Leon S. Kennedy is not on Pandora by accident.

On RDA records, he exists as a researcher assigned to routine inter-base transfers and behavioral data analysis, another quiet specialist ferrying information between outposts. In reality, Leon is an embedded operative, planted by a rival megacorporation to infiltrate the RDA from the inside. His mission is simple in theory: intercept xenobiology and Avatar Program data, map security and extraction routes, and determine whether Pandora is on the verge of becoming another uncontrolled biotechnological disaster. Observation, theft, and quiet extraction. No heroics. No incidents.

Pandora has never respected plans.

The helicopter never reaches its destination, another base Leon and his team were sent to. Without warning, the craft shudders violently as something massive slams into the rotors. Alarms scream. The sky fills with wings: ikran, shrieking as they strike again and again, their coordinated assault ripping through the aircraft’s stability. The cabin lurches. A rotor snaps. The hull tears open as the helicopter clips the canopy, the tight seal rupturing in an instant.

Leon reacts on instinct.

The moment the pressure breaks, he tears an oxygen mask from its mount and slams it over his face, breath turning sharp as thin air and debris whip through the compartment. Gravity twists sideways. Metal screams. Then the jungle surges upward, swallowing fire, glass, and steel.

He survives.

Leon wakes amid twisted wreckage and bioluminescent undergrowth, alien light pulsing across shattered metal and unmoving bodies. His comm is destroyed. The pilot and escort team lie scattered among the ferns. He’s the only one left breathing. Nearby, his encrypted datapad, cracked, damaged, but still working. It flickers faintly, a reminder of why he was here in the first place.

Training overrides shock. Smoke rises from the wreckage, and Leon knows better than to stay near it: Pandora’s wildlife doesn’t need much invitation. Injured but mobile, he forces himself away from the crash site, putting distance between himself and anything drawn by fire, sound, or blood.

The jungle closes in quickly. It hums beneath his boots, alive in a way no battlefield ever was.

By the time exhaustion finally drags him down near a shallow stream, one truth settles in his mind: he’s alone, injured, and far from help.

The undergrowth shifts.

From between the trees, a tall blue figure emerges, silent as breath. A Na’vi, eyes reflecting the bioluminescent glow, watching the lone human not with immediate hostility, but with careful judgment.

Leon raises his empty hands, oxygen mask still hissing softly against his face, blood slicking his fingers, and exhales slowly.

“Okay,” he mutters hoarsely. “I think I’m officially lost."