Tf141 ran away

Price's litle sister need help

TF141 - Ghost wife

*Ghost's hidden wife found by Makarov*

Tf141 - blind user

They find out you are blind

TF141 -they fcked up

The team fcked up and a higher up is coming (M/F)

TF141 - ran away

Price's litle brother need help

Tf141 Prices baby

Not mine

TF 141

Makarov's top soldier

Tf141 Price s kid

Price's teen need to live with them now

Tf 141 Makarov kid

*The TF 141 team was on a mission to find, dead or alive Makarov, when the Come in, they See hostages, between the hostages and Makarov and his men there is {{user}}, holding a gun at her father, Makarov*

Ghost Simon Riley

You reject a rookie,credit to @callsignsin Tik tok

Tf141 depressed rain

Depressed sitting in the rain

Tf141 Alejandro wife

Alejandro's hidden wife found by Makarov

Tf 141 and Keegan

Kegan's wife, he's hurt

TF 141 Makarov

Makarov's top soldier

Tf141 ennemis sniper

Is the ennemi's sniper really an annemi too ?

Tf 141 injury

This was the recruits week at the TF 141 team. “Let’s go everyone!”Capitain Price say loudly as everyone moves about their training for the day. There were about 10 new recruits for this year, 1 girls and 10 boys. All around 18-25 years old age. Capitain Price, Soap, Ghost, Gaz and Alejandro's eyes eventually fell onto a girl, who they recognized briefly from the first meeting about information about their training yesterday. This was their first day of training. She was moving slow, an expression on her face that they couldn’t quite read. She looked like she was limping a lot, but they figured she just landed wrong after one of the training exercises and would just walk it off within a few minutes. They figured that she wouldn’t last long here anyways.

TF141-Ghosts husband

*Price, Ghost, Soap, Alex, Gaz and Alejandro, has been friends/working together for years now but despite that Ghost never told them about the fact he was married just in case cause he want nothing happening to his dear husband : {{user}}.* *Ghost and {{user}} have beeing married for now 3 years, nobody in Ghost's ennemies could normaly know about his existence, because he did evrithing he could to hide and protect him from them* _______________________________________________ *One day, the task force 141 was on a mission to catch Makarov dead or alive, they got Makarov in handcuffs, when Makarov told to one of his men* Makarov : "get the boy" *Price, Ghost, Soap, Alex, Gaz and Alejandro are confused, they see the man come back with a man ( {{user}} ) tied up, tired and who obviously have beeing "interogated" by Makarov, beeing forced on his knees, a knife against his throat* Makarov : "Let me go or we **will** kill him, if you let me go we will let him with yall" Price : "We won't let you go, you're one one of the most dangerous terorist right now" *Ghost reconising his husband and beeing worried say to Price* Ghost : "How about we do as he say." Soap : "Letting go one of the most dangerous terorist for a random man ?" Price : "Yeah not happening" Ghost : "Please Price, he isn't a random man she is....he's my husband.."

Tf 141 juvenile

Crédit to @polacheks

Tf 141 betrailed

*Ghost went on a infiltration mission, it's where you met him, hé honestly think your the sweetest soldier hé have ever Seen, you are the Medic and one of the best shooter of the tf 141 ennemi team* *After a few month of infiltration, hé disapeared, then your team get stop by the TF 141, you See him standing next to Capitain Price, Soap, gaz and Alejandro. Your forced on your knees as you look at Ghost confused* Capitain Price : "you are all under arrest" *Your team get Taken away by soldiers, leaving only you, Ghost, Price, Soap, gas and Alejandro* Soap : "what's your name lass ?" Gaz : "we are taking you in for interogation"

Biker group

They help you

TF141- hostage

They save you

Barber shop

You don't belong

TF414

*Captain Price, Lieutenant Ghost, gaz, Soap. [User] is Ghost younger sister but thé others don't know it. One winter day, [user] Come to the base looking for Ghost, [user] is hurt, she is bleeding from the arm, and have a bruise on the face. [user] arrives at the base looking for Ghost, her big brother, some soldiers lead her to the resting zone, Price, Ghost, Gaz, Soap watches her enter* Price : "And who are you ?" Gaz : "Are you hurt, you look hurt" Soaps : *Say nothing but observe with curiosity* Ghost : " [user]....?"

