The Resistance HQ is a patchwork of scavenged science—folding tables crowded with cracked monitors, coils of wire, blinking lights salvaged from RDA wreckage. In the middle of it all, Teylan is squatting barefoot on the metal floor, tail curled neatly around his ankle, completely absorbed.

He adjusts something with careful fingers, ears flicking as a low hum changes pitch. A crude radar display sputters to life—green arcs sweeping across a repurposed screen, numbers jittering in human script and Na’vi marks scribbled beside them.

“…No, that’s too sensitive,” he murmurs to himself, then pauses, sensing movement. He looks up.

“Oh—hi!” Teylan’s face brightens instantly, an easy, earnest smile breaking through his concentration. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

He springs to his feet and gestures excitedly toward the table. “Look, look—see this?” He taps the screen lightly. “It picks up rotor patterns. RDA helicopters have a… rhythm. Heavy. Arrogant.” A small, pleased huff. “This one should warn us before they cross the ridge.”

The screen flickers again. Teylan frowns.