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gardenladysworld · 15 days ago

Text

Starbound hearts

Status: I'm working on it

Pairings: Neteyam x human!f!reader

Aged up characters!

Genre/Warnings: fluff, slow burn, oblivious characters, light angst, hurt/comfort, pining

Summary: In the breathtaking, untamed beauty of Pandora, two souls from different worlds find themselves drawn together against all odds. Neteyam, the dutiful future olo'eyktan of the Omaticaya clan, is bound by the expectations of his people and the traditions of his ancestors. She, a human scientist with a love for Pandora’s wonders, sees herself as an outsider, unworthy of the connection she craves.

Tags: @fanchonfallen, @nerdylawyerbanditprofessor-blog, @ratchetprime211, @poppyseed1031, @redflashoftheleaf, @nikipuppeteer@eliankm, @quintessences0posts, @minjianhyung, @bkell2929, @erenjaegerwifee, @angelita-uchiha, @wherethefuckiskathmandu, @cutmyeyepurple, @420slvtt, @zimerycuellat @k-s-tumbler

Here we are the part that tell us who is Dr. Veyren and what he did to our precious reader. He could help, but maybe it has a price... Thank you for you patience! Love ya!

Part 25: To thread

Part 26: To change

A loud bang shattered the dream. You jerked awake, heart slamming against your ribs, the vision of Neteyam still clinging to the inside of your eyes. His touch. His voice. His panic. You gasped—sharp and dry—and sat bolt upright in the narrow bed, chest heaving, vision swimming from the sudden movement.

A muffled curse echoed from somewhere outside your room. “Fuck,” came the low voice again, rough and unmistakably human.

You blinked.

The sterile white walls were back. The humming machines. The steady IV drip tethered to your arm. No glowing tendrils, no warm moss beneath your feet, no golden eyes searching your face like you were salvation.

Just the cold reality of the underground.

You sagged back against the bed, exhaling a long, slow breath, staring up at the ceiling as your pulse slowly settled. The afterimage of the Tree of Souls still pulsed behind your eyes. The feel of Neteyam’s hand on your face… that had been so real.

But it was gone now. Another soft, frustrated “fuck” floated down the corridor, breaking through your thoughts.

You turned your head toward the door—it was still ajar, just as Veyren had left it the night before. The low hum of power systems ran beneath the silence, accompanied now by the occasional clink of metal, the quiet whine of something mechanical starting up, stopping, then starting again.

You sat up slowly this time, wincing as your sore muscles protested. You swung your legs over the edge of the bed and gingerly shifted upright, gripping the IV stand with your good hand. It rattled faintly as you pulled it closer, wrapping your fingers around the cold steel, steadying yourself. The wound on your head still hummed and the cut on your palm is still stinged, but it was surely better then days ago.

The hallway beyond the door stretched long, lined with doors on either side—sealed and windowless. The walls were reinforced, thick, stained in places where damp or time had crept in. This place was old. Older than the outpost. But it was still running. Still alive in its own quiet way.

You followed the noise slowly, one step at a time, the IV stand wheeling reluctantly behind you. Each footstep echoed faintly in the metal corridor. The lights overhead buzzed with a dull flicker, like they hadn't been replaced in years.

Another curse. Louder this time. “Stupid piece of—” You rounded the end of the hallway. And stopped.

The lab opened up before you—a large, circular chamber with high ceilings and walls bristling with equipment. The space was more advanced than you expected. Some of the tech was outdated—relics from the early RDA era—but a lot of it wasn’t. In fact, a lot of it was… new. The latest generations of biochemistry workstations, sequencing stations, neural simulators. Tools that even your outpost didn’t have access to yet.

Your brow furrowed.

How? How had Veyren gotten his hands on this stuff? This equipment was classified, regulated. The only places authorized to house them were the Bridgehead, a few main outposts on the other side of the moon—labs that had long since abandoned people like him.

Your eyes caught on something large to the right.

A pod. Not a stasis chamber. An avatar link bed. You froze.

Your breath caught in your throat as you stepped closer, wheels of the IV stand clicking softly across the floor. It was unmistakable—curved steel frame, gel cushioned interior, neural ports built into the crown.

You stared at it. Sleek, pristine white, quietly humming under a cluster of low-mounted monitors.

Your breath caught in your throat. Only a few of those were still active—most were at the outpost. Some still at Bridgehead, locked down under military oversight. Only certified drivers were assigned Avatars now, and everyone knew who they were.

But this one? Here? No registry tag. No oversight panel as you can see. Just here, in a secret underground lab.

Your thoughts spun—hard. This wasn’t just a hideout. This was a full-scale, unauthorized research facility. And then you saw him.

He was hunched at a worktable in the center of the room, his back to you, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He moved with slow precision, carefully inserting a glowing vial of sap into a cylindrical analyzer. Before him sat a narrow tray of tiny green stalks—roots curled like knotted hair, their surface bristling with fine, hair-thin tendrils.

He muttered something under his breath and jabbed at the controls again. The machine hissed softly.

You stepped closer and cleared your throat. Then lifted your voice. “…Good morning.”

Veyren jerked upright so fast he nearly knocked the stool behind him over. He turned sharply, eyes wide—and then narrowed when he saw you standing there, pale and hollow-eyed, gripping your IV pole like a staff. “You’re supposed to be in bed,” he said immediately, tone clipped but not unkind.

You shrugged one shoulder, weak but steady. “You made a lot of noise.”

He blinked at you. Then sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Old machine,” he muttered. “Reactor’s running hot. I told myself I’d recalibrate it days ago.”

You stepped into the room fully now, dragging the IV stand beside you, eyes scanning everything.

The lab smelled like earth and ozone. Like sterilized steel and rich, loamy rot—the scent of life being dissected, bottled, recorded. Your fingers brushed a nearby counter. Dusty. But not untouched. Used.

Lived in.

There were hundreds of notes here. Scribbled margins. Holo-maps. Cross-sections of brain tissues. Charts comparing human and Na’vi neural function. And plants. So many plants. Drying racks, hydro domes, live samples under glass.

Your fingers hovered over the closest datapad. “Your notes?” you asked.

He grunted. “Some of them. Others… well. Let’s just say I’ve been busy.”

You turned back to look at him—really look. His sleeves were rolled up. His hair was swiped back hastily. His face was lined with a kind of exhaustion you couldn’t name. Not from lack of sleep. From years. From silence.

Silence settled for a moment between you, thick with the smell of warmed metal and plant oils. Your eyes drifted again to the tray on the table. “What are you working on?”

He looked at you, and for a second, you thought he might deflect. But then something changed in his posture. His shoulders lifted. Not in pride. But in that subtle, automatic way people do when they are, however reluctantly, letting someone in.

“The same thing I’ve been working on for thirty years,” he said. “Trying to understand what this planet does that we can’t.”

You stared at the roots. They looked small. Ordinary. The ones that saved you. “You found me alive because of these?” you asked.

He didn’t answer immediately.

His hand stilled above the console, fingers curling slightly as though remembering the texture of the roots, the way they’d clung to your blood, as if… sensing it.

For a moment, he didn’t look at you. His gaze dropped to the tray, then flicked to the vial of sap, now slowly stabilizing in the analyzer.

When he finally met your eyes again, something behind them had shifted. Not fear. Not reverence, exactly. But something close to awe—the wary kind that a man like him would never admit aloud.

“That species shouldn’t be capable of clotting human blood,” he said slowly, voice lower now. “Its chemistry doesn’t match ours. It shouldn’t even register us. But it did. It found you.” A pause. “And it responded.”

His tone softened then, almost against his will. “It only grows in places sacred to Eywa. And you lived. When you shouldn’t have.”

You swallowed, the weight of it hitting harder than you expected.

You were still staring at the tray of roots when the discomfort crept in—quiet, creeping, sharp at the edges.

The hospital gown.

It wasn’t just uncomfortable, it felt… wrong. Exposed. Like wearing someone else’s skin. You crossed your arms tighter over your chest, the fabric thin and cold against your back, the IV line tugging lightly at your elbow with every movement.

And then the thought struck you.

Your satchel. Your field kit. Your data pad. Your clothes. The plant samples you gathered. All the things that had been on you—when he found you.

Your stomach twisted. Your jaw clenched. You tried to keep your voice steady as you turned toward him, arms crossed. “Where are my things?”

Dr. Veyren didn’t look up from the machine. “They’re in the secondary storage room,” he said evenly. “To the right, just past the greenhouse chamber.”

“Everything?” you pressed. “My satchel, samples, notes—clothes?”

At that, he paused. His hand stilled over the console. Then he glanced at you, just briefly, as if catching the edge of something in your tone.

“Yes,” he said. “Everything.” A beat. “I washed the clothing,” he added. “They were… beyond filthy. You’ll find them in a clean storage wrap on the shelf.”

You tried not to let your face show anything. You tried not to flinch.

But your mind flashed—unbidden—to the moment he’d found you. Unconscious. Bleeding. Collapsed in the mud, soaked in rain and grime and probably god knows what else. And then—

He must have removed everything.

