it on a spike.”

Yikes. You didn’t, you had Lyle offer either amnesty or death. The same offer given to you years ago. The badge or the bullet.

Contact with the bald-headed demon remained constant, just not physical. 

"What are you wearing?"

"Perv." You pressed the com closer to your throat, knife moving in steady rhythm against the cutting board. Potatoes. Rice. The day's ration plus a little soy sauce if you were feeling indulgent. "Truly, Lyle. You're a class act."

His chuckle crackled through static. Fabric rustled on his end. "Nah, c'mon. Tell me."

"I'm wearing none-of-your-damn-business." The blade clicked against the cutting board. "Happy?"

"Yes."

More shuffling. Then—

Gunfire.

You froze, blade hovering mid-chop.

"...Are you shooting right now?"

"Mhm." Another crack split the air. Rapid fire now, automatic weapons chewing through ammunition. Lyle's voice, low and cursing somewhere in the background. "Told you I'd make sure nothing bad happens to you. Remember Carl?"

"Carl with the missing finger?"

"Nah. Carl with the gout." A grunt. Something heavy hit the ground on his end. "Found him. Killed him." His voice softened, to fond shyness. "I'll see you soon. Just wanted to hear your voice."

You paused. "Wainfleet, I already told you—"

The link went dead.

The soldier way of affection, you supposed. You wanted to ask Quaritch if Lyle had always been this way—serviceable in the manner of men who'd only learned tenderness through violence. But you already knew the answer would arrive in two opposing pieces: a resounding yes and a confused no, and neither would satisfy.

The same, you figured, went for Varang.

"Another one."

Your hand closed around the queue. The braid sat heavy in your palm, heavier than anyone who’d never held one would guess.

You glanced back at her, and managed something approximating a smile. It felt stiff on your face. Your wall was already crowded with them.  Not by choice, mind you.

If any Na'vi saw it, they'd think me a damn psycho.

"For you, Y/n." She dipped her head. Around her, the clan whispered in their quick dialect, syllables blurring together until you could barely parse what was happening. She'd never done this publicly before. That had to mean something.

"Thank you, Varang."

Her eyes rose slowly, and when they met yours she smiled—unusually giddy, a tad girlish. "This one was the Anpak Olo'eyktan. Strong and fast. He was hard to kill, but I managed." She was pleased. Proud in the way a child might be, presenting a dead bird to a parent. "Another leader less for JakeSulli."

Your brow arched. You matched her smile for just a moment before it faltered.

"You gotta be careful, Varang." The words came out rougher than intended. You set a hand on her shoulder, felt the heat of her skin through your palm. "All these missions you're giving yourself… you really don't have to. No use anyway. We're kinda at a stalemate." You rubbed circles around a scar.

But she wasn't listening.

Her gaze had dropped to your hand where it rested against her. "Yes, Y/n." Her voice came dreamy. "But I am not weak." She blinked, slower than necessary. "I prove myself to you with this anger."

"Peace can be good too, you know." You squeezed once, then let go. "It's enough."

You turned before she could respond, the braid dangling from your grip like some grim pendulum. You glanced at it, felt its weight pull at your wrist.

…Where to hang you…?

.

.

.

The day Quaritch awoke you remembered it very well.

It was gloomy and sad. Rain fell harder than usual, and there was a certain chill in the air that marked the slight turning in the seasons, not that winter existed on Pandora.

And on that particular day, a nurse found you. "He's awake."

You had looked at the time then. It’d been just a few minutes after three PM, and you had another meeting with Earth scheduled for five.

I’ll need to be quick. Quaritch always had a way of timing these things.

If you could, you’d likely have enlisted Wainfleet to handle it instead. But the man was still gone on his mission, so you convinced a random scientist, one who still had their avatar body. They were a nervous bunch, but you told them to hold a weapon and look threatening while doing it.

That, at least, they could do.

…hopefully.

The infirmary door hissed open.

Quaritch was already sitting up when you entered—looking ugly and mean with bandages wrapped around his torso. Burn scars rippled across his shoulders, down his arms, puckered and angry. He didn't flinch when he moved. 

He just watched you, then saw his gaze flick to the scientist behind you—linger on the rifle—then return to your face.

"Well, well." His voice came out rough from underused. He rolled his shoulders, but looked to have immediately regretted it. "Look who came crawlin' outta the woodwork."

You stopped a few feet from the bed, hands clasped behind your back. You’d be professional.

"Quaritch."

"L/n." He dragged your name out slow with that funky country accent he had. You never did like it. Coarse and sloppy, like all of him.