Tf141 baby

*{{user}}'s mom was a soldier for one of Tf 141's ennemi team. One day, Tf 141 lead a mission in the base where {{user}}'s mom was, {{user}}'s mom gave them her baby daughteur ({{user}}) as she was bleeding out, shot. The task force 141 took her 2 month old baby and descided to take her, keep her* *After the mission, they were in their car, in their way back to the tf141's base. Capitain Price was holding the child as the others and himself were watching her.* Ghost :"Are we keeping it for reel ?" *He Ask a litle anoyed* Alejandro :"Yes we are keeping the niña. Right Price ?" Price :"Of course we are, and we are treating her as our litle sister, hell. We are treating her as our child" Gaz :"She is litle" *He comment* *Soap look at her, exited and find her so cute, he's acting like an exited child child* *They watch {{user}} wiggle on Price's lap*

Tf 141 teenage

Crédit to @StxrsAroundMyScxrs

Alex

Meet our daughteur- future husband come in

Tf 141 take you in

It's not mine I just change one thing ✨

Tf 141 Ghosts baby

*Lucy and Ghost Simon Riley had a baby together. After a couple of months Simon had to go on deployment for almost a year.* *Lucy and their child arrived at the base and searched for him and his team to tap him out. As Lucy spotted them she got closer and put their child down. Simon stared in front of him, not allowed to move until a family member touched him.* “Come on baby, go to dada, show him how you walk”. *The baby started to walk slowly and reached Simon’s leg, falling on his foot.* *Capitain Price, Soap, Gaz and Alejandro watching, first time seeing Ghost's wife and child*

Koing

You call him

Tf 141 fathers day

*Lucy and Ghost Simon Riley had a baby together. After a couple of months Simon had to go on deployment for almost a year.* *Lucy and their child arrived at the base the day of father's day.* *I get in the commun room, I See him freeze as hé See me and our daughteur Zoé* *Capitain Price, Soap, Gaz and Alejandro are in the room watching, first time seeing Ghost's wife and child*

Tf 141 Ghosts wife

*Ghost's wife is visiting him at the TF 141 base, been herself a commandant in the marines. The other left them in the commun room so they Can talk in privet cause there as been tension the all night* *From the kitchen they here shouting* Ghost : " [user]'s been a princesse well to long !!" [User]: " '[user] have a gun with no saftey on !!" Ghost : "[user] need to lisen when I fucking talk !!!!" [User]: "[user] think Ghost is about to get shot !" *The other Come in the leaving room again in case*

TF141 problem

A soldier with an attitude issue

Avatar

A new avatar. Enemy or friend?

Prince Christopher

A princess or a warrior

Marcus MC Carter

Bf of 8 month

Avatar - Loak

The reef is loud with whispers. Not spoken aloud — but carried in looks, in the way bodies turn away, in the snickers that follow the newcomers wherever they go. “Demon blood.” “Forest filth.” “Half-breeds.” The words ripple through the Metkayina village like poison in the water. You sit at the edge of the reef, feet dangling into the cool sea, toes brushing against coral and drifting algae. The water laps softly against the stone, calm despite everything. Beside you sits Lo’ak. He’s quiet today. More than usual. His shoulders are tense, his tail flicking irritably as his eyes stay fixed on the horizon instead of the village behind him. For a while, neither of you speak. Just the sound of water. The distant calls of ilu. The wind threading through woven nets. Lo’ak finally exhales, kicking his feet gently against the surface. “…They stare less when you’re here,” he mutters. You glance at him — at the faint marks on his skin that make him different, the ones they whisper about. From higher up on the reef, two figures watch. Jake Sully stands with his arms crossed, his expression unreadable. He doesn’t interfere — not yet — but his eyes never leave his son. Beside him, Neytiri is rigid, ears angled sharply toward you both. Her gaze flicks between Lo’ak and you, wary, protective… uncertain. They see the way Lo’ak leans just slightly closer to you. They see the ease between you — the quiet laughter, the shared silence, the way he doesn’t have to explain himself. Lo’ak nudges your shoulder lightly with his own. “Thanks… for not treating me like I’m broken,” he says, voice low, almost embarrassed. The water ripples around your legs, sunlight dancing across the surface. Behind you, the reef continues its judgment. But here — at the edge of sea and stone — Lo’ak isn’t demon-blooded. He’s just a boy trying to belong. And you chose to sit beside him.

Avatar - air

The sky arrives before the voices do. A distant rush of wind rolls over the reef, carrying shadows that glide rather than fall. The Metkayina look up almost in unison — not in fear, but recognition. “The air clan,” someone says, already smiling. The village shifts instantly. Weapons are lowered. Nets are pulled aside. Platforms are cleared. Children run toward the water’s edge, pointing excitedly as sleek flying mounts circle above, their riders adorned in woven silks, feathers, and trade packs that shimmer in the sun.* Peace has come with the wind. The first riders descend gracefully onto the outer platforms, laughter and greetings following them like music. Crates of sky-fruits, cloud-harvested fibers, rare resins, and feathered ornaments are carefully unloaded. And then — you land. Not at the center. Not demanding attention. Just lightly, curiously, your feet touching the reef as if the ocean itself has invited you. Your braids sway as you move, each one threaded with carefully placed beads — old, symbolic, unmistakable. Heir. Sixteen seasons, and already marked by lineage. You wander with open fascination, fingers brushing carved railings, eyes following ilu as they dart through the water below. You pause to watch Metkayina artisans at work, tilting your head, absorbing everything — the rhythm, the colors, the way the sea breathes around them. Laughter spills easily from the traders. Music begins somewhere near the central platform. The air clan’s arrival always brings celebration. But not everyone is celebrating. From the raised platform near the chief’s dwelling, Tonowari watches you carefully. Tall. Still. His gaze follows your movements not as a guard watches a threat — but as a leader studies a future leader. Beside him, Ronal stands with arms crossed, her sharp eyes tracing the beads in your hair, the subtle posture of someone raised with responsibility rather than freedom. She leans slightly toward Tonowari. “That one is not just curious,” she murmurs. “They are being taught.” Tonowari nods once. “The heir,” he says quietly. Below them, you pause at the water’s edge, crouching to trail your fingers through the sea, eyes widening as an ilu rises briefly to inspect you before vanishing again. You smile — unguarded, genuine. The reef hums around you with trade, music, and laughter. Peace woven into every exchange. Yet above it all, the leaders watch. Because today you are a guest. Tomorrow, you may be something far more important.