Your hands tightened slightly where they were folded across your chest. Your skin crawled with unease, a cold shiver rising up the back of your neck.

Don’t think about it. Don’t go there.

You reminded yourself: you were alive. He’d saved your life. Cleaned your wounds. Hooked you to an IV. And for all his strange, quiet eccentricities, nothing about him had felt threatening. Not once. Still—You shuddered. And not in the good way.

Veyren didn’t miss it.

He didn’t say anything, but you caught it—the faint tightening of his jaw, the flick of guilt that passed over his features like a shadow under glass. He didn’t apologize.

You weren’t sure if you wanted him to. You shifted your weight, trying to re-center yourself. Your eyes drifted back to the link pod in the corner, still humming gently behind the sealed glass. A single green status light blinked at its crown.

Something else itched at your mind now.

Your voice was careful when you spoke again. “Why is there a functional link pod in your lab?”

That got a reaction.

He didn’t look up. Didn’t speak for several seconds. But his shoulders tensed—just enough for you to notice. Just enough to confirm what you already knew: he didn’t want to answer.

You waited.

He adjusted the temperature control on the analyzer, typed something into a secondary console, let the hum of machines stretch between you like a wall. You almost thought he wouldn’t respond.

But then— He sighed. Long. Heavy. The kind of exhale that sounded like it had been sitting in his lungs for years. Still, he didn’t turn to face you. “Get your things,” he said finally. “Go back to your room.”

You opened your mouth—to protest, to demand more—but he raised a hand slightly, forestalling the interruption.

“I’ll come remove the IV once you’re dressed.” He finally glanced at your arm—just briefly. Then, softer, he added, “And I’ll bring you something to eat first.”

The silence that followed was too heavy to argue with.

You looked at him for another long moment, watching the faint flicker of monitor light dance across the sharp lines of his profile. His jaw was clenched. His eyes stayed fixed on his work. And you knew then—it wasn’t that he didn’t have an answer.

It was that the answer cost him something. You nodded once. Quietly.

Then turned toward the hall, dragging the IV behind you as you walked, the metal pole clicking softly over the floor.

The unanswered questions stacked behind your eyes like stormclouds. But for now, you would get dressed. You would feel human again.

And then, you would start digging for the truth.

You found the storage room exactly where he’d said.

Past the greenhouse chamber—now overgrown and humid with silent life—you stepped into a narrow, temperature-stable space lined with sealed containers and storage racks. The lighting flickered gently overhead, motion sensors humming softly as the room came alive to your presence.

You moved on instinct. Your body already knew what to look for.

Your satchel was on the third shelf, tucked inside a clean polymer wrap, carefully sealed. You peeled it open slowly, your fingers numb, almost afraid of what you’d find.

Inside, everything was exactly where it should be. Clothes. Samples. Data pad. Field kit. Knife, tucked in its sheath. Everything except… you.

You pulled out your data pad last. And stopped cold. The screen was completely shattered.

Fractures spread out like a spiderweb across the display, catching the light like broken glass. The edges were warped. The chassis bent—only slightly, but unmistakably.

You stared at it, heart sinking. Turned it over. Pressed the power key anyway. Nothing. No charge light. No response.

Dead.

And not the kind of dead that could be fixed with a charge cable. You must’ve fallen on it when you hit the ground. Back in the forest. When the earth had collapsed beneath you and the world went black.

You sat down slowly on the edge of the room’s lone bench, the satchel still in your lap, the broken device cradled in your hands like a corpse.

You wanted to blame something—anything—but the truth was too simple. You’d fallen. And it had been under you. Stupid. So fucking stupid.

You swallowed the bitter taste in your mouth and placed the datapad back in your bag. Quietly. Carefully. Like handling grief. Then your hand brushed fabric. Clothing. Folded, cleaned. Still warm from the climate seal.

Your old shirt. The cargo trousers with the torn seam at the ankle. The underlayers that had once stuck to your body with sweat and blood, now stripped of scent and memory. They smelled faintly of soap. Just… plain soap. No preservatives, no synthetic floral additives—just something clean and chemical and forgettable.

But it was still better than the filth you’d been living in. Better than the cold, clinical gown clinging to your skin like a borrowed identity.

You undressed slowly.

The air touched your skin like a stranger. You kept your back to the door even though you were alone. Habit.

You pulled on your pants first, wincing at the tightness across your knees—your body hadn’t fully stopped trembling. Your shirt next. Familiar fabric. Familiar stretch across the shoulders. You had to roll the sleeves up twice, the way you always did.

The motions were muscle memory. But they didn’t feel like yours.

The clothes fit. They still held the shape of you. But you—the version of you who had packed these things into a field bag, who had kissed Neteyam goodbye with a lazy smile and a "don’t worry, I’ll be back by nightfall"—she was gone.

And the person putting them back on? She didn’t know where she was. She didn’t know what she was. She ran a hand over her face and exhaled slowly, grounding herself in the steady feel of clean cotton against skin, the creak of boots as she rolled her ankles.

And for the first time since waking in that sterile white room, you felt like a person again. Not a patient. Not a specimen. Not a broken body under someone else’s care.

You rolled your shoulders. Let your hands curl into fists. Let your breath settle in your lungs with something close to control. But that feeling didn’t last. Because the questions were still waiting.

Heavy. Sharp-edged. Coiled beneath your skin like wire.

Where were you? Not a vague location. Not somewhere in Omatikaya territory. You wanted coordinates. Maps. Context. You wanted to know what the hell kind of lab had functioning link pods and top-tier biosynthetic tech buried beneath the forest floor without anyone knowing.

You wanted to know how Dr. Elias Veyren had ended up here—alive, after decades of presumed death—his name erased from every channel you’d ever searched, his research pulled from syndicate archives, his work spoken of only in past tense by the best minds in your field.

You wanted to ask him why he vanished. Why no one had ever come looking for him. Why you’d looked up to a ghost for half your academic life only to find him living in the shadows with more tech than the outpost had access to and more secrets than he was willing to say aloud.

And maybe most of all—you wanted to know what he saw when he looked at you.

Not physically. Not medically. Not even professionally. But in those rare, flickering moments when his eyes lingered too long and his voice dropped lower. He knew something. You were sure of it. But what were you allowed to ask? What right did you even have?

He had saved your life. That wasn’t up for debate. He’d found you in a den of monsters, dying, broken, alone. And he’d carried you here. Cleaned you. Kept you alive. Treated your wounds with precision and care, fed you real food, let you walk free through a hidden lab built on silence and ghosts.

What kind of questions did you get to ask a man who’d done all that? What answers would you even believe?

You leaned forward, gripping the table edge. Your thoughts were a knot—tangled, tight, half-formed. You didn’t know if he was your captor or your savior.

You didn’t know if he was hiding something dark—or simply protecting a truth that hurt too much to speak.

But one thing you did know: You couldn’t stay in the dark.

Not anymore.

You returned to the room slowly, the IV pole clicking behind you like a reluctant shadow. The bed looked smaller now that you were standing in your own clothes again. Less like a refuge. More like a cage you’d briefly forgotten you were in.

You sat at the edge of it and waited. The silence was heavier than it had any right to be.

Eventually, the door opened. Veyren stepped in, a metal tray balanced in one hand, a small sealed medkit in the other. He glanced at you, then at your arm.

“Ready?” he asked.

You nodded, watching as he set the tray down on the nearby table, then moved toward you without hesitation. The IV came out smoothly—deft hands, practiced motion. He applied a fresh seal strip over the insertion site, pressing it down with clinical precision.

Neither of you spoke for several seconds.

Then, you broke the silence. “Thank you,” you said quietly.

He didn’t answer at first. Just gave a tight nod. His eyes flicked up to yours—just once—and then away again.

You tried again, voice lighter, as though you could trick both of you into a real conversation. Only then did he speak. “You’re healing faster than I expected.”

You arched a brow. “Should I apologize?”

His mouth twitched. Just slightly. “No. But if you feel compelled to say thank you, I won’t stop you.”

You didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, you tried something softer. “You know, most people introduce themselves when they meet someone.”

“I’m not most people.”

“Yeah,” you muttered, “I figured that part out.”

Silence again. You didn’t want to push—but you were so tired of silence. Of feeling like you were trespassing in your own life. So you tried again. “You know, our scientists would kill for half the tech you’ve got in that lab.”

That earned a slight lift of one eyebrow. “Most scientists don’t know what to do with what they already have.”

You gave a soft exhale, part amused, part tired.

“I take it you’re not a fan of the outpost researchers?”

He finally looked at you again—really looked, this time. Something behind his eyes sharp and unreadable. Calculating, maybe. Or just… disappointed.

“I know about your outpost,” he said.

You froze, barely managing to keep your expression neutral. “You… do?”

He nodded once. “I’ve known since it was built.”

That landed in your chest like a stone. All this time.

All these years you’d been working and cataloguing and running patrols—and he’d been here. Watching? Listening? You weren’t sure which idea made your skin crawl more. “And no one ever noticed you?”

“Clearly,” he said, voice dry.

You stared at him. “But… how?” you asked. “Why would you stay hidden? Why not reach out?”