His head tilted. "You here to fluff my pillows? Bring me flowers?" His lips pulled into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Or you finally gonna tell me what the hell's goin' on?"

"I'm going to be frank, Quaritch." You reached up and flicked off the overhead light. The room dimmed, leaving only the ambient glow from the hallway and the bioluminescent freckles scattered across his skin.

He didn't thank you, not that you wished for it.

"Frank? I’m so damn worried I think I might cry." He snorted, then swung his legs over the side of the bed, bare feet hitting the floor. "A'right then, Frank. Let's hear it."

You held his gaze and slowly exhaled through teeth. 

Here it comes…

"You've been demoted from Colonel to civilian. All military access has been restricted. You may keep the avatar body, but the RDA has sent an official invoice detailing the cost of such an asset." You paused. "You will work in whatever capacity they assign you in order to pay it off."

Silence, which was something you expected.

He stared at you.

Then he laughed—and that too you expected. "Demoted." He shook his head, still grinning. "To civilian." He stood now, and even hunched with pain, he had presence, a physicality that made the room feel smaller just so your focus could be on him. "And who exactly signed off on that, darlin'? Parker? Or some spineless little shit still back on Earth with a thumb up his ass."

"The Chairman."

"The Chairman." He repeated it, mocking the syllables until it became bastardized. His tongue clicked against his teeth. "Right. The Chairman. A man I ain't ever met suddenly got opinions about my career." He took a step closer. You didn't move. "You got paperwork for that, sweetheart? Or you just makin' shit up as you go?"

You kept your expression flat. "It's already been processed."

Another step. He was close now. “You know what I think?" His voice dropped, quieter now. "I think you're playin' dress-up in Ardmore's office. Pretendin' you got authority you ain't earned."

"Ardmore's dead."

"Yeah." He smiled. "She is."

No remorse. Not even a flicker. Somehow that angered you more than anything. Such carelessness of life, the goddamn psychopath.

Professional. I must remain…

You glanced past him toward the window—the glass partition separating his room from the hallway. Varang's silhouette lingered there, barely visible in the dim light. You didn’t show that you saw her, but your lips did thin. When had she heard? Or had she been listening since the nurse? With Varang, it was possible.

Quaritch followed your eyes, and when he saw her, his fingers twitched.

"You threatenin' me in front of my girl?" He turned back to you, arms crossing over his chest. "That's cold, Y/n. Real cold." He snorted. Of course he deflected with humor. 

You just about rolled your eyes, eyeing him again. "I'm not threatening you, Quaritch. I'm informing you. There's a difference."

"Is there now?"

"Yes." You stepped forward, closing the distance he'd created, you’d match his energy. "You killed Ardmore. You led three consecutive failed operations that cost us men, resources, and credibility. The RDA doesn't trust you anymore. I don't trust you." You tilted your head. "But they're letting you live. That's generous, considering."

He barked another laugh.

"That what they're calling it now? Christ." He glanced at the scientist by the door—took in the rifle, the shaking hands, the way they wouldn't meet his eyes. "You really think he's gonna stop me?"

The scientist flinched.

Quaritch's grin widened, he looked back at you. "You and the limp-dick scientist? That's your play?"

"Quaritch—"

"What're you gonna do, talk me to death?" He stepped closer, invading your space now, forcing you to either hold your ground or retreat.

You let him finish. Let him get it all out. The man could talk death to death.

"Sit. Down."

He blinked.

"I am not a soldier, Quaritch. You won't die by my hands." You took a single step forward, closing the gap he'd tried to create. "But you will die by my words. And that is enough to kill any man."

"Oh, spare me the fortune cookie wis—"

"Sit. Down."

The scientist raised the rifle slightly—shaking still, yes, but obedient. The barrel angled toward Quaritch's chest.

Quaritch's eyes flicked to the gun. Then back to you. Something shifted in his expression—just for a second. The sneer faltered. His shoulders went rigid.

He didn't sit.

But he didn't move forward either.

"You were a union organizer, right?" His voice was quieter now, but no less venomous. "You organized some workers, got 'em to throw tantrums, and now you're playing a proper leader?" He looked you up and down. "You're in over your head, L/n. This isn't some boardroom negotiation. This is Pandora."

You smiled—the sweet one you used for injured soldiers. "And yet here you are. Taking orders from me."

His jaw worked. Teeth grinding together so hard you heard it. His hands curled into fists at his sides, knuckles white.

"So here's how this works," you continued. "You stay within Bridgehead. You work whatever job they assign you—maintenance, logistics, I don't care. You keep your head down, and you stay the fuck out of my way." You paused. "Do that, and you get to keep breathing. Don't, and I'll have you executed."

