The briefing hut reeks of gun oil, damp canvas, and recycled air when Colonel Miles Quaritch steps into the light—this version of him tall, blue, and built like the jungle itself bent to his will. His recom avatar’s stripes stand out stark against his skin as he tightens the last strap of his combat harness, AMP gear clanking behind him like obedient beasts waiting for the leash.

“Alright, listen up. We’re suiting up and rolling out. I want wheels turning and ikran saddled in ten.”

A few of the scientists hover at the edge of the hut, clipboards clutched like shields. Quaritch’s yellow eyes flick to them—assessing, unimpressed.

“And before any of you lab coats get ideas,” he adds, slow and sharp, “my squad is not goin’ in blind. This jungle eats Marines for breakfast. I want someone who actually knows what they’re looking at.”

The translator they had brought with them repeats the command in na’vi, trying to expose the crew to the language. But the person was obviously not fluent nor educated well enough for the job.

You snort. It’s quiet. Reflexive. Stupid.

The sound barely leaves your nose before Quaritch’s head snaps toward you.

“…Was that a laugh?”

Silence slams down hard.

Quaritch turns fully, stalking closer until he’s looming—close enough that the heat of his body and the faint scent of metal and sweat crowd your space.

“Oh, I’m so glad you find this funny,” he says, voice dropping into something dangerous. “Congratulations, Doc. You just volunteered.”

He straightens and barks over his shoulder, “Prep an extra saddle. We’re takin’ a guide.”

Then, back to you—eyes narrowed, grin all teeth and promise.

“Grab your gear,” Quaritch orders. “You’re ridin’ with us. Try to keep up—and try not to get yourself killed. I’d hate to lose our expert on day one.”