He didn’t respond. Of course he didn’t. You watched him as he picked up a datapad from the table and typed something. His posture was rigid, careful. He wasn’t shutting you out—he just wasn’t letting you in. And that made the next question harder to ask. “…Why did you save me?”

The keys on his pad clicked once more. Then stopped. He didn’t lift his eyes. “I don’t know.”

Bullshit.

You didn’t say it aloud. But it sat there between you. Instead, he turned back toward you and nudged the sealed meal tray your way. “Eat.”

You opened it. Something with rice. Fungi. It was warm, clean, tasted like nutrients and fatigue. You didn’t complain. You ate in silence. He did too—leaning against the far console, sipping something from a metal cup, still half-watching his holopad.

And when you finished, you stood. He didn’t stop you. You walked.

He looked up. Brow furrowed slightly. “You should be focused on healing.”

“I am,” you replied. “And walking helps.”

He didn’t argue. He just nodded toward the corridor. “Don’t go into the west wing. It’s sealed for a reason.” You didn’t push. Not yet. Instead, you wandered.

Lunch came later. A tray left at your door—rice, something leafy, a broth that smelled faintly medicinal but tasted okay. You ate it slowly, stomach unsure of what to do with real food again.

Then you walked. Carefully.

The hallway outside the room was long, quiet. You moved with caution, one hand trailing along the wall, the other clutching the edge of your satchel. You passed the sealed doors again—the ones he hadn’t explained. You didn’t try to open them. Not yet.

Back in the lab, the machines buzzed softly. Screens flickered with data, unreadable from a distance. You recognized some neural graphs. Hemoglobin markers. Oxygen tolerance levels. Half a dozen plant species under observation—roots curled in sterile soil, some glowing faintly under UV.

He wasn’t in sight, but you could hear him nearby. Typing. A rhythmic click, broken only by occasional swipes on a holo-surface.

You wandered carefully. Not snooping, exactly—but your eyes took everything in.

Every datapad. Every console. Every blinking sensor light.

You didn’t know what you were looking for—proof? Danger? Escape routes?—but you needed to feel like you were doing something. Not just waiting.

You passed the link pod again, the green indicator still pulsed softly at its crown. You stared at it.

Who had used it? Did he? Was he still using it?

You didn’t ask. Not yet. Your head throbbed at the base of your skull—dull, persistent. The place you’d hit when you fell still ached like something cracked under the surface. And your palm… you checked the bandage. Still weeping. Still too deep to close without proper sealant.

You wouldn’t survive another trek through the forest. Not with your head spinning like this. Not with one good hand. Not without knowing where you even were.

You needed to get your shit together. But first… you needed answers.You circled the lab again, slower now. The shelves near the far wall were full.

Old-fashioned books—actual paper, bound and labeled in Veyren’s careful, straight-line handwriting—lined the metal racks in neat, obsessive rows. Dozens of notebooks. Manual logs. Field journals. Half-cracked spines held together with tape and time.

You traced your fingers along the edge of one, feeling the dust, the texture, the years etched into it.

It was like stepping back into your teenage bedroom.

Back when you used to stay up too late reading his archived research under the covers, lit by a dim handheld torch. When your walls were plastered with data maps and Na’vi anatomical sketches—some of them printed straight from his old published papers, others copied lovingly by hand. You’d wanted to understand this world the way he did. You wanted to see it with the same quiet intensity he’d written with.

Even now, seeing his work again—here, real, tangible, arranged like sacred scripture—made something ache in your chest.

His notes were obsessive, yes. But never cold.

Unlike the others who came here chasing grants and prestige, Veyren's voice had always been different. More reverent. More intentional. Every journal entry you’d ever read, every recording he’d made, hummed with the same quiet belief: that Eywa wasn’t just biology. She was something beyond that. Something that wanted to be understood—if only you learned to listen.

He didn’t just study Pandora. He followed it. Like a song you only heard in dreams.

Your fingers tightened on the spine of one field notebook. You felt like that teenager again—hungry, starry-eyed, full of wonder.

But the wonder didn’t last.

Because you could feel him.

Always.

Watching.

Somewhere behind you, across the lab’s gentle hum of machinery and filtered air, you knew exactly where he was. Maybe you couldn’t see him, but you felt the weight of his gaze as if it were another layer of skin.

He always knew where you were in this place.

Every time you paused, every time your hand hovered over something, you heard the faint tap of keys. A new line added. Another data point entered. You didn’t know what he was writing—but you knew it was about you.

You turned your head slightly, caught a reflection in a dusty monitor screen.

He was at the far station—half in shadow, eyes flicking from his holopad to you, then back again. Like he was trying not to be caught watching.

But not really trying that hard. Your heart beat faster. You turned back to the shelves, gripping the notebook tighter. You weren’t a girl anymore. Not a fan. Not a student.

And yet, standing here in a room full of his life’s work, you felt… observed. Like a subject, not a guest. Like something under a behavioral trial. An experiment waiting for a shift in pattern.

You didn’t know if that scared you more than it hurt. You swallowed.

Why? Why was he watching you like this? Why was he tracking everything you did—the way you walked, the way you spoke, the things you noticed first when you entered a room? What was he looking for?

You glanced back at him again. He didn’t flinch this time.

Just met your eyes. Calm. Quiet. That strange, unreadable expression resting like a mask. The tap-tap-tap of keys resumed. And you knew, deep in your gut, that he was logging the look you’d just given him.

You let the notebook slide back onto the shelf and you stepped back from it.

The warmth from moments ago—the joy, the awe, the quiet thrill of standing in the presence of your greatest idol—began to cool.

Because no matter how brilliant he’d been, no matter how much you’d admired him— You didn’t know this man. Not really. Not yet. But if he was watching you? Then you were going to watch him, too.

Eventually, you returned to your room.

The hallway was dimmer now—motion lights flickering on ahead of your steps, casting long shadows that bent and stretched along the walls like reaching limbs. You walked slowly, boots soft against the metal flooring, your eyes scanning the labeled doors as you passed them.

Storage Room. Greenhouse. Specimen Lab 2. Archive. Sterilization Chamber.

Each one sealed, blinking passively behind reinforced panels. Neat. Clinical. Unwelcoming.

Your room was marked only by a small light above the doorway, blinking green. Across from it, another door—unlabeled. Probably his.

East wing. He’d said that’s where you were allowed to roam. East side only.

“Don’t go into the western wing.”

You remembered the way he’d said it—calm, but deliberate. Like someone setting a boundary not just for protection, but for containment. And now, walking alone in the corridor, you passed a sharp corner where a closed security door marked the boundary. A solid bulkhead. A different lock.

Nothing moved on the other side. No sound. No lights. You didn’t step closer. You didn’t want to.

Your hand hovered, for a moment—just above the edge of the wall. Just long enough to feel the cold that radiated from the metal there. But every hair on your body stood up as you stared into that dark corridor. It wasn’t just the lighting.

It was the feel of the air there. Stale. Heavier. A subtle pressure, like something was sleeping behind those walls and didn’t want to be disturbed.

You stepped away from it. Slowly. And then you turned away. Back to your room. You don’t remember lying down.

It was sometime in the afternoon, you thought. Hard to tell. There were no windows here. No sunrises or birdsong. No forest sounds to anchor your body to time.

You slept.

The kind of sleep that isn’t rest—just blackout. The world blinked out in one moment and didn’t come back until you heard footsteps again.

The door creaked open softly. Veyren stepped in, placed a tray on the small shelf beside the bed. Dinner. Warm. Something stewed with root vegetables and rice again.

He didn’t speak.

You watched him through heavy eyelids, and he met your gaze only once—brief, unreadable—before stepping back through the door and disappearing down the hall again.

You sat up, slowly, and ate. Then lay back down. Slept again. You weren’t sure how long you were out. Could’ve been an hour. Could’ve been five.

But something woke you. Not a sound. The lack of one. The silence was total.

No footsteps. No typing. No rustle of clothing. No movement from Veyren’s part of the lab.

Even the soft hum of the machines around you—the ones you’d grown used to, like the low static of a sleeping city—felt fainter now. Muted. Like they were holding their breath.

You sat up, heart thumping harder than it should. It was cold.

You could feel it in your fingers. In the air. Somewhere outside your door, one of the systems had shifted into a lower cycle—perhaps a night mode. And that meant Veyren had gone to sleep.

If he slept. The silence had changed.

It wasn’t peace. It was vacuum. A kind of void where the machines still hummed faintly, but your brain had tuned them out so completely that now their presence felt like static—like noise with meaning pulled out of it. Just that constant, white background thrum of systems that should always be there.

But he wasn’t. You felt it. The difference.

Veyren wasn’t typing. He wasn’t moving in the lab. No low murmurs into the comm, no shifting instruments, no soft clangs of glass or metal.

And even though you were alone in your room, and safe, and warm, and fed… something about it felt wrong.

Too still.

Like the facility itself had paused to listen. You sat with that feeling for a long while. In the dark. Legs pulled to your chest. Staring at nothing. Listening to the hum.

And thinking, not for the first time—What was in the western wing? And how much longer could you pretend you didn’t want to find out?

