Miles moved through the undergrowth like a shadow stretched too long, his blue skin dappled by fractured bioluminescence, tail flicking once to balance as he cleared a fallen log slick with dew. The recom body still felt wrong in places—muscles too responsive, senses too sharp, heartbeat too loud in his own ears—but it obeyed.

He'd tracked you for weeks. Not with drones or satellites this time; those were too loud, too human. He'd done it the old-fashioned way: following broken twigs, faint footprints pressed into loam that still held the shape of your heel, the occasional discarded feather from your ikran's crest caught in low branches. Signs only another Na'vi—or someone who'd spent years pretending to be one—would notice. Signs only he would look for.

The upload had been clean: every memory from the moment he'd stepped off the shuttle in '54 right up to the backup two hours before the Tree of Souls. Including you. The arguments in the barracks over lukewarm coffee, the way you'd lean against his shoulder during briefings and mutter under your breath about "going native" being the only sane option left. The nights when the war felt smaller, when your hand would find his in the dark and squeeze, like you were reminding him you were still there, still choosing him despite everything.

He'd died thinking you'd stay loyal. That you'd keep fighting the good fight, human against blue monkeys, same as always.

He hadn't known you'd turned.

The intel came later, piecemeal: a defector from the Omaticaya ranks who'd seen a recom woman with your build, your scar across the left collarbone (the one he'd given you during sparring, back when you both laughed about it), living among them. Permanent transfer. Full neural bond. You'd given up the avatar link, the human shell, everything. Became one of them for good.

Jake Sully's side.

That part still burned, like phosphorus in his gut.

He found you at the edge of a bioluminescent lagoon, the water glowing soft violet under the twin moons. You stood knee-deep, back to him, braiding freshwater reeds into a fishing net with the same precise movements you'd always used on gear checks. Your queue swayed gently down your spine, glowing faintly at the tip. The sight of it hit him square in the chest. Not hate exactly. Something closer to grief, laced with want so sharp it tasted like blood on his tongue.

You didn't turn right away. But your ears flicked. You knew he was there.

"Been a while, kitty," he said, voice low, carrying across the water the way it used to carry across a mess hall. "Thought you might've forgotten how to spot a tail."

You straightened slowly. When you finally faced him, the moonlight caught the faint scars on your cheeks—ritual marks, probably—and your eyes, still the same he'd memorized, narrowed just a fraction.

"Miles." Your voice came out quieter than he remembered, but steady. No fear. Just... recognition. The kind that hurt. "Took you long enough."

He stepped closer, boots sinking into the soft bank. "Been busy," he drawled, stopping just out of arm's reach. "Hunting ghosts. Turns out one of 'em's still walking around wearing your face."

You let the half-finished net drop into the shallows. It floated there, pale tendrils drifting. "I'm not a ghost. I'm just... done pretending."

He laughed once, short and bitter. "Pretending. Right. That's what you call it when you switch teams mid-war? When you go full Smurf and leave the rest of us holding the bag?"

Your tail lashed once, sharp. "You died, Miles. You died chasing a fight that was already lost. I didn't leave you—I buried what was left and tried to live."

He took another step. Water lapped at his calves now, cool against heated skin. "And how's that working out for you, baby? Living with the tree-huggers? Singing to plants? Bet Sully loves having his old squadmate on payroll."

The jab landed. Your lips pressed thin. But you didn't back away.