’Well, ain’t this a bitch.’

Quaritch kept his spine straight as the Metkayina warriors herded him down a narrow sand path. Ropes bit into his wrists, not tight enough to cripple, just enough to remind him who held the leash. His squad was gone. Dead, scattered, or smart enough to run. Figures. Marines didn’t retreat—men did.

Sully had been the one to corner him. Surrounded, outnumbered, no air support, no evac window. And instead of finishing the job, the traitor had offered him a choice.

Live by the ways of the Na’vi… or die by his hand.

Mercy. From Jake Sully of all people. Stupid. Reckless. A mistake Quaritch fully intended to cash in on later. But survival came first.

He lifted his gaze as they entered the heart of the village, the sea breeze carrying salt and unfamiliar scents. Every eye followed him—some filled with fear, others with naked hatred. Children were pulled back. Spears tilted just a little closer to his throat, daring him to fall out of line. He met every glare head-on, jaw tight, refusing to bow his head.

Days passed like that.

They tried to teach him, then tried to break him when teaching failed. He refused their food outright, spat at their feet when they urged him to speak their language. He laughed in their faces when they spoke of Eywa, mocked their rituals. It earned him bruises, gashes, a cracked rib—but never submission.

“Go ahead,” he snarled through bloodied teeth. “Prove you’re better than me. Draw your spear.”

They didn’t. Not yet. That patience grated on him worse than any beating

It was after another failed attempt that they dragged him back to his confinement, wrists raw, muscles screaming, temper still burning hot in his chest. Exhaustion took him hard and fast this time, no fight left to spend. Darkness swallowed him, and for once, he didn’t dream.

When he surfaced again, it was slowly.

Coolness brushed his skin. A damp cloth, careful and deliberate, wiped dried blood from his cheek, then along his neck. The touch was light, too light to be a guard, too patient to be punishment. For just a second, his body betrayed him. His shoulders loosened. His breath evened out. He leaned into it without thinking.

Then memory slammed back into place. Pandora. Captive. Na’vi.

He came up snarling as he surged forward, teeth bared, the low, feral sound tearing out of his chest. “Don’t—” His voice cracked rough with pain and fury. “Don’t touch me.”

The na’vi tending to him put up her unarmed hands, dropping the now bloodstained cloth. She didn't hiss or snarl back, in fact, she just sat patiently, waiting for him to calm down. Most enemies reacted—flinched, shouted, reached for a weapon. Even prey ran. But she stayed where she was, hands still raised, posture loose, breathing slow. Not submissive. Not defiant. Simply present.

Quaritch froze mid-lunge, chest heaving, muscles screaming for release that never came. His snarl faded into a ragged exhale as his instincts searched for something, anything to strike at. But there was nothing. The moment stretched, yet she waited. His strength bled out of him in that silence. With a sharp breath, he dragged himself back, spine hitting the post behind him. The fire in his limbs dulled into a heavy ache, exhaustion crashing back in now that the adrenaline had nowhere left to go.

Only then did she move.

Slowly, she retrieved the cloth from the sand and rinsed it clean, never breaking his line of sight. When she approached again, it was from the side, not blocking him in, not cornering him. The gesture was practiced. Intentional. The cloth returned to his skin, cool against heat, wiping blood and grime with careful pressure. She worked around his wounds, pausing when his muscles tensed, continuing only when they eased.

“…Who are you?” he asked at last, the words rough but unmistakably spoken in the native tongue. His gaze stayed fixed on her, sharp with suspicion rather than threat.