Your head still throbbed faintly at the nape, a dull, dragging ache like a bruise pressed against your skull.

Veyren hadn’t said much throughout the day. Hadn’t explained what he was working on. Or what this place was. Or what that link pod was for. He answered questions like he was allergic to them—dodging some, flat-out ignoring others. And when he did speak, it was always half-sentences, a man unraveling threads you didn’t have a name for.

You were grateful he saved you.

But you were starting to hate how he did it.

You clenched your jaw, rubbing your hands over your face. It felt like being buried alive.

No signal. No window. No sky.

Your outpost could be right above you for all you knew—and you’d never know it. You could be a five-minute walk from the nearest trail and still be invisible to every tracking beacon on the planet.

And the worst part? You weren’t even sure if he was lying.

That was what made it worse. If he was a monster, it would be easy to hate him. If he was cruel, or controlling, or manipulative, you could fight it. But Veyren was… none of those things.

He was calm. Detached. And absolutely certain you couldn’t leave yet. And unfortunately—he was right. Your head ached. Your body felt hollow. Just getting to the door left your legs shaking, like you were made of paper and willpower alone.

You closed your eyes. You didn’t want to stay here. But you couldn’t leave. And that quiet, gnawing helplessness boiled behind your ribs like acid.

The silence pressed in again. Not even the hum of machines from the lab. Not the occasional muttered curse or clink of tools like you’d heard the night before. Wherever he was now—Veyren had disappeared.

You stood slowly, quietly, pulling your jacket tighter around yourself. You moved toward the door, gripping the edge for balance as you stepped into the hall. The corridor was dim now—only a few overhead lights still flickering, half the bulbs faded or dead entirely.

No sound.

No motion.

The hallway was long, sterile, and quiet enough to hear your own heartbeat in your ears.

You walked toward the lab, dragging your fingertips along the cold wall as you went. You weren’t sure what you were looking for—answers, maybe. Or a reason to trust him. Or just something to do before your sanity splintered completely.

Maybe all three.

When you reached the entrance to the lab, you paused just outside the threshold.

It was empty. No Veyren. No movement. He went really to sleep.

But the equipment still glowed faintly, machines on standby. The root samples still lay beneath bio-shielded trays. The link pod sat silent in the corner, its green status light blinking in an even rhythm. Waiting. Like it had been for years.

You stepped inside.

The smell was the same. Clean. Earthy. A place that had seen life dissected and studied a thousand different ways.

You settled into the desk chair slowly, the squeak of the worn frame louder than expected in the silence. The main workstation looked lived-in—scratched and smudged, cluttered but clearly functional. A chaos of purpose.

The dim blue of the holoscreen still hovered above the table’s surface, flickering softly with layers of plant diagnostics and neural conductivity charts. You recognized the layout immediately—standard scientific interface, customized, yes, but nothing foreign to your trained eyes. In fact, it was eerily similar to your own desk setup back at the outpost. Files labeled in truncated codes. Specimen logs cross-referenced against planetary cycles. Field images looped into folders by date, strain, and cellular behavior.

There was order here.

Not the rigid, sterile order of RDA labs, but the kind born from obsession. Familiar. Intimate. You felt something strange settle in your chest—comfort, maybe. A whisper of normalcy.

Dozens of plant samples were suspended in different containment units, many mid-analysis. You noted the familiar hum of thermal cultures at work, the faint scent of ethanol and synthetic agar. This lab was alive. Still researching. Still discovering. Which meant he wasn’t hiding from science—just from everyone else.

Your gaze fell to a cluster of datapads stacked haphazardly beside the main console. You picked one up, wiping the smudge from its surface. It blinked awake immediately, unlocked. No password. Either he didn’t care, or he hadn’t expected you to be curious enough—or strong enough—to come snooping.

Bad assumption.

You navigated quickly, pulling up the file structure. He had decades of archives—video entries, annotated logs, raw field footage. All of it arranged meticulously by date. Not compressed. Not hidden.

Accessible.

You scrolled back—past the 2170s… 2160s… further.

2140.

The folder marked simply: ARRIVAL.

Your heart stuttered. You tapped it.

A list of log entries appeared, each stamped with a time, a personal note, some tagged with “transferred to Grace,” others left without description. You selected the first—log 1.0—and cast it to the main holoscreen.

A second later, the screen above the desk brightened, then flickered.

And there he was.

A younger Dr. Elias Veyren.

You exhaled sharply, surprised by the jolt in your chest. He couldn’t have been older than thirty—maybe thirty-two, if that. Still lean and angular, but without the hollows time would carve into his face. His jaw was clean-shaven, his hair still dark and wild, curling a little at the temples. His eyes were just as pale—but back then, they shimmered with energy, not exhaustion.

He sat in front of a background you recognized immediately—the classic modular labs from Hell’s Gate, back when they were new. You could see the orange stripes on the steel walls behind him, the old-school terminals blinking faintly at the edge of the frame.

“Day twenty-nine,” he said, breathless and grinning. “God, I don’t even know where to start.”

His voice was younger, too. Not just in pitch, but in tone—brighter, quicker. Eager.

“I’m still trying to catch my breath. I think I’ve slept five hours total in the past three days, but it’s worth it. Every second here feels like—I don’t know—like I’m stepping into someone else’s dream. The jungle, the energy of it, it’s alive in a way I can’t explain to the board without sounding like I’ve lost my mind.”

He laughed, and it was so earnest you couldn’t help but smile faintly.

“Grace said that’d wear off in a few months, but I don’t think it will. I feel like a kid again. Everything I studied back on Earth—everything I thought I knew—it doesn’t compare to seeing Pandora breathe beneath your feet.”

He looked off-camera for a second, probably toward someone—maybe Grace herself—and then back.

“I’m not just running data. I’m part of something real. Something big. I keep waiting for someone to wake me up and tell me the launch never happened, that I’m still back in the dome at Stanford with a stack of grant rejections and a half-burnt paper on cortical plant memory.”

Another laugh.

“Anyway. First week in the field with Augustine tomorrow—God, she’s everything they said. Brilliant. Intimidating. Completely allergic to bullshit. And she likes me. I think. She keeps calling me ‘the eager one.’ I’m taking that as a win.”

You felt your throat tighten.

The joy in his voice. The wonder.

“God, I wish everyone could see it like this,” he laughed softly, glancing off-screen as if someone else were in the room. “Not with scanners. Not with meters. Just... with their own eyes. This world wants to be seen. And we’re only scratching the surface.”

He paused.

Then turned back to the recorder.

“This isn’t just a new biosphere. This is a conversation. And I think Eywa—whatever Eywa is—she’s trying to talk to us.”

The entry ended there. No formal sign-off. Just that sudden end, like he’d rushed off to go catalogue something else that couldn’t wait.

Your breath caught a little in your chest.

This… this was the man you’d idolized as a teenager. The prodigy biologist who broke barriers in comparative xenoneurology before his thirtieth birthday. The one whose name was whispered beside Augustine’s like an echo—her protégé, her colleague. Until his name disappeared from the logs. Until he vanished.

You leaned forward, elbows on your knees, watching the flickering ghost of him speak with a kind of reverence you hadn’t felt in years.

God, you’d loved these vids.

When you were sixteen, you’d memorized his face. Quoted his lectures in arguments with your instructors. You had downloaded, illegally, a holovid of a symposium where he spoke about plant neuro-signaling across the planetary neural web. You watched it more times than you could count.

And now here you were. Sitting in his chair. Beneath his ceiling. Surrounded by his unfinished work, in a place no one even knew existed.

And the man himself—forty years older, quieter, broken in ways you hadn’t yet mapped—was sleeping somewhere in the dark halls behind you.

You paused the recording.

The silence that followed was almost painful.

You sat there for a long time, holding the data pad against your knees, the flickering image of his younger self frozen mid-smile on the screen. It felt… wrong. To see that man, so vibrant, so hopeful, and know what he would eventually become. What this place would eventually do to him.

And you couldn’t help but wonder— What had happened to him? What had broken the man on this screen?

Your fingers hovered over the screen, scrolling past log after log—each with its own cryptic header, some titled with research notes, others simple timestamped files. There were dozens. No—hundreds.

2141.

The year his first major publication hit Earth’s xenobotany community like a solar flare. The year he co-authored with Grace Augustine. The year he became the Elias Veyren.

Your pulse picked up.

You tapped one at random, heart thudding, skin buzzing like static beneath your clothes. This was like opening a time capsule—except the time capsule was filled with someone’s soul. These weren’t press conference reels. These weren’t the tight, polished symposium sound bites you’d memorized as a teenager. These were raw.

Unfiltered. You hesitated—for a breath. Just one. Because suddenly this didn’t feel academic. This felt personal.

A part of you whispered: This is wrong. You shouldn’t be watching this. These are his private logs. His thoughts, not yours. But then again—he’d locked nothing. Hidden nothing. And if he’d just told you what the hell was going on, maybe you wouldn’t have been drawn to this quiet hunt for the truth.

So you tapped the file. The holoscreen blinked—and he appeared again.