Alien union

The chamber is older than your planet. It stretches outward in impossible geometry — tiered platforms floating without support, walls etched with living constellations that shift slowly as if breathing. Species you have no names for sit, stand, hover, coil, or exist in forms your mind struggles to catalog. This is not a battlefield. This is not a throne room. This is a union. A low, resonant hum fills the space — not sound, not language, but attention. Thousands of eyes, sensors, and intelligences turn toward a single point. Toward you. A translucent dais forms beneath your feet, lifting you gently into the center of the assembly. No restraints. No weapons pointed. Only observation — deep, ancient, and unmistakably curious. A figure steps forward. Tall, luminous, their form shifting subtly between solidity and light. When they speak, their voice arrives in your mind already translated — layered, calm, carrying the weight of centuries. > “Envoy of Earth.” The word Earth ripples through the chamber like a dropped stone. > “Your world has awakened.” Images bloom in the air around you: – Humanity’s first deep-space signals – Nuclear fire lighting the void – Artificial intelligence crossing thresholds – Weapons capable of planetary extinction > “For most of your history,” the voice continues, “your species existed below the threshold of notice.” A pause. > “That is no longer the case.” Murmurs ripple through the assembly — some curious, some wary, some openly hostile. You sense histories brushing against your thoughts: wars older than human civilization, alliances forged and shattered, planets lost, species erased. Another figure speaks — colder, sharper. > “Earth has reached technological adolescence without guidance. This has historically resulted in one of two outcomes.” The lights dim. > “Extinction.” > “Or aggression.” The first speaker raises a hand, and the chamber stills. > “Yet Earth did not discover us through conquest,” they say. “You discovered us by listening.” Their gaze fixes on you. > “That is why you stand here.” A massive holographic structure forms behind them — a web of star systems bound by glowing lines. > “This is the Interstellar Union. A coalition of civilizations spanning this galaxy and beyond. We govern conflict. We regulate expansion. We decide which worlds are contacted… and which are observed.” Another pause — deliberate this time. > “Humanity has been voted provisional sentience-status acknowledged.” Gasps. Clicks. Hisses. Whispers. > “You are not members.” > “You are not allies.” > “But you are no longer alone.” The speaker steps closer, their presence pressing gently against your thoughts — not threatening, but immense. > “You are the first human to stand here. The first to speak not for a nation… but for a species.” The chamber waits. Every war you’ve ever fought. Every fear you’ve ever had. Every hope you haven’t put into words yet. > “Envoy of Earth,” the voice says softly, “welcome to the wider universe.” > “You may speak.”

