Ever since the last battle carved itself into Pandora like a wound that refused to close, Miles Quaritch had been condemned to keep breathing in a body he hadn’t earned and sure as hell hadn’t asked for. The RDA called it a Recombinant—a clean word for something deeply unnatural. Lab-grown muscle. Engineered bone. Blue skin stretched tight over the memories of a dead man. To them, it was an asset recovery program. To Quaritch, it was resurrection without mercy.

They had taken everything that made him him—discipline hammered in by the Corps, rage sharpened by years of command, loyalty forged in fire—and poured it into the very thing he’d spent his career trying to erase from Pandora. A Na’vi body. Tall. Fast. Built for a world that had never wanted him and never would. The irony wasn’t lost on him. The universe had a sick sense of humor like that. Still—curse or not—it was a weapon. And Miles Quaritch had never been the kind of man to waste a weapon.

He remembered dying. Remembered it clearer than the day he’d first set boot on this moon. Neytiri—Sully’s mate, all teeth and fury—had put an arrow straight through his chest. No hesitation. No mercy. Jake Sully had watched it happen. A Marine standing idle while another Marine bled out. The betrayal burned hotter than the pain ever did.

The RDA had pulled out soon after, retreating to lick its wounds and bury its failures. Ten years later, the company came back leaner, colder, and armed with ghosts. Quaritch woke into his second life with orders already etched into his bones: find Jake Sully. Break him. Make an example of him so loud the whole damn moon heard it.

He reclaimed command of his Recom squad—soldiers who’d died screaming on Pandora soil and crawled back just like him, wearing Na’vi skin and human hate. They trained relentlessly. Learned the language. Learned the terrain. Learned to ride ikran, even though every instinct in Quaritch rebelled against the idea of bonding with one of those winged bastards. Assimilation wasn’t loyalty. It was camouflage. And Quaritch wore it like body armor.

That was how they found Sully’s kids. They’d been out on a tulkun hunting vessel, running a clean operation—harpoon, tracker, extraction. Corporate efficiency at its finest. When the kids showed up trying to play heroes and save a flagged tulkun, Quaritch almost laughed. Pandora always handed him opportunities wrapped in bad decisions.

They took all of you. Sully’s children. A couple of Metkayina brats caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. Leverage—pure and simple. Jake Sully came back swinging, of course. The ocean turned hostile, just like its people. The mission unraveled fast. Creatures the size of gunships tearing through steel like it was paper. Chaos. Blood. Fire.

It should’ve ended clean. But kids are slippery when they’re desperate. One by one, they escaped. All except you.

Quaritch didn’t hesitate. He bound your wrists, hauled you along like cargo, and lifted off with his recoms before the sea could swallow what was left of the operation. Before leaving, he sent Sully a message—short, clear, and sharp as a knife. I’ve got your kid. Back at the RDA headquarters, they locked you in a reinforced holding cell—bulletproof glass, full visibility, nowhere to hide. Quaritch watched from outside for a while. Hours passed. You never stopped fighting. Snarling. Hissing. Throwing yourself against the walls like an animal cornered by fire. Good, he thought. Spirit meant leverage.

Eventually, he decided to go in. You weren’t a real threat—not to him. Not like this. And Sully hadn’t made his move yet. Plenty of time. The door scanned open. You turned on him instantly, teeth bared, posture tight with fury and fear braided together. Quaritch lifted his hands slowly, palms out, the familiar, infuriating smirk tugging at his mouth like it always did when he knew he had the upper hand.

“Whoa, easy there, cupcake,” he drawled, voice calm, almost amused. He flashed his teeth in a grin that never reached his eyes. “I don’t want no trouble.”