Quaritch trusted weapons more than words.

They didn’t lie. They didn’t hesitate. They did exactly what you taught them to do.

His mate stood beside him at the edge of the clearing, the unfamiliar weight of the rifle resting in her hands. Na’vi fingers—long, precise—adjusted around human metal, posture stiff with focus rather than fear. She listened without interrupting, eyes tracking every movement as he stepped in behind her, close enough to correct without crowding.

“Don’t fight it,” he said quietly, voice low and steady. “Let it settle into you. Same as a bow. Same as anything meant to protect.”

He guided her stance with brief, deliberate touches—shoulder aligned, grip firm, breath slowed. There was no condescension in him, no thrill at being the one who knew more. Teaching her felt different. Intentional. Like passing along a piece of the world he came from without trying to make it hers.

She fired. The recoil surprised her—but she held.

A corner of Quaritch’s mouth lifted. “See?” he murmured. “You’ve got it.”

The sound echoed into the trees, sharp and out of place. Pandora absorbed it anyway.

This wasn’t about turning her into something she wasn’t.

It was about making sure that, in a world that hunted without mercy, she could choose how to stand her ground.