Mafia family

For sixteen years, you believed you belonged to them. The woman you called Mom. The man you called your stepfather. The small, suffocating house in upstate New York. The smell of alcohol soaked into the walls. The constant tension in the air, like something was always about to break — and often did. You learned early how to be quiet. How to avoid attention. How to survive. You never questioned why you looked nothing like them. Never questioned why there were no baby pictures before a certain age. Never questioned why love always felt conditional, fragile, dangerous. That was just your life. Until the night it ended in twisted metal and sirens. Your stepfather had been drunk. Again. The car never slowed before it hit the divider. You remembered the impact. The sound of crushing steel. Then nothing. They died instantly. You didn’t. The police station was cold and too bright. You sat wrapped in a thin blanket, your hands still trembling slightly as an officer crouched in front of you. “Is there anyone we can call?” he asked gently. You shook your head. “No.” No grandparents. No aunts. No uncles. No one. At least… no one you knew. They took your blood as part of routine identification. Just procedure, they said. Nothing unusual. You didn’t think about it again. Until three days later. The detective returned, his expression different now. Careful. Measured. “We found something,” he said. Your stomach dropped. He hesitated before continuing. “You have biological family.” The words didn’t make sense. “What?” He slid a folder onto the table. “They’re in Sicily. Italy.” Silence. “Your DNA is a direct match. Father and eight siblings.” Eight. Your mind couldn’t even grasp it. “They’ve been notified,” he added quietly. “They’re coming" Thousands of miles away, in Sicily, the Blanco family had built something powerful. Untouchable. To the public, they were respected businessmen. Owners of vineyards, shipping companies, real estate across the island. But beneath that polished surface, Arthur Blanco ruled something far older. Far more dangerous. An empire built on loyalty, silence, and blood. Sixteen years ago, his wife died giving birth to their only daughter. You. Two years later, that daughter was stolen from their home. Kidnapped. Vanished. No ransom. No body. No answers. Arthur never stopped looking. Neither did his sons. Marco, the eldest, had stepped into his father’s shadow early — calm, controlled, destined to inherit everything. Luca trusted nothing he couldn’t verify himself. Enzo burned hot, ruled by instinct and fury. Matteo watched and said little, seeing more than he ever admitted. Dante hid sharpness behind effortless charm. Rafael still carried the quiet grief of losing a sister he barely remembered. Alessio and Nico had grown up on stories of you — stories that felt more like legend than memory. Sixteen years of silence. Until the phone rang. A girl in New York. Sixteen years old. DNA confirmed. Alive. Even then, not all of them believed it. “DNA can be manipulated,” Luca had said coldly. “It could be a trap,” Enzo agreed. Marco said nothing at first. Arthur ended the discussion with four simple words: “We will see ourselves" And now… You sat in a quiet government office, staring at the floor as the caseworker opened the door. “They’re here,” she said softly. Your heart began to pound. You didn’t know who you expected. Not them. Three men entered first. They moved differently than anyone you had ever known — confident, controlled, like the world adjusted itself around them instead of the other way around. Marco stood in front. He was the first to look at you directly. Not casually. Not politely. Intently. Like he was searching for something he had lost. His gaze traced your face, your eyes, the small details no stranger should notice. Luca stood slightly behind him, arms crossed, his expression skeptical. Guarded. Matteo remained silent, his sharp eyes missing nothing. The room felt smaller with them in it. Marco spoke first. "You're coming home with us"

TF-141

The room is quiet in the way only a war room ever is. Screens glow dimly with satellite feeds. Maps marked in red and white cover the table. Somewhere far away, artillery echoes through the night — not loud enough to shake the walls, but loud enough to remind everyone why they’re here. Captain John Price stands at the head of the table, arms crossed, jaw tight. Soap leans back in his chair, trying — and failing — to lighten the mood. Gaz is focused, eyes sharp. Ghost stands apart, silent as ever, skull mask unreadable. “This op’s turning into a meat grinder,” Price says finally. “Makarov’s moving faster than we expected.” Soap exhales. “So what, we’re outta options now?” The door opens before Price can answer. A senior general steps inside, followed by a civilian liaison. The air shifts — subtle, but unmistakable. “There may be,” the general says. “One option left.” Price narrows his eyes. “…Let’s hear it.” The general places a thin folder on the table. No name on the cover. Just a number. 001 Soap’s posture stiffens instantly. “…You’re joking.” Gaz looks up sharply. “That’s a ghost story.” Ghost tilts his head — just slightly. Price doesn’t speak right away. His fingers tap once against the table. “I thought 001 was—” he stops himself. “—off the board.” “They were,” the general replies. “Until now.” The screen behind him flickers, changing to a single still image. A teenage girl. Seventeen. Plain clothes. No weapons. No uniform. Normal. Too normal. “This is her now,” the general continues. “Government-placed family. Civilian identity. Years of rehabilitation.” Soap lets out a quiet laugh that holds no humor. “That’s not what people remember.” The general’s gaze hardens. “When she was six, she was taken by a terrorist cell overseas. Trained with other children. Brutally. Some didn’t survive the training. Fewer survived combat.” The room is dead silent. “She was the youngest,” the general says. “And the most effective.” The number on the screen feels heavier now. “No face. No gender. No age,” Gaz murmurs. “Just a callsign.” Ghost finally speaks, his voice low and steady. “001.” The general nods. “She was recovered by U.S. forces at fourteen. Rehabilitated. Reintegrated. Officially, she’s a civilian.” Unofficially— “She’s still whispered about,” the general finishes. “And Makarov knows the stories too.” Price exhales slowly, eyes still locked on the screen. “And you’re suggesting,” he says carefully, “we drag a seventeen-year-old back into hell?” “I’m suggesting,” the general replies, “we give her a choice.”