He stared at you for a long moment.

Then the smile was back, wider than before. "You got some steel in you after all." He sat back down on the edge of the bed, wincing slightly as the burns pulled. "A'right. Fine. I'll play along." He waved a hand dismissively. "For now."

You turned toward the door.

You left him there, the door hissing shut behind you.

Varang was waiting in the hallway.

Her eyes were wide, glassy. She looked like she wanted to say something—ask something—but the words wouldn't come.

You walked past her without stopping.

"He's awake," you said simply. "Do what you want."

Behind you, you heard the door open again.

Heard her footsteps.

Heard Quaritch's voice, low and rough: "C'mere, baby girl."

You kept walking.

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You heard about Wainfleet's return through passing conversation. He hadn't announced it—at least not to you. You guessed he wanted to keep it a surprise, not that the grunts could ever keep a secret.

A month and sixteen days. Settlement to settlement, killing some factions, absorbing others. Now the charismatic bastard was back at Bridgehead.

Reasonable and deadly. The perfect mix.

The doors shuttled open. The entire sector had their backs to you, bodies pressed close, voices raised in celebration. They surrounded him—the blue giant, purple now from sunburns. Skinnier. Cuts and scars you didn't recognize marked his arms, his face. But it was still stupid Lyle, still wearing those cracked sunglasses.

"There's that bald son of a bitch!" One of the men slapped his back, he was right on top of the skel suit. "Knew there was a reason I was being blinded! Your bald head shined the hell outta my eyes."

"Ah, screw off."

Wainfleet hadn't noticed you yet. Good. The men had pooled their scraps together weeks ago, asked you to present the gift on their behalf. It had seemed reasonable at the time. Now, standing at the edge of the crowd with the package in hand you felt a bit uneasy.

You really didn’t belong here.

The closer you got, the more you heard him. Some shootout or another, pretty gals, acts of comradery. Someone had put a party hat on his head. A banner stretched across the cafeteria entrance with his name written in neat block letters.

You settled the present down. Colored parchment paper. Rope acting as the bow.

His eyes flickered up—or you assumed they did. Hard to tell with the glasses. "Holy shit, ma'am." He grinned, tongue dragging across his teeth. "Aren't you a sight for sore eyes."

You rolled your eyes and jerked your chin toward the package. "Just open it, Wainfleet. It's from all of us. Took a while to get."

He grinned, jutting his lip. "Huh, so you guys love me, huh?"

"Oh, shut it—"

"Open it, baldy!"

"Don't make us kick your ass!"

You waited as he tore through the wrapping, watching his tail wag—something you'd definitely tease him about later.

He finally tore through the wrapping, and there it was: a new .22 classic with a wood finish, his name engraved along the barrel beside a tiny pair of sunglasses.

He went still. Then he smiled—really smiled, the kind that softened the edges of him. "No fucking way." He lifted it and aimed at the ground, peering down the scope and bit his lip like a kid on Christmas morning. "How the hell did you—?"

You shrugged. "We found an old 3D printer, remade the parts. Even got some leftover oak wood from Earth. None of that Pandora tree bullshit."

He smiled.

Then he hugged you.

"The hell, man? We all pitched in!"

He grinned, released you, and grabbed Michael instead to squeeze him until the man wheezed. "S-Shit, man!"

Lyle kissed his cheek, loud and wet. "What, you wanted this! Right? Wanted a big fat kiss and some—"

"Lyle?"

Everyone froze.

Quaritch and Varang stood in the doorway. Quaritch had been forced out of his recom clothes into a civilian sweater, boxers. He glared at the scene, expression tight.

Lyle dropped Michael mid-sentence, his gaze snagging on Quaritch. His frown came first—automatic, a reflex—then his head canted. "Miles." The name fell flat. "Didn't think you were allowed in here."

The room didn't fall silent—not exactly. Conversations continued in pockets, but quieter now, fractured. Men tracked the exchange from the corners of their eyes while pretending interest in their trays of cake and rations.

The room leaned, you felt it, toward Lyle.

"Yeah well." Quaritch scratched at his neck, fingers digging too hard. "Varang has access and I wanted to speak to you."

"Now?" Lyle's smile slipped out crooked, teeth bared in something that wasn't quite friendly. "Just got my ass out of the jungle."

Quaritch frowned. “Yeah. Yeah… sorry.” He pocketed his hands, glancing up before eyeing you. His eyes never left yours.

“You are welcome to eat Quaritch.” You said. Lyle shot you a look, and your ears twitched in mild annoyance. “Lyle has accomplished a lot while you were away.” You pat his back. “Always good when a soldier does.”

