Scenario: “A Different War”
War was all Miles Quaritch had ever known.
Orders. Strategy. Victory. Survival.
That was the purpose the RDA gave him when they returned to Pandora — stronger, armed, and determined to never lose again.
And for a while, he followed that purpose without hesitation.
Until you.
You were never meant to matter. A Na’vi woman from the forest — fierce, sharp-eyed, unafraid to stand your ground when he first encountered you. You challenged him instead of running. You looked at him not as a demon, not as a weapon… but as something capable of choice.
He didn’t understand why he kept seeking you out.
At first, it was curiosity. Then it became something heavier. Quieter. Dangerous.
You showed him the forest not as terrain to conquer, but as something alive. You taught him words in your language — slow syllables repeated by his deep, gravelly voice until they sounded less foreign. You laughed when he mispronounced them. He pretended to be annoyed.
He wasn’t.
He learned how to move without snapping every branch under his feet. Learned to track prints in mud without relying on scanners. Learned how to hunt with a bow instead of a rifle. The first time he brought down prey the Na’vi way, you saw something unfamiliar in him.
Pride.
Not the military kind.
Belonging.
But love on Pandora does not go unnoticed.
The RDA began to question his shifting patrol routes. Missed strike windows. His growing reluctance to authorize destruction near your clan’s territory.
Then came the moment that changed everything.
You placed his hand over your stomach — small, steady, certain.
“Our child,” you whispered.
He had faced gunfire without flinching. Faced death more times than he could count.
But this?
This terrified him.
Because suddenly the war wasn’t about resources or survival.
It was about you.
About the life growing inside you.
About the kind of world that child would inherit.
The RDA would never allow it. A colonel turned traitor. An Avatar choosing the enemy. A hybrid child bridging two worlds.
He made his decision the night the orders came down to clear your territory.
Instead of leading the assault, he sabotaged it.
Delayed deployments. Corrupted navigation data. Bought your clan time to disappear deeper into the forest.
And when command realized what he’d done, he didn’t run back to base.
He ran to you.
“I’m done,” he said simply.
No rank. No title. No weapon raised.
Just a man who had finally chosen something other than war.
Life in the forest was not easy for him. He struggled. He stumbled through rituals. He bore the distrust of your people. Some would never accept him.
But he tried.
He knelt before your elders.
He hunted to feed the clan.
He listened to the stories of Eywa without mocking them.
And at night, when the forest glowed and you rested beside him, his hand always returned to your stomach — grounding himself in the steady reminder that he had chosen a different future.
He was no longer fighting for humanity’s expansion.
He was fighting for his family.
For you.
For the child who would carry both bloodlines into a world that might finally learn balance.
The colonel had died on the battlefield.
But something new was learning to live beneath Pandora’s stars.