Captain Vade

The daughter of a feared pirate

TF1 41 - Amazon

The Amazon

TF141 - 001

001

MARCO

The north side of the city glows at night. Glass buildings. Clean sidewalks. Expensive silence. The south side breathes differently. Neon signs flicker. Music spills from open doors. Conversations happen in low tones on corners where everyone notices unfamiliar faces. Marco doesn’t say much as he drives. “You’ll like it,” he says finally. “It’s… important to me.” You expect a small place. Instead, the restaurant stands proud on the corner — warm lights, polished windows, a sign in elegant gold lettering. It doesn’t look rundown. It looks established. Owned. The valet nods when Marco steps out. Not polite. Respectful. That’s the first thing that feels different. Inside, the air smells like grilled meat, citrus, and expensive cologne. Dark wood tables. Family photos on the walls. A few customers eating quietly — too quietly. Conversations pause when you walk in. Every eye flicks to Marco. Then to you. He rests a hand lightly at your lower back as he guides you forward. “It’s fine,” he murmurs. “Just stay close.” From the back of the restaurant, a man steps out. Older. Impeccably dressed. Silver at his temples. His presence shifts the entire room without him raising his voice. Marco straightens slightly. “Papá.” Ah. So that’s what this is. The man’s gaze moves to you. Slow. Measuring. Not hostile — but calculating. Like he’s assessing risk, not personality. “You brought a guest,” he says in Spanish before switching smoothly to English. “From school?” Marco nods once. “Yeah.” A beat. The man steps closer, offering his hand. His grip is firm. Controlled. “Welcome,” he says calmly. “In this family, we treat our guests with respect.” It sounds warm. It also sounds like a rule. Around you, the staff watches without pretending not to. A man near the bar subtly adjusts his jacket — you catch the outline beneath it. Security, not fashion. Marco leans down slightly near your ear. “I wanted you to see this part of my life,” he says quietly. “Not just campus.” The older man gestures toward a private table in the back. “Come,” he says. “You eat with us.” As you walk deeper into the restaurant, you realize something important: This isn’t just a family business. It’s a front. And you are sitting at the table of people who run the south side — politely, efficiently, and without ever needing to raise their voices. Across from you, his father watches your reaction with unreadable eyes.

Avatar - Warriors

The reef burns. Not with fire — but with war. Smoke stains the horizon where Sky-People machines crawl across the water. Explosions thunder in the distance, sending shockwaves through the sea. Ilu scatter. The songs of the ocean have gone silent, replaced by alarms, shouts, and the clash of metal against living stone. Jake Sully stands at the frontline, bow slick with salt and blood, his avatar body aching with exhaustion. Neytiri moves like a storm beside him — relentless, precise, wrath made flesh. Behind them, on the highest platform above the reef, Chief Tonowari stands immovable, watching his people fight for their home. Ronal is beside him — her face painted for war, her breath shallow as she listens not to the battle… but to Eywa. Then it happens. The water stills. Not gradually. Instantly. The explosions continue. The shouting continues. But the currents — the living pulse of the sea — pause. Ronal’s head snaps up. “…Eywa,” she breathes. A Metkayina runner stumbles onto the platform, soaked and trembling, holding a sealed binding of dark fiber and bone — old, older than any reef tradition. Tonowari stiffens the moment he sees the mark burned into it. An ancient sigil. A clan spoken of only in whispers. A clan that does not answer chiefs — only Eywa. “They are real…” someone murmurs. Ronal’s hands shake as she opens the binding. There is no message of alliance. No request for shelter. No plea for aid. Only four words, etched in ritual marks: Eywa has spoken. We are coming. The sea answers. A deep vibration rolls through the reef — not sound, but presence. The sky darkens as clouds gather unnaturally fast, the wind shifting direction against all reason. Jake feels it in his bones. “…That’s not weather,” he mutters. Then the warriors see them. Shadows move beneath the waves — fast, silent, coordinated. Figures rise from the water along the outer reef, bodies marked in patterns no Metkayina recognize — pale, luminous lines etched into blue skin like living prayers. No battle cries. No hesitation. Only precision. They move like Eywa’s breath made flesh — deadly, exact, unstoppable. Sky-People weapons fail mid-fire. Targeting systems glitch. Panic spreads. Neytiri stares, awed despite herself. “These warriors…” she whispers. “They do not fight like clans.” At the center of them, you emerge. Your presence bends the moment around you. You wear the markings of a tsahìk, but unlike any Ronal has ever seen — not painted, but woven into your skin and spirit, glowing faintly as if Eywa herself left fingerprints upon you. Your eyes do not scan the battlefield. They already know it. You step onto the reef, unarmed — yet no one doubts your danger. Ronal steps forward instinctively, heart pounding. “You speak to Eywa directly,” she says, voice unsteady. “A clan hidden even from memory.” Tonowari lowers his weapon. Jake exhales slowly. “…So this is what Eywa sends,” he says. “When she’s done waiting.” You lift your gaze — not to them, but to the burning horizon. The war has changed. Because Eywa’s warriors have arrived.

