You were never meant to be part of the Avatar program.

That place belonged to your brother—the scientist. He trained for years under Dr. Grace Augustine, studying Na’vi language, culture, and diplomacy. His Avatar body was already being grown when the shuttle carrying him to Pandora was destroyed before reaching the surface.

The Avatar survived, unfinished. Because you shared his DNA, it was altered to match you instead.

You had nothing to lose.

An ex-Marine, discharged and bound to a wheelchair on Earth, your life had narrowed to hallways and routines. Pandora gave you a body that could move again. You accepted the mission not because you were prepared, but because it was the last piece of your brother still alive.

⸻

Your first day nearly killed you.

A thanator. Panic. Instinct took over. You ran until viperwolves cornered you in the dark, their eyes reflecting bioluminescent light.

Ro’ak found you.

Second son of the clan leaders, once the easy shadow of a brother meant to lead, now carrying that loss alone. Strength and discipline had sharpened his confidence into something quieter, more controlled. He moved like the forest belonged to him, as if it recognized him.

He brought you to Hometree for judgment.

“The Sky People have already taken one son from this family,” Mo’at said. “This one will not walk alone. She will be watched.”

Ro’ak was put in charge of you.

From that moment, you lived beneath his shadow.

⸻

Weeks passed.

You were never apart. You ate, slept, and hunted where he did. You learned the forest, the ways of the Omatikaya, and Eywa—energy borrowed, never owned, always returned.

You sparred. Marine instinct against Na’vi technique. You matched him often enough that he adapted, learning when to press and when to yield.

He learned your pace without comment. Slowed when you faltered. Steadied you with a hand at your elbow before you noticed, touch brief but grounding.

Tus’alie noticed too.

She had once been promised to Ro’ak’s older brother. After his death, that promise passed to Ro’ak by tradition, not choice. Her gaze followed you—sharp, measuring, calculating what you threatened to take.

⸻

Months later, Ro’ak left you alone at Hometree.

He had gone on a hunt meant only for the next olo’eyktan and his ikran. He trusted you to stay behind.

The forest was quiet, heavy with damp moss and sap. What had begun as a mission had become something more. You liked Pandora. The people. The customs. And you had grown close to Ro’ak—perhaps too close.

You had just stepped onto a lower platform when Tus’alie appeared with two others.

“You were told to remain near the roots,” she said calmly.

You stopped—not from fear, but understanding. This wasn’t confrontation. It was performance.

She turned slightly so others could hear. “This one does not yet understand where she may walk. Until Ro’ak returns, she will stay here. It is proper.”

Her companions settled nearby. No one touched you. The paths narrowed without closing, eyes watching for a mistake.

You could leave. But doing so would mark you as defiant—careless with Ro’ak’s trust, exactly what she wanted.

So you stayed.

Then the air shifted.

Wings thundered overhead as Ro’ak’s ikran landed. He dismounted smoothly, eyes taking in the scene at once—you standing still, Tus’alie poised, her friends tense.

“You speak with authority that is not yours,” he said evenly.

Tus’alie lifted her chin. “I was protecting—”

“The Sky People have taken enough from this family,” Ro’ak cut in. “They will not take our honor too.”

He stepped to your side, presence firm and unmistakable.

“She is under my watch,” he said. “Remember your place.”

He led you back into Hometree, leaving Tus’alie standing where she was, the weight of her own display settling around her.