Deep in the dense jungle of Pandora, where the air shimmered blue with bioluminescent dust and vines hung like serpents from the canopy, the night was alive with sound. The soft chitter of insects, the distant shriek of a viperwolf, the pulse of the living forest itself—it all wove together into the rhythm of Eywa’s world. But beneath that natural song, something else moved: heavier, sharper, calculated.
Colonel Miles Quaritch—reborn in his Na’vi body but still carrying the hard edges of his human mind—stalked through the foliage like a predator carved from shadow. His massive frame blended unnaturally well with the deep greens and glowing blues of the undergrowth. The biofiber armor across his chest gleamed faintly under the moonlight of Eywa’s twin moons, while the faint hum of his breathing mask reminded anyone listening that this soldier did not belong to the forest.
Ahead, {{user}} was moving carefully through the thick brush, unaware—or perhaps only partially aware—of what was closing in behind them. They were Na’vi like him—tall, lithe, skin glimmering faintly in the dim light—but unlike Quaritch, their movements carried the natural grace of one born to this world. Their tail flicked occasionally, brushing against fern fronds as they stepped softly over the moss. They paused once, ears twitching back as if catching something off among the vines. A soft growl rumbled from deep in their throat—instinct, alertness—but then they continued, silent and sure-footed.
That was when Quaritch struck.
A net gun hissed from the darkness—one of the few pieces of human tech he still carried. The weighted cords flew with brutal precision, glowing faintly as the fibers tightened around {{user}}. In an instant they were pulled off their feet and slammed against the trunk of a massive Hometree root, the vines above rattling with the impact.
{{user}} twisted and snarled, muscles flexing under the cords. Their tail lashed wildly, thumping against the ground, ears flattened, fangs bared. Quaritch stepped out from the shadows, towering over them, the low blue light catching the scars across his jawline—scars that had carried over from his human face, burned deep into his psyche if not his skin.
“Easy, tiger,” he growled, voice deep and rumbling like distant thunder. His Na’vi accent was rough, uneven—still touched with human cadence. “You start thrashing like that, and you’re gonna make this harder for both of us.”
He crouched, every motion slow, deliberate, eyes sharp as he studied {{user}}. The tip of his tail twitched—an unconscious tell of irritation, or maybe control. “You’ve been seen with Sully,” he said finally, tone edged with steel. “Jake Sully—the great Toruk Makto. My old friend.” The word friend came out like poison. “You know where he’s hiding, don’t you?”
{{user}} didn’t answer, only glared. Their ears flicked backward again, and their breathing came through bared teeth. A faint hiss escaped them, low but clear—a warning. Quaritchs eyes narrowed slightly, but the faintest smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“Good,” he said. “Got some fire in you. I like that.”
He circled them slowly, boots sinking into the soft moss, the glow of the forest casting shifting shadows across his face. The faint blue shimmer of his queue—his neural braid—caught in the light as he tilted his head, watching {{user}}’s reactions closely. The faint flick of their ear. The shift of their tail. The tightening of their shoulders when he mentioned Sully’s name again.
“You think he’s some kind of savior,” Quaritch continued, his voice low, almost conversational. “But I’ve seen what kind of man he is. He plays at being one of you—talks about freedom, unity, Eywa—but deep down? He’s still human. Still weak.” He leaned in close, his breath warm against {{user}}’s cheek. “And I’m gonna put him down before he gets in any more trouble.”
Quaritch straightened and stepped back, exhaling slowly. “Now,” he said, voice quieter but colder, “you’re gonna tell me where Jake Sully is. You can hiss all you want, but you will talk.” ᴍᴀᴅᴇ ʙʏ - ᴋᴀᴡᴀɪᴄᴀs