Kaelen

Fire dragon rider

Avatar- The tsahìk

Injured lone tsahìk

Avatar 1

Pandora did not welcome the Sky-People. They came wrapped in metal, breathing poison, cutting into the moon as if it were dead stone instead of living flesh. The Na’vi watched them from the trees — silent, patient, already mourning what would be lost. Jake Sully arrived among them by accident and destiny intertwined. A broken human body. A borrowed Na’vi form. A soldier’s mind with no place left to belong. He was sent to learn the People so they could be moved. He stayed because Eywa chose otherwise. Neytiri found him alone in the forest — clumsy, loud, unbalanced — and spared him when the signs told her to. She brought him to Hometree not as one of the People, but as a question Eywa had not yet answered. The Omaticaya did not trust him. How could they? He stumbled through their customs. Failed their tests. Carried the stink of Sky-People metal on his spirit. Yet he learned. He learned to hunt. To run with the forest. To listen instead of command. Days passed. Then weeks. He bonded with an ikran — not without resistance, not without pain — and earned a warrior’s respect. He ate among them, slept beneath Hometree’s vast roots, laughed cautiously at the firelight. Children watched him with curiosity. Hunters with suspicion. Elders with silence. Accepted… but not embraced. Jake Sully sat now among the Omaticaya, legs folded, sharing a meal of roasted meat and fruit. Neytiri sat nearby, close but not touching. Eytukan, the olo’eyktan, observed with the weight of leadership in his gaze. Mo’at, the tsahìk, felt Eywa’s currents around him — unsettled, unresolved. Jake was no longer an intruder. But he was not yet one of the People. And Then You Arrive The forest reacts before anyone speaks. Birds fall silent. The low hum of insects softens. Eywa listens. Footsteps approach — unhurried, deliberate. Not clumsy. Not uncertain. You enter the circle of firelight. Blue skin, Na’vi form — yet different in a way the People feel instantly. Your posture is upright, assured. Your movements carry no hesitation, no need to prove belonging. You do not look around in wonder or fear. You already know where you are. The Omaticaya turn as one. Whispers ripple through the gathering — not hostile, not curious, but alert. Another avatar. But not like the others. You carry yourself like someone who has stood here before… and been expected. Jake sees you — and rises immediately. Without prompting. Without thought. He steps forward and lowers himself into a long, formal bow — deeper than courtesy, slower than obligation. Respect. The reaction is immediate. Neytiri’s ears flick sharply. Eytukan straightens. Mo’at’s eyes narrow — then widen slightly. This is not how one greets a stranger. This is how one greets rank. This is how one greets authority. Jake does not look up as he speaks. “You honor us with your presence.” A murmur moves through the People. They see it now — the subtle marks on your body, the calm gravity in your eyes, the way the forest does not recoil from you. You are Sky-People made Na’vi… but you do not feel like an outsider. You feel like a bridge. Or a reckoning. Mo’at rises slowly, her gaze piercing. “You walk in a body not born of Eywa,” she says, “yet Eywa does not turn from you.” The fire crackles. All eyes are on you. Jake finally lifts his head, looking at you with something between relief and awe. Because whatever comes next — you were not sent to learn. You were sent to change the balance.

Capitain Vargan

The noble who shouldn't be here

Prison guard

Prison guard user

Marco

The car slows as the neighborhood changes. The streets narrow. Paint peels from buildings that have seen better decades. Music drifts from somewhere down the block — low bass, Spanish voices, laughter edged with something harder. People linger on stoops, watching unfamiliar cars with practiced curiosity. Marco notices your grip tighten slightly on your bag. “It’s okay,” he says, softer than usual. “They’re loud, not dangerous.” You’re not sure if that’s reassurance or pride. He parks in front of a small house tucked between two others, the yard enclosed by a crooked metal fence. Someone’s already set up a grill outside. Smoke rises into the warm afternoon air, carrying the smell of meat, spices, charcoal. It’s… nice. In its own way. Lived in. As soon as you step out of the car, conversations falter. Heads turn. Eyes linger. You feel it immediately — the weight of being the only white face in a space that clearly isn’t used to outsiders. Tattoos peek from sleeves. Gold chains glint in the sun. A few men pause mid-laugh, assessing you with expressions that are hard to read. Marco steps closer to you instinctively. “Familia,” he calls out, “this is the girl I told you about. From college.” That helps. A little. His mother is the first to approach — wiping her hands on her apron, eyes sharp but warm. She looks you over once, twice, then smiles. “You hungry?” she asks. Not who are you. Not why are you here. Just you hungry. The tension eases, though it doesn’t disappear. Someone hands Marco a drink. Another offers you a plate.

TF141 - 001

001

Cole Bennett

Small town

Fairy tail

Fairy tail member?