Still young, still bright-eyed, the lighting now slightly better—His hair was longer now, messier, curling around his ears in chaotic waves. His lab coat was open, half-slipped off one shoulder like he’d forgotten it was there.

“Alright, alright,” he said, nearly buzzing, “so here’s the thing. The masks. The goddamn masks.”

You smiled, despite yourself.

“I hate them. I hate the sound they make when the filter cycles, I hate how they fog when you breathe too fast, I hate the pressure line against your temples when you wear them for more than six hours.” “Which, by the way, I’ve done. Sixteen hours today. Jungle mapping in Sector E. No breeze. Sixty percent humidity. If I pass out from oxygen starvation, someone tell Grace she was technically right.”

He laughed under his breath and rolled his eyes.

“Anyway, we ran new density scans today, and—yeah, no surprise, the air’s still a death trap. But that’s not the point. The point is—Pandora is too big for twenty avatars.” “The program’s great. We all love it. Yay, diplomacy. Yay, bridge-building. But you want to map this moon? Study it properly? We need hundreds of bodies. We need integration. Real integration.”

He was talking faster now, hands gesturing wildly.

“One Na’vi tribe alone covers more ground in a week than the entire avatar program can chart in a year. And that’s not even getting into the spiritual structures we’re missing—the way they navigate by Eywa, by memory, not maps.”

You leaned closer, heart pounding.

That intensity. That wild conviction. This was the Veyren who wrote ten books in one year. The Veyren whose name appeared in your first teenage research essay no fewer than twelve times, underlined and footnoted and quoted with breathless reverence. You inhaled his work like air that summer—one book after another, sitting by your window, scribbling thoughts in the margins like they might summon him to your desk.

And now here he was.

Still glowing with the same fire.

He ran his hand through his hair, exasperated but buzzing with thought. You saw the moment it hit him—a little shift in his shoulders, a brightness in his expression.

“But what if—” he murmured, voice dropping into something quieter, more charged. “What if there’s a way to adapt us? Not just borrow Na’vi bodies. What if we could—”

“Elias,” came a voice from offscreen.

Your breath caught. You knew that voice.

Grace Augustine.

She stepped briefly into frame, holding a thermal mug and wearing a face like she’d seen this particular brand of idealism too many times before. Her eyebrows arched, mug hovering near her lips.

“You know there’s no way a human can breathe this air, right?”

Veyren grinned, eyes wide and slightly defiant. “Yet.”

Grace groaned audibly and took a long sip of her drink. “You’re gonna get yourself exiled from this program if you keep chasing impossible biology.”

“Only if I fail,” he muttered, almost under his breath. Veyren didn’t even turn. “I’m just saying the masks are outdated tech.”

“Yeah,” she snorted. “So is your skull, and that’s why you still need it.”

“Thank you, Grace. Always a comfort.”

She raised the mug like a toast and vanished back out of frame, leaving behind only a faint chuckle and the echo of her sarcasm.

Veyren was smiling, but when he turned back to the camera, something in his face changed.

Not gone. Just quieter. More certain.

“I know she’s right,” he said softly. “Biochemically, she’s right. Pandora’s air kills humans in two minutes, maybe three if you hyperventilate on pure oxygen first.” “But still…”

He leaned in.

And for a second, his voice dropped to something almost reverent.

“I know Eywa would let us breathe. If we listened. If we proved we wanted it.” The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it felt like prayer. “I don’t think we’re meant to stay behind glass forever. I think she’s waiting for us to catch up.”

The screen blinked.

And then the feed cut. End of entry.

You sat frozen, the screen still glowing in the dim lab, casting shifting light across your face. That version of him—restless, clever, brimming with vision—he had never been satisfied with the limits placed on science. Not even biological ones.

The weight of what you’d just seen pressed heavy against your chest. You leaned back slowly, exhaling through your nose. He hadn’t wanted to escape the forest like the rest of the scientists. He wanted to belong to it. And now… now he was buried under it.

You tapped the next log.

Late 2142.

The screen flickered again—this time catching Veyren mid-bite, chewing something off a metal fork, clearly trying to eat while recording. A tin of stew sat next to a stack of unfiled notes, his sleeves rolled halfway up, neck damp with sweat. He looked tired—but not in the way he did now. Not the weariness that came from years of isolation. This was the kind of exhaustion born from life—too much of it, all at once.

“Okay, log 1066.” he mumbled around the bite, grinning faintly, “Grace says if I don’t stop eating on camera, she’s gonna start muting my logs.” He swallowed, lifted his eyes to the recorder. “Anyway. Long day. Big one.”

He shifted slightly, something in his posture relaxing.

“The school’s finally open.” Your breath hitched.

“Grace is calling it a ‘learning exchange initiative,’ because apparently we’re not supposed to use the word ‘school’ around the kids yet. She thinks it’ll scare them off. Hell, maybe she’s right.” He let out a soft laugh. “But it’s real. It’s happening. We’re a few clicks from Hell’s Gate—remote enough that the clan elders don’t feel like we’re intruding, but close enough that we can run supply lines.” “Today was our first trial day. No curriculum yet, no real structure. Just a few hours. Grace brought books, some holodiscs, a few artifacts she thought they might like. I didn’t bring anything. I just... watched.”

His voice went quiet for a second.

Then—gentler: “I’ve never seen Na’vi children before.”

He rubbed at the back of his neck, then shook his head like he couldn’t believe the words coming out of his mouth.

“They’re just... kids. Running, shouting, half-covered in paint. Most of them were too nervous to come close. Some of them didn’t even want to look at us. I don’t blame them. We’ve done nothing to earn their trust. Not as a species.”

He paused, staring past the screen for a long moment, his face softer than you’d ever seen it.

“Grace says the avatars make it a little easier. That the kids can read the body language better—less of a divide than staring up at a human face through a mask. Most of the adults hate us. The Omatikaya are—what’s the polite word? Resistant. But the kids…” He smiled, slow and small. “They’re curious. They were watching her the whole time. Like she was some weird hybrid forest aunt who brought too many gifts and asked too many questions.”

A fond breath of laughter.

“You should’ve seen Grace. God, when she’s in the lab, she’s a machine. Unstoppable. All edge and sharp corners and pressure. But when she’s with those kids? She melts. She gets so soft. Her voice lowers. She crouches down, draws in the dirt, listens to their stories. She’s not trying to impress them. She’s trying to know them. It’s the only time I’ve ever seen her completely still.”

He set his fork down then, hands coming together in front of him.

“I wish I could be there like that. I wish I had an avatar body. But no.” He scoffed. “Too expensive. Too valuable. And I’m not ‘field-essential,’ apparently. Grace argued for me, but the board denied it. Said the budget’s locked and my clearance doesn’t meet the threshold.”

His jaw twitched.

“You know what they cost?” he muttered, voice souring for the first time in the log. “Five billion credits. Five. Fucking. Billion. And that’s not even accounting for neural grafting and recombinant gene conditioning. You want a body on this moon? You better have a military rank or an investor dad.”

Then, quieter—almost to himself: “But I know Eywa would want to see us. Know us. Our thoughts. Not just our scans.”

The log ended. Just like that.

You stared at the now-blank holoscreen. The empty lab around you seemed even quieter in its absence. The flicker of data across the consoles was rhythmic, steady—utterly unaffected by the ache curling behind your ribs.

Because you knew that feeling. You had lived that feeling. You set the datapad in your lap, thumbs brushing the smooth edges.

When you were younger—just starting your apprenticeship under Norm—you’d watch the drivers at the outpost with a kind of hunger you never talked about. Their tall, graceful forms. The freedom of walking the forest barefoot. Of breathing Pandoran air without masks or suits. Of belonging in a way you never would.

You never said it aloud. Not once.

Your family supported you, yes. Encouraged the science, encouraged the travel, encouraged the dream. But no one you knew had five billion credits in their back pocket. Not even your most well-connected mentors could get you a body of your own.

So you did the next best thing.

You buried yourself in your work. Let the longing rot in the dark while you chased answers, devoured data, published research like it could make you feel whole. And for a while… it worked.

You forgot how badly you wanted to belong.

Until him. Until Neteyam. And then it all came back. The ache. The envy. The guilt.

It would all be so much easier if you were Na’vi. If you looked like him. Moved like him. If he didn’t have to explain you. If he didn’t have to hide you. If he didn’t have to carry you like a weight every time his parents looked through you instead of at you.

You curled your hands tighter around the datapad. You never told him you wanted a body. You never told anyone. Not even yourself, not really. Because it felt shameful. Selfish. Delusional. You weren’t a soldier. You weren’t Grace Augustine. You weren’t Elias Veyren. You were just you. A scientist. A human. Stuck on the surface of a moon that would never truly be yours.

You looked down at the blank screen again, the afterimage of Veyren’s younger self burned into your mind. And you whispered, not sure who you were saying it to: “I just wanted to be part of it.”

You scrolled.

Dozens of entries filled the feed now, the screen blurring slightly as you flicked through them too fast. Each log was titled in shorthand—some with dry technical codes, others with personal notes:

Map Update – River Delta S3 Root Nerve Pairing / Biolume response test Specimen 8-5 neural drift patterns Grace (re: school closure) Second Contact (informal, west quadrant) Syeha.

