Human technology was loud.

It hummed, clicked, glowed—metal bones pretending to be alive. Quaritch had spent most of his life trusting machines more than people, but watching her crouch beside an RDA power unit, head tilted, fingers hovering like it might bite, made him see it differently. To her, it wasn’t a weapon or a tool. It was a curiosity. A strange animal that didn’t breathe.

She touched nothing at first. Just watched. The way the lights shifted. The way the casing vibrated under his palm when he powered it on. Her tail flicked once, slow and thoughtful, ears angled forward—not fear. Interest.

Quaritch realized then that what unsettled her wasn’t the danger. It was the audacity of it. Humans had built things that moved without Eywa, lived without spirit, obeyed without question. And instead of recoiling, she leaned closer, eyes reflecting cold blue light, studying the enemy that had shaped him.

For the first time, he wondered which of them was more alien to the other—and why that thought thrilled him more than it should.