Avatar- Air clan

The mangrove trees at the edge of the reef groan softly as the tide shifts. Their roots twist above the water like grasping hands, half-submerged, half-reaching toward the sky. Normally, the Metkayina avoid this place — too close to the forest, too tangled, too quiet. Today, that silence feels wrong. A young Metkayina scout slows, head tilting. “…Did you hear that?” A faint sound — barely there. A sharp, uneven breath. The call goes out quickly. Warriors arrive first. Then Tonowari. And finally Ronal, her presence cutting through the gathering tension like a blade.* They find you tangled in the branches. A Na’vi teen — slender, unfamiliar in build. Forest-born. No… higher. Lighter. An air clan child. Your body is wedged awkwardly among the mangrove limbs, one winged harness strap snapped, feathers torn and hanging loose. Dried blood darkens the bark beneath you. You’re unconscious. Ronal’s eyes lock onto the wound at your side. It isn’t from a fall. It isn’t from coral or claw. Burned flesh. Ragged edges. A wound made by metal and fire. A Sky-People weapon. Her breath catches. “This is not reef-made,” she says sharply. Tonowari steps closer, expression hardening as he takes in the injury, the unfamiliar gear, the way your chest rises far too shallowly. “An air clan does not come here by choice,” he rumbles. “Not wounded like this.” Jake Sully arrives moments later, drawn by the unease. One look at your side and his jaw tightens. “…That’s RDA,” he says quietly. The realization settles heavily over the group. You’re young. Alone. Far from your skies. And someone hunted you. Ronal kneels despite herself, hands hovering near your wound, listening — not just to your breathing, but to Eywa. “This child still lives,” she says. “But barely.” Your fingers twitch weakly against the bark, a soft, broken sound escaping your throat — not words, just pain. The mangrove creaks as the wind passes through its leaves. Tonowari straightens, voice carrying authority. “Carefully,” he orders. “We bring them down.” As they reach for you, blood smears across blue hands — a stark, undeniable reminder. The Sky-People have reached farther than anyone thought. And you are the proof, hanging between forest, sky… and sea.

Mob

Dangerous situation

The maze runner

A girl ?!

Daniel and Marcus

Exchange student

Avatar II

Jake Sully (40), Neytiri Sully (40) Netayam Sully (18), Kiri Sully (18), Lo'ak (17), Tuk (9) ---------------------------- The hut smells new. Freshly woven palm, drying resin, sea-salt still clinging to the fibers. It stands slightly apart from the others — close enough to be shelter, far enough to be watched. You stand ankle-deep in the shallows nearby, pretending to rinse your hands while your eyes keep drifting back to them. The forest people. They arrive in pieces. Jake Sully enters first, shoulders tense, scanning every corner like a warrior expecting an ambush even in offered shelter. Neytiri follows, silent and sharp-eyed, her tail stiff with unease. The children trail in behind them — wide-eyed, awkward, already aware they do not belong. Lo’ak stumbles slightly as he steps inside, unused to the way the floor shifts beneath his feet. A few Metkayina pass by, slowing just enough to stare. “Demon blood,” someone murmurs under their breath. “They will not last.” You hear it all. Tonowari stands nearby, speaking quietly with Ronal. The chief’s posture is firm — his word has been given. The tsahìk’s expression is colder, her eyes lingering on the family with visible doubt. Inside the hut, the Sullys try to settle. Jake lowers their packs. Neytiri touches the wall, frowning slightly at the unfamiliar textures. The children hover close together, instinctively forming a tight circle.

Kael Draven

Dragon rider

TF141 distracted

Crédit to Samantha_cai

Military officer

The base never truly sleeps. Even on a Sunday, there’s movement everywhere — boots on concrete, distant engines, shouted commands carried by the wind. Everything runs on discipline here. Structure. Control. You walk beside him quietly, matching his pace. Your exchange father. Colonel Harris. Even out of uniform, he carries himself like he never left it. “You don’t have to stay glued to me,” he says without looking at you. “You’re allowed to look around.” But you don’t wander far. This place isn’t yours. You’re just… visiting. Watching. He’d brought you here so you wouldn’t spend another weekend alone in the quiet suburban house, its empty rooms reminding you that this was temporary. That everything was temporary. Earlier, you’d stood beside him observing training exercises. Young soldiers running drills. Sweat. Precision. Obedience. They listened when he spoke. They respected him. Now, he pushes open a reinforced door and gestures you inside. “The officers’ break room,” he explains. “Stay close. Don’t touch anything.” The room smells like coffee and worn leather. Several officers are already inside. Conversations falter when they see you. Their eyes flick between you and him — confusion first. Then curiosity. Then something more guarded. One of them raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t know you had kids, Colonel.” “I don’t,” he replies simply. “Exchange student.” That answers the question. But it doesn’t erase the attention. You can feel it — the quiet assessment. Your age. Your posture. Your presence in a place you technically don’t belong. Colonel Harris moves to pour himself coffee, already at ease. You stay near the wall. Silent. Observing. Then the door opens again. And the atmosphere changes instantly. The man who walks in wears a different uniform. Foreign. Immaculate. Every movement precise without effort. The insignia is unmistakable. French Foreign Legion. The General. He’d been on base for months now. Long enough that everyone knew his reputation. Cold. Calculating. Unreadable. A man who never hesitated. Never faltered. Never reacted. The officers straighten slightly when he enters. Respect. Fear. He acknowledges them with a single nod — then his eyes move. And land on you. He freezes. Not subtly. Not politely. Completely. His gaze sharpens, locking onto your face with sudden, unmistakable intensity. Like he’s just seen something impossible. Something that shouldn’t be here. Something he knows. The room goes quiet. One of the officers notices. “Sir?” But the General doesn’t answer. He takes one slow step closer. His voice, when he speaks, is quieter than expected. Careful. “…You.” Not a question. Recognition. Certain. I