You watched the muscle in Quaritch's jaw work, grinding teeth hidden behind that false smile he'd put on. He looked different in civilian clothes—and it didn’t fit him. Somehow comfortability was a thing Quaritch wasn’t capable of, and the civilian clothes only seemed to emphasize everything he'd lost. His weight, his authority. 

"A soldier," Quaritch repeated, voice flat. His eyes looked between you and him, his lips quirked up. "That what we're callin' it now?"

Lyle shifted his weight, the new gun still cradled in his hands. His tail had gone still—you noticed that immediately. The excited swaying from moments before had frozen into rigid alertness.

"Miles—" Lyle started.

"Nah, it's fine." Quaritch's smile widened, showing too many teeth. He looked around the cafeteria, taking in the decorations, the men clustered around Lyle, the banner with his name. "Big welcome party. Real touchin'." His gaze slid back to you. "Funny how that works. Man goes off on your orders, comes back a hero. I lead three ops, suddenly I'm the asshole."

You drew breath slowly, let it out the same way. "You led three ops that got good men killed, Quaritch. Lyle led one that brought men home. That's the difference."

There it was, ugly and hateful. Everyone knew that look.

"This shithole, home? That what you're sellin' 'em now?" He stepped closer, you watched as Varang glanced at him, then at you. Her tail coiled just slightly, as if she was uncomfortable.

"You know what your problem is, L/n?" His voice dropped lower, more dangerous. "You think if you smile pretty enough, make 'em feel special enough, they'll forget what this really is." Another step. "But I know what it is. A meatgrinder. And you're throwin' bodies into it just like Ardmore did, just like Parker did. Only difference is you got 'em convinced it's for their own good."

Lyle moved then—subtle, but you caught it. He'd angled himself slightly between you and Quaritch, the gun held, finger not on the trigger but just below the curve of it.

"That's enough, Miles." Lyle's voice was quiet, placating. "Not the time or place."

Quaritch's eyes snapped to him. In his eyes, in those pupils of his were the marks of hurt and betrayal. It was gone in an instant, buried under that sneer.

"Right. 'Cause you're a soldier now. Takin' orders from—" He cut himself off, jaw working again. His hands had curled into fists at his sides.

You could end this. Should end this. One word and the men would remove him, forcibly if necessary. They were waiting for it—you saw it in their postures, the way they'd positioned themselves without even realizing it. Between Quaritch and their celebration. Quaritch was the invader here.

But Varang was watching. And so was Lyle.

He turned toward the door, then paused. He glanced back at Lyle.

"Good work out there, Corporal." The title sounded wrong in his mouth. "Glad you made it back."

Lyle's expression didn't change, but his tail twitched. "Thanks, Colonel."

"Mister Quaritch," you corrected softly. "He's not a colonel anymore."

The look Quaritch gave you could have stripped paint.

Then Varang was there, her hand gentle on his shoulder. She didn't say anything—didn't need to. Just that light touch, a tether pulling him back from whatever edge he'd been walking toward.

He let her guide him out.

The door hissed shut.

Nbody moved. Then someone cleared their throat—Michael, you thought—and the ambient noise of the party slowly resumed. Quieter now, due to the drama of Quaritch’s interruption.

"You good, ma'am?" His voice was low, meant just for you.

Lyle was still standing too close, the gun now holstered against his hip. He'd taken off the sunglasses at some point, and you could see his eyes now.

"Yeah." You rolled your shoulders, trying to shake off the tension. "You?"

He didn't answer right away. Just looked at the door Quaritch had left through, jaw tight.

"He was my CO for more then a decade," Lyle said finally. "Saved my ass more times than I can count." He looked down. "But he ain't that guy anymore."

You reached up and squeezed his shoulder. "You did good out there, Lyle. Really."

His gaze snapped back to yours, and his hand came up to cover yours where it rested on his shoulder, fingers wrapping around your wrist.

"Missed you," he said quietly, too quiet to hear over the resumed chatter of the party. "Several months, couldn't stop thinkin'—"

"Wainfleet." You cut him off gently, pulling your hand back. His fingers tightened for just a second before releasing. "Not now."

"Right." He stepped back, that usual grin sliding back into place. Looser now, easier. "Not now. Got it. But you and I… we gotta… you know, catch up.” He whispered.

But he was still looking at you like—

"Lyle! Tell us about the Cascade settlement!" One of the men called out, breaking the moment.

He turned away, and you let yourself breathe.

This was going to be a problem.

Both of them were going to be problems.

But one problem seemed sweeter.

A/N- Please remember to reblog or like! Much appreciated!!!

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