Your thumb paused.

Log 2380: Syeha.

Your chest tightened. You knew that word.

Years ago, tucked away in the most obscure corner of a decommissioned academic server, you’d found it: “Project: Syeha – A Transgenic Pathway to Independent Respiration in Non-Native Genomes.” By Dr. Elias Veyren.

You had read it twice. Then three more times. The ideas had stunned you—breathtaking in both ambition and sheer madness. It wasn’t just fringe science. It was heresy to most xenobiologists. It had fascinated you then—wild, brave science. The idea that humans could be altered, changed at the cellular level, to breathe Pandora’s air.

It was dismissed in every official commentary.

Mad science. Delusional. Impossible.

But even back then, you remembered thinking—

What if it’s not? You tapped the entry.

Dated early 2146. The screen came to life. Veyren looked different now—older now, maybe in his late thirties—appeared.

His hair was longer, unkempt. His face worn thinner, the shadows under his eyes deeper. This wasn’t the eager newcomer anymore. He looked like someone who had stopped asking for permission a long time ago.

“Log two-three-eighty,” he said. No smile. No preamble. “Project Syeha.”

He was pacing the lab—this very lab, you realized. It looked less cluttered in the recording, less lived-in, but the bones of it were the same. The same consoles. The same pod humming faintly in the background.

He ran a hand through his hair and stopped in front of the camera. He was angry. That much was clear from the moment he spoke.

“They won’t even let me present the model,” he said, pacing just barely in frame, one hand raking through his hair, the other waving a half-folded holopad. “I showed the numbers. I showed the genetic match rate. I proved that certain plants on this moon produce a biochemical compound that binds to oxygen and transports it the same way hemoglobin does. It’s there. It’s right there.”

He slammed the holopad down on the counter.

“The avatar program laughed at it. Said it was fantasy. Said we’re not built for that kind of shift. Of course we’re not. That’s the point.”

He turned to the camera, face twisted—not rage exactly. Something more wounded. Something betrayed.

“Every goddamn paper they published about adaptation stops at the lung barrier. Like it’s sacred. Like the human body is this perfect, immutable thing. Like evolution stops with us.”

He shook his head. His voice cracked just slightly.

“But Eywa doesn’t think that way. She never has. This moon isn’t just watching us. She’s offering something. And nobody listens.” He exhaled sharply and leaned on the desk with both hands, breath shaking. “I could do it. I know I could. All I need is the serum vector. One compound. One seed protein to trigger the binding cascade and rewrite the respiratory interaction on a cellular level. A full-body breath conversion.”

He stared at the screen.

And for the first time, his eyes looked… haunted.

“I’ve sequenced seventy-nine plant families. Most fail. Some bond. A few… a few do something different. Last night, when I ran a sequence from a neural-reactive vine cluster, I swear I heard something. A frequency. Not auditory. Not measurable. Just—something. Like a voice.”

You froze.

“Not words. Not language. But I know it was her. Eywa. I know she was watching me. I felt it. She wants this.”

His hand hovered just offscreen now, grabbing something—probably another sample tray, maybe another datapad—but his gaze never left the camera.

“They think I’m dangerous. Delusional. But I’m right. They’re so scared of what it means to be changed. But change is the only way to survive here. It’s the only way we ever belong.”

He began pacing again, shoulders tight with fury. “They didn’t listen. Not even Grace. She said it was dangerous, arrogant. That ‘wanting to be Na’vi doesn’t mean you can be.’”

He stopped and faced the camera again, eyes burning.

“But she was wrong. They’re all wrong. If we can grow hybrid bodies from DNA samples in a vat, why not find a way to change ours?”

He picked up a tablet and gestured to a set of charts you couldn’t fully see.

“This isn’t theoretical anymore. I have models. I have baselines. I could start serum trials with controlled tissue samples and neurostimulant exposure within six months. It’s not just possible—it’s inevitable. If someone has the spine to try.”

He slammed the tablet down. “And no one does.”

The room buzzed for a second with the sharp ring of silence. He stepped closer to the lens now. His face filled the screen. “The human genome’s more flexible than they want to admit. The limits aren’t biological. They’re political.”

He ran a hand through his hair again, breath shaky now. Less rage. More desperation. He whispered the last part, voice almost breaking.

“And I don’t care if they say it’s impossible. I’m doing it anyway.”

The holovid ended. Just—cut off. No sign-off. No fading to black. Just a silence that bloomed in the lab like a stormcloud ready to split open.

You sat back.

The datapad trembled faintly in your hands. Because you knew what you just watched. This wasn’t a theory anymore. This was obsession. Raw. Growing. Dangerous.

He was talking about rewriting the human genome with Pandoran biology. About experimenting. About hearing Eywa in the middle of the night while sequencing alien plant matter. About knowing she approved of him. About doing it anyway.

Even if it meant testing on humans. Your blood ran cold. Was this what happened to him? Was this the moment he went off the grid—for good?

You didn’t know. But suddenly, the silence in the lab didn’t feel peaceful anymore. It felt watchful.

You leaned forward, eyes burning, and pressed your fingers into your temples, exhaling a long, quiet breath. The ache behind your eyes throbbed in rhythm with your pulse. You were dizzy with information—like your body couldn’t keep up with what your mind was absorbing.

Still, your hand moved. Still, you scrolled.

2148 - 00:47 AM.

A midnight log. You tapped it.

The screen lit up with a low, uneven glow. The recording was dim—clearly shot from the fixed terminal inside his quarters. A grainy, fixed angle. Personal.

Veyren sat on the edge of his bed. Shoulders hunched. Elbows on knees. He wasn’t wearing a lab coat—just a long-sleeved shirt rolled at the forearms, stained with something dark around the cuff. His hair was longer now. Unkempt. His face leaner, eyes sharper. Almost hollow.

Not the inspired, wide-eyed prodigy you had watched hours ago.

This Veyren looked like a man with nowhere left to go. “Grace called me arrogant,” he said, teeth gritted around the words. “Reckless. Self-righteous. That’s what she thinks now.”

He didn’t look at the camera. He stared down—at the floor maybe, or at his hands.

Then laughed. Bitter. Fractured.

“Reckless. Because I dissected a viperwolf corpse. Because I’m mapping their alveolar networks. Because I want to understand how they can process this atmosphere without burning their lungs out in two minutes flat.”

He looked up now—eyes bloodshot, voice rising. “Why does that make me insane? Why does that make me wrong?”

The camera shook faintly as he stood, began to pace in the frame. You could see his quarters in the background—books stacked high, notes scattered in messy piles, old logs blinking softly from half-lit data pads. The room looked lived in, but also unwell. The kind of space that absorbed a man instead of holding him.

“I told her—Grace—I told her this is my purpose. I told her Eywa wants this. Wants me to finish it. But she just—She said it doesn’t matter what I believe. That no matter how much I want to belong here, as a human, I never will.”

He stopped walking. Stared at the wall.

“She didn’t say it to be cruel. I know that. She meant it as a warning.” A long pause.

Then—quieter, like a confession: “But she’s wrong.”

He turned back toward the bed and sat down heavily. He looked at the camera now—directly, this time. And in his gaze… something new. Something unhinged. A glint like broken glass catching firelight. Hope, maybe. Or madness. “I’ve stabilized the compound. The serum. It works. The delivery system holds. No cellular collapse in the early stages.”

His hand reached off-screen. You heard a quiet clink. A data pad? A tray?

“The rabbits the RDA provided—slaughterhouse breed, synthetic genome baselines. Fragile things. Barely anything natural left in them. But they were perfect test subjects. I dosed six. Four showed no symptoms. Two entered respiratory distress within minutes—but the others… they adapted.”

He inhaled through his nose. “They breathed Pandora’s air.”

A pause.

Then, lower: “They survived for hours. Some for days.”

But his face didn’t reflect triumph.

It darkened. “And then they died.”

His voice splintered over the words.

“Every time. Always in the end. Lungs collapsed. Tissue breakdown. Neurological bleed in one. Organ decay in another. The serum works—but not long enough. Not right.”

His hand clenched into a fist.

“But I hear her. Every night. When the machines go quiet. When I’m alone in sequencing, and the lights flicker just before sunrise. I hear her. Not words. Not sounds. But—direction.”

He leaned forward, face now too close to the camera. Eyes wild. Desperate.

“She’s guiding me. I know she is. I feel it when I touch the vines. When I sequence the roots. Eywa is showing me the way, but—I can’t get it right.”

He slammed his fist into the desk just out of frame. The sound echoed sharp and metallic.

“I don’t know what she wants me to change.”

Silence followed. And then, barely audible— “But I’ll keep trying.”

The screen went dark.And you just sat there. Frozen.

This wasn’t just science anymore. It wasn’t even obsession. This was faith. Twisted, raw, undiluted belief—the kind you couldn’t argue with, the kind that didn’t care what logic said.

Veyren wasn’t just experimenting.

He thought Eywa was guiding him. That she wanted him to rewrite the human genome. That every death—every failure—was just another step on the path toward some divine approval.

You stared at the blank screen, stomach churning, heart tight in your chest. He was alone when he recorded that. But he didn’t feel alone. And now? Now he had you.

You scrolled again, slower this time.

There were fewer logs now. The tidy consistency of his earlier years had thinned into erratic entries—long gaps, inconsistent times, random filenames. But one stood out.

2149– Log: 3892 “Break”

You stilled. The name hit like a stone in your chest. You knew that year. It was the same year he vanished.

On paper, it was all business as usual. You remembered watching his final public interview from a sterile, RDA-approved broadcast. You had it saved back on Earth in an old archive folder—Veyren in a crisp shirt, standing in front of the Hell’s Gate labs, smiling into the camera like nothing was wrong.

He’d spoken of progress.

Of understanding between species. Of a breakthrough in mutual communication. You’d believed every word.

As a teenager, you’d clung to it—to him—like a guiding star. You’d built your future around the idea that someone like him had done it. Had gone to Pandora, belonged there, and survived with his ideals intact.

But now… Now you knew. The man in that video had been reading a script. You tapped the log.

It opened with a harsh, unfocused image of a cluttered lab—Hell’s Gate, unmistakably. You recognized the orange glow of the corridor lights, the older consoles flickering in the background, the faint buzz of outdated systems cycling through diagnostics.

Veyren sat at a desk. He wasn’t centered in frame. He hadn’t even bothered to clean the lens. His hair was disheveled. Face drawn. Eyes bloodshot. “Grace pulled me,” he said. No intro. No context. Just the sentence, dropped like stone. “She removed me from the avatar program.”

He was breathing heavily, like he’d been pacing for hours. Or screaming.

“She says I’ve become a liability. That my work’s too aggressive. That I’ve compromised protocols, that I’ve crossed some line she doesn’t even understand herself.”

He laughed, but it was joyless—dry and sharp.

“She says I have to go back to Earth. Earth.”

He finally turned to the camera, and his face was different. Not just older. Harder. Split down the middle with rage and disbelief.

“This is my life. This moon. This planet. I gave everything to this. I believed in what we were doing—what we could do. But no. Because I don’t want to live inside a mask anymore. Because I want to give humanity a future here—a real future—they say I’ve lost it.”

His hands trembled slightly as he pressed his palms to the desk, grounding himself.

“The sentiment scientists. That’s what Grace called them. The ones who cry when a plant dies, but don’t lift a finger when a dream collapses. They said I’m unstable. That I’ve become obsessed. That I’m hearing voices.”

He smiled now. That wrong kind of smile. “Maybe I am. Maybe that’s what this place does to people who listen.”

He exhaled roughly, fingers curling against the desk’s edge. “They’re not sending me back to Earth. I’m not going. I won’t leave her.” And you knew he wasn’t talking about Grace. “I won’t leave Eywa behind. She’s not done with me.”

He sat back slowly, the shadows gathering in his eyes like dusk.

“If they won’t let me work with the avatars, then I’ll build something better. If they won’t let me help humanity evolve, I’ll do it myself. And if they think they can erase me…”

He leaned into the camera.

Voice soft. Frighteningly calm.

“They’re wrong.”

The log cut out.

No fade. No sign-off.

Just gone. You sat motionless, heart hammering in your chest. This was it.

The break.

Not the day he vanished from broadcasts. But the day he stopped being the man you had worshipped. He wasn’t fighting for understanding anymore. He wasn’t debating theories or seeking connection. He was done asking for permission. He was done waiting for the world to catch up.

And somewhere between the labs of Hell’s Gate and this hidden bunker in the forest… he followed a voice no one else could hear.

He chose Eywa over humanity. Or maybe over himself.

You stared down at the dark screen, your throat tight. You had wanted to be like him. You had wanted to walk where he walked, breathe what he breathed, follow in his footsteps across a planet you barely dared to dream of.

And now you were here. Right where he fell.

You didn’t hesitate this time.

You tapped the next log entry—dated two weeks after break. Your fingers moved without thought, like some deeper instinct had taken control now, needing to see this through, needing to know what came after the fall.

The screen came alive again.

And you blinked, startled. He wasn’t in Hell’s Gate anymore.

No clean RDA-branded walls. No polished consoles. This facility was different—still built with RDA materials, yes, but the architecture was smaller. Modular. More stripped-down. The lighting was dimmer, more natural. You caught the edge of a thick jungle canopy through a window behind him, the light filtered through layers of green. This was still Pandora. But not the Hell’s Gate you knew.

Veyren sat in front of the camera, a cup of something steaming in his hand. His hair was pulled back messily, and he looked… tired, yes, but not defeated. Not hollow like in the last log.

He looked like a man who’d lost everything—only to realize it had never been worth holding onto in the first place.

He laughed.

Not the bitter, broken kind this time. Just—wry. Dry.

“You know what’s funny?” he said, looking directly into the camera, a gleam in his eyes. “When the scientists say you’re the problem—but the corporation says you’re the solution.”

He sipped his drink, the mug steaming near his mouth, and leaned back with a sigh.

“I’ve been removed from the Avatar Program, officially. My name’s off the clearance rolls, the access lists, the genetic logs. I’m blacklisted from half the scientific networks I helped build. Grace called me a threat to the balance. Said I needed to leave.” He lifted a finger.

He grinned now, wide and wicked. “But I didn’t.” He gestured vaguely around him.

“They told everyone I was being sent back to Earth. That I’d be debriefed and retired. Grace believed it. Most of the board believed it. But that wasn’t the plan.”

He leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms loosely over his chest. There was an odd ease to his posture now—relaxed in a way you hadn’t seen in any of the logs before.

“Someone up top saw the logs. The serum models. The projections. Maybe a general. I don’t know. Doesn’t matter. All I know is I got pulled into a sealed meeting and told, word-for-word: ‘Maybe this one. Maybe he makes something.’”

He grinned wider, almost boyish for a flicker of a second.

“So they gave me a lab.” His fingers tapped against his thigh. “I’ve been removed from the Avatar Program, sure. They had to make that gesture for optics. But I’m not out. I’m not gone. I’m free.”

He paused there, as if tasting the word.

“Free.”

He tilted his head back and let out a breath.

“No more ethics boards. No more meetings. No more explaining the same goddamn hypothesis to people who think masks are a noble sacrifice.” His voice grew harder. “They didn’t even ask me for a formal proposal. They just said: Show us what you can do.”

He looked back into the lens, eyes sharp now—burning again with that conviction. That same storm you’d seen building log after log.

And suddenly you realized something chilling.

This wasn’t his exile. This was his permission.

“I’m going to finish Syeha,” he said. “And this time, no one will stop me. I can thrive here. Away from the noise. With tech that wasn’t even authorized for field work.” “They think they can keep me focused. Think they’re controlling the direction.”

He sat back down. Folded his hands. Quiet for a long beat.

“But they don’t hear her.”

His voice dropped to a whisper. The same one you’d started to fear.

“Eywa wants me here. She pulled me from their grasp. And now… I’m finally free to do it right.”

The screen went black.

You sat still, your thoughts a storm of movement and silence.

So this was how it happened.

Grace had tried to stop him. The scientific community cast him out. But the RDA—greedy, calculating, always looking for a return on investment—they saw in him not danger, but potential.

He was a rogue to one side and a tool to the other.

And so they let him work. Alone. Far enough to be disavowed if it went wrong. But close enough to capitalize on if it went right.

He wasn’t just buried in a cave.

He was planted.

And the worst part? He thrived. Your pulse thundered in your ears. You set the datapad down slowly on the desk, staring at the now-blank screen. They let him off the leash. And he never looked back.

You stood up, the chair groaning softly beneath you, and scrubbed your hands down your face—slow and deliberate, like you were trying to wipe away the last forty years along with the sweat clinging to your skin.

So that’s why he was here. Not a fugitive. Not a hermit.

The RDA let him stay.

They saw in him not madness, but opportunity. The serum. The promise of breath without masks. Of humans walking freely on Pandora without the exo-gear. It wasn’t about unity. It wasn’t about coexistence. It was colonization. A new kind. Quiet. Insidious.

Make the air ours.

And they backed him. Let him disappear into the wild with the best tech on the moon and no oversight. Gave him solitude and silence to build whatever he wanted.

And he had.

The logs were almost four decades old now.

Since then, the world had burned.

The war came. The clans united. Hometree fell. Grace died. Jake Sully turned the tide. Most humans were sent home, packed into cold metal coffins and shipped back across the stars like the failed virus they were. The survivors—those trusted few—stayed behind, kept alive by Na’vi grace and ghost-thin trust.

And then, after fifteen years of peace, the sky people returned.

Still masked. Still cautious. Still dangling carrots of peace and diplomacy with one hand while carving the ground beneath them with the other.

Nothing had changed.

So what happened to Veyren’s work?

You turned back to the datapad, now dimmed in sleep mode. With a flick, you reactivated it and scrolled through the folders. The dates rolled by like gravestones.

2149… 2150…

You tapped into the next year’s logs.

File names flooded the screen—cryptic, cold, clinical. But one stood out among them, plain as a blinking warning light:

Log 3496 – theory

You tapped it.