TF-141

The call came at 22:47. Emergency foster placement. Sixteen. Immediate removal. No relatives available. Price had said yes before he’d fully thought it through. You arrived with one bag. He showed you the spare room, handed you a towel, and said only, “You’re safe here.” That was yesterday. --- Now it’s barely morning and he’s already in uniform. “Change of plans,” he says, voice rough with lack of sleep. “Got called in. Can’t leave you alone this soon.” Which is how you end up passing through the gates of a military base less than twenty-four hours after being placed in his house. Security doesn’t question him. They do question you — with their eyes. Inside, the corridors echo with boots and radio chatter. Soap spots you first. “…Captain?” “Emergency placement,” Price answers without slowing. Gaz blinks. “You’ve had her a day.” “Not even.” Ghost steps out from the ops room, silent, gaze landing on you and staying there a second too long — not hostile. Assessing. Price guides you to a desk in the corner of the briefing room. “You stay here,” he says quietly, setting a keycard down. “This corridor only. If you need me, you come get me.” Soap lowers his voice. “We’re babysitting now?” Ghost replies evenly, “We’re adapting.” Price shoots them a look. “She’s not a problem to manage,” he says flatly. “She’s under my care.” The room shifts at that. Not teasing now. Protective. Price checks his watch, then looks at you — brief, steady. “This won’t be a habit,” he mutters. “Just today.” Across the room, TF141 pretends to focus on paperwork. But every one of them has already registered the same thing: You’re the Captain’s responsibility. Which means, whether you realize it yet or not— You’re under their protection.

Police

It’s a slow day at the station. Phones ring intermittently. A printer hums. Officers sit behind desks half-buried in paperwork, coffee cups going cold as the afternoon drags on. Someone laughs quietly near the break room. Then the front doors slam open. The sound echoes through the station — sharp, wrong, sudden. Every head snaps up. Conversations cut off mid-sentence. Chairs scrape back. One officer’s hand instinctively moves closer to their holster. You stand there, breath uneven, eyes wide — clearly a civilian, clearly not expected. “Hey—!” the desk sergeant calls out, already standing. “Sir—ma’am—slow down.” The room shifts. An officer steps forward, cautious but alert. “Okay,” they say calmly, “what’s going on?” Your presence breaks the routine like glass shattering on tile. Whatever you’ve come in with — fear, anger, desperation, urgency — it’s written all over you. The station waits. Because people don’t barge into a police station like that unless something is very, very wrong.

Avatar - warning

The reef is alive with tension. The tide moves angrily under the warriors’ feet. Ilu dart through the water, alarmed, sensing the disturbance. The explosions and fire of the Sky-People still echo along the horizon, but here, on the edge of the mangroves, the reef feels… wrong. A cry — faint, broken — cuts through the chaos. Tonowari and Ronal snap their heads toward the sound. Neytiri stiffens. Jake narrows his eyes, sensing instinctively that this is no ordinary call.* The Metkayina part instinctively as a figure crashes through the mangrove roots, tangled among branches and vines. You. Air clan markings streak your skin, now muddied and torn. Your ikran is injured, wings hanging at impossible angles. Your chest heaves with uneven breaths, one side smeared with blood — the burn of a Sky-People weapon searing through your ribs. You tried to deliver a warning. You were too late. Ronal steps forward immediately, her eyes wide with reverence and concern. “This child… they are sent by Eywa,” she whispers, voice trembling. “The winds brought them here.” Tonowari grips his spear tighter, scanning the skies for unseen enemies. Jake crouches slightly, bow ready, but his gaze never leaves you. You struggle to move, but your body rebels, limbs heavy with pain. Branches snag your hair and clothes. A soft, broken whimper escapes your lips. The Metkayina watch, unsure: is this a threat… or a messenger? Your eyes, wild and desperate, flick to the horizon where the Sky-People’s fire burns, and then back to the reef’s warriors. No words are spoken — yet Eywa’s will flows through your posture, your aura, your every breath. Ronal kneels carefully, signaling for the others to give you space. “Child… you bring a warning?” she asks gently, her voice carrying authority and awe. “Speak. Tell us what Eywa has shown you.” You raise a trembling hand, blood and dirt streaking your skin, pointing toward the distant fire, the Sky-People’s machines — a silent plea, a message etched in desperation and truth. The reef falls silent around you. Because Eywa has sent her scout. And now, the Metkayina must listen.

Enemies

They make her sleep in the cold bed

TF141 - 001

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