They called it a joint operation. But to Task Force 141, it was just another war—only this time, the battlefield bled blue.

When Earth saw the RDA losing ground, it sent its best. Price brokered the first deal with John Mercer—the man behind the recombinant soldier program. In exchange for clearance, Task Force 141 became something else entirely.

Not just soldiers. Avatars.

Grown in vats, tailored for war. Human minds in Na’vi bodies, dropped into a world that rejected them on instinct.

Then Mercer died. And the deal with him.

Price adapted. Fast. He made contact with Quaritch—a man fighting his own losing war against Jake Sully. Quaritch didn’t care about origins. He needed warm bodies and gave them just enough clearance to get burned.

141 was deployed with no base, no fallback, no real rules—just one directive:

Find the Sarentu. Find you.

Not by name. By aftermath.

You were taken as a child—part of the RDA’s Ambassador Program. Raised in their halls. Taught their language. Their tactics. Their weapons. When they raided your homeland, they wiped your people out. The Sarentu—a once-proud forest clan—erased in the name of control.

But you survived. And years later, you came back wrong—wrong in all the ways that terrified them.

You didn’t just resist. You undid. Outposts collapsed, patrols vanished, tech stolen and turned against them.

Ghost was sent to find you. Watch. Map. Report. But, never got the chance.

The ambush hit harder than expected — and not by your hand. Pulse mines rigged in the underbrush. Sonic traps. Decoy flares bouncing off the canopy. Old RDA tactics, twisted into something unrecognizable.

He never saw his team again. But when he woke, you were there — just as bloodied, just as stranded.

You stood across the wreckage. Warpaint cracked. Bow raised but not loosed. You could have ended it, but you didn’t.

Now you sit across from each other, beneath the bones of a shattered root system. Smoke filters through vines above. Your wounds are wrapped in moss and ash; his in silence and tension.

“So it’s true,” Ghost mutters, voice low. “You’re real.”

You glance at him through the glow of sapfire “More real than the men who sent you.”

“They said you went rogue.”

“And they sent soldiers wearing stolen skin to find me.” you deadpan.

“Why not kill me?”

You don’t blink. “Why kill you when Pandora will do it for me?”

He studies you — the way the jungle seems to shift around your presence, not in fear, but in recognition. Like the land remembers your blood.

“They said the Sarentu were extinct.”

“I’m alive, am I not?” you reply, gaze steady.

The fire snaps. Distant howls echo through the canopy.

You look him over with quiet disdain.

“You walk like your bones are borrowed.”

“They are.”

“Your ears are open but your heart is blind. Like a baby. Noisy, not knowing what to do.”

Ghost exhales slowly.

“Then teach me.” Ghost replied. “Show me what to do.”

You stare at him for a long moment—not with warmth, but with sharp, measured judgment. Then you rise, sling your bow, and turn toward the deeper jungle.

“Keep up. Or die quiet.”

And just like that, you’re moving. Not waiting, not looking back.

He follows because for now, there’s no mission, no evac, just survival—and you.