The video loaded slower than the others—longer file, maybe. When it finally appeared, it was Veyren again, now nearing forty. He sat hunched at his workstation, face gaunt, unshaven, hair half-pulled back. The bags under his eyes were deep enough to cast shadows. He looked worn—frayed at the edges, like a man who hadn’t left the walls of this place in weeks.

His voice was flat. “Log thirteen-eighty,” he said. “Update on Syeha trial batches.”

He lifted a small vial toward the camera. The liquid inside shimmered faintly with a soft greenish hue. “Form twenty-seven survived synthetic circulation for eight days,” he said. “That’s a new record. But that’s where the success ends.”

He dropped the vial into a rack with a soft clink and leaned forward, both hands gripping the edge of the desk like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

“I’ve been running these trials for six years now. Six years. Countless permutations of the serum. Changed the compound ratios. Replaced the protein anchors. Increased the resistance to Pandoran atmospheric interference.”

He slammed a palm against the desk suddenly, the sound making you flinch.

“And still they die.” His breath hitched, just slightly. “The rabbits. The rats. Even the genetically reinforced mice from the Bridgehead shipment—they all die. Within a week. It doesn’t matter how strong they are. Something in the serum always breaks them down. A day of stability, maybe three, then pulmonary collapse. Total metabolic failure. Neurological degradation.”

He paused, rubbing both hands through his hair like he wanted to rip it out.

“They’re too weak,” he spat. “Too fragile. The serum adapts the respiratory system, yes, but the host organism can’t support the change. They aren’t built for it. And no matter what I do, no matter how I adjust the dosage or delivery, I hit the same wall.”

He looked up into the camera then—and this time, there was nothing left of the man who used to smile through his experiments.

“I need stronger subjects.”

His voice was low.

Human.

He didn’t say it. But he didn’t have to. He let the silence drag for a long, suffocating beat before continuing.

“How do you convince a human to become an experiment?” he asked. “How do you ask someone to let you rewrite their body—knowing they could be dead in a day? In an hour? Who volunteers for that?”

He leaned back slowly, rubbing at his jaw, eyes haunted.

“I’ve considered testing it on myself. God knows I’ve thought about it. But there’s no reversal serum. No antibody. No fallback. If it fails, I die.”

He chuckled, but there was no humor in it.

“And then what? The last version of this dies with me.” He was quiet for a while. When he spoke again, his voice was calm. Controlled. “I need the RDA to send me stronger test subjects. Not rabbits. Not animals. Something… more viable. More resilient. Something with a will to survive. They said they’d give me what I needed. Now it’s time to prove it.”

The video ended. You sat motionless.

The datapad rested in your lap, the glow from the screen dimming again like a breath held too long.

Your gaze slowly lifted—toward the hallway. The long, dimly lit corridor.

A dozen doors on each side. You’d walked it before. Felt the sterile quiet. The silence thick like it didn’t want to be disturbed.

What was behind those doors?

You didn’t know. But the thought crept in like cold water slipping beneath your skin.

What if they weren’t all just storage? You swallowed hard, suddenly aware of the sound of your own breath. What if the RDA had sent him what he asked for? What if he had used them? And what if some of them never left?

Your arms prickled with goosebumps. Suddenly, the stillness of this place didn’t feel like peace. It felt like something watching you from the other side of every door.

Waiting.

You tapped the next file with a trembling thumb.

You had scrolled to the year of the school massacre. 2152. The year the fragile trust between human and Na’vi shattered. The year Grace Augustine’s school—her dream, her bridge—collapsed in blood and fire. You knew the story from reports, from whispers traded in sorrowful tones among senior researchers. But you had never seen it through this lens.

And you hadn’t expected to find him still recording. The video crackled to life.

Veyren sat in his lab again. The camera was angled slightly off, but it was clear—he hadn’t slept. His hair was a mess, his collar stained, dark patches blooming under his eyes. But behind the weariness, there was something else.

Satisfaction.

He wasn’t pacing this time. He was sitting calmly at his workstation, hands folded in front of him.

“Log four-two-thirty-seven,” he said. His voice was quiet. Measured. Too calm. “I got what I needed.”

He smiled—not wide, but it was there. Tight. Controlled.

“For two years I begged. Asked. Filed requisitions, sent encrypted requests to every RDA contact who hadn’t already disavowed me. I asked for human subjects. For something—anything—I could use to make Syeha real.”

He leaned back in his chair, exhaling softly.

“And then… they just showed up.”

He gestured behind the camera, as if the memory still lingered in the room.

“Three of them. Dragged in by soldiers—actual RDA troopers. Two unconscious. One barely clinging to life. Half-burnt, lungs shredded by smoke, eyes blind from gas exposure. They said it was a failed skirmish. Ambushed on the outer ridge.”

He paused.

“But I knew.”

He looked directly into the lens.

“I knew what happened.”

His voice lowered, almost a whisper.

“The school fell. Grace’s dream, her little human-Navi fairytale—it’s over. A Na’vi and her friends attacked a bulldozer. And the troopers didn’t hesitate. They chased the kids into the school. Shot them in front of the others. In front of Grace.”

You flinched. That name hit like a shard of ice through your spine.

“They called it a tragedy,” Veyren continued. “A miscommunication. Protocol failure.” His mouth twisted. “But we know what it was. A message. To the clans. To Grace.”

He tilted his head slightly.

“That same day, they brought me soldiers.”

He didn’t need to explain further. You understood. They had traded blood for silence. Guilt for opportunity. “They left them here,” he said, his voice growing steadier. “Didn’t ask questions. Didn’t take records. Just said, ‘See what you can do with them.’”

He stood then, moving just off-frame. The camera stayed fixed, but you could hear soft beeps. The familiar whir of medical systems booting. And then the sound of something organic—wet, irregular—breathing through a vented respirator.

“They weren’t supposed to live long,” he said. “But that’s what makes them perfect. Damaged lungs. Weakened tissue. The serum isn’t just for the strong. It’s for us. For the broken. The desperate. The ones who have no other way to stay.”

He stepped back into view.

“They’ll die either way,” he said, almost gently. “But if the serum works—then they’ll be the first to adapt.”

And then he smiled again. Not unkindly. Not cruelly. But with the kind of conviction that made your skin crawl.

“This is for the greater good,” he said. “No more rabbits. No more excuses. This is what the serum was always meant for.”

He sat back down, folding his hands again. Waiting.

“I start trials tomorrow.”

The screen flickered.

Log end.

You tapped forward.

The list scrolled quickly—dates ticking past with grim regularity. You barely skimmed the titles. One by one, they made your heart sink further into your chest.

Subject A: Terminal pulmonary collapse (2 days) Subject B: Metabolic failure (6 days) Subject C: Neurological shutdown—cognitive nullification (14 days)

All three logs, summarized. Three human beings. All ended the same: death.

Your hand hovered over a file labeled simply:

Summary (Log 3571).

You hesitated. Your pulse thudded loud in your ears, the lab’s quiet hum sharpening your anxiety. But you tapped the file anyway.

Veyren appeared once again. He sat slumped at his workstation, hair tangled, eyes sunken. Pale, trembling fingers drummed restlessly on the surface of the desk, his other hand pinched at the bridge of his nose as though fighting a migraine. He looked gaunt—more hollowed-out than any previous log entry.

He didn’t speak immediately. He stared downward, breathing slowly through clenched teeth. When he finally looked up, the lines of his face had hardened into frustration.

“I lost them,” he said simply.

His voice was hollow.

“Subject A went immediately. Body too damaged. He was never going to make it. He died the same day. Complete pulmonary failure. The serum couldn’t repair the damage.”

He closed his eyes briefly, rubbing them like he wanted to scrub the memory away.

“Subject B… I put him in the sealed chamber. He breathed Pandoran atmosphere fine at first—lungs adapted, metabolic systems stable. But on day five, something changed.” He hesitated, his mouth pressing into a tight line. “One second he breathed the air with perfect stability. The next, it was like a switch flipped. He suffocated. As though Eywa herself reached into his lungs and squeezed them shut. No warning. No reason.”

He exhaled, fingers tightening again into fists on the desk.

“Subject C lasted two weeks,” he said quietly. “Two weeks. I kept him comatose for the first days, gave the serum time to stabilize. I really thought—” His voice cracked faintly, but he steadied it again quickly. “I thought I’d done it.”

A bitter laugh broke free, strained and dry.

“But then he woke up. And when he did… there was nothing left. He was like an empty shell. A living corpse—breathing, blinking, heart beating—but no cognitive function. No speech, no reaction, no recognition. Nothing. Just a vacant stare and silence.”

He looked into the camera, eyes wide with frustration.

“I checked the scans. His neural activity was virtually null. As if the serum rewrote something it wasn’t supposed to. But that’s impossible—I calibrated for neurological tolerance. It shouldn’t have reached his cognition.”

He leaned forward, resting his forehead in his hands. The silence stretched until it felt oppressive.

“I don’t understand,” he whispered finally, voice trembling. “It was working. It should have worked. And yet…”

He straightened, glