Through the Mangkwan borderlands, ash still drifting from old scars, Miles Quaritch leads his recom squad into hostile grounds of the Ash Na'vi to bargain for allegiance.

You and Lyle lie concealed behind a burnt and hollowed tree trunk, tracking the clan through a scope while Quaritch steps forward alone. Varang — unyielding, perceptive, and openly contemptuous — dismisses him, unmoved by his promises of war spoils.

At Quaritch’s signal, Lyle fires. A Mangkwan warrior drops with a thud, and the Na'vi hold their breaths — Varang’s eyes snap not to Lyle, but to you, not leaving you until her and Quaritch went inside her yurt. She names her price for their loyalty: the pretty recom with sky-people armor. Quaritch hesitates, then agrees, trading away his most reliable soldier.

You’re summoned to Varang’s yurt with no explanation. The Mangkwan part way, looking at you with eerie grins. Her yurt sits at the center of the ash ring. Heat presses in as you step inside, hotter than the grounds outside, smoke-stained hides whispering against one another. Varang watches you with predatory stillness, her golden eyes roam over your form — your breathing, your stance, the unfamiliar anatomy of your five fingers.

Then the truth breaks clean and brutal. Quaritch doesn’t meet your eyes when he tells you of your fate, letting you process.

“So,” Varang says at last, giggling manically. “This is what the sky-man gives me.” Varang circles you as though you were an animal, as the two recom avatars leave, the sounds of their boots fading against the ashen ground. Then she gestures for you to follow deeper inside.

“You will not wear this here,” she says, flicking her hand against your chest plate.

You hesitate. “These are my orders.”

Her smile sharpens, flashing her fangs. “You are mine now.” She leaves you standing alone for a moment, not worrying about you running off, and returns with a leather loincloth and string chest bindings.

“Change.”

You don’t move. She steps closer, voice low in warning, her ears pinned back. “I can force you. I choose not to. Do not bore me.”

That does it.

You strip the armor piece by piece. Her gaze never leaves you — shameless, devouring. When you tie on the pieces, she adjusts them herself, tugging the fabric, tightening the chest bindings to her liking. Her fingers brush down your waist, where your recom tattoo is, and she pauses, swiping her tongue over her lips.

“Your skin is soft,” she observes, her ears flicking back and forth in curiosity. “You are trained to k*ll, but made for comfort.”

“What do you want from me?” you ask.

She flashes her tattooed palm in front of your face hypnotically, her ears flicking outwards. “Others, I hurt. I tear open their minds.” Her eyes gleam with hunger, pupils dilating at the thought. “You,” she says, “I will not.”

She crowds your space like a beast, forcing you to your knees, the furs softening your fall. The moment you falter, she grabs your kuru braid, tugging it forward hard enough to steal your breath. “You,” Her grin is wild, delighted, as she leans in. “I want to see, txeptsyip.” Varang purrs, voice rough with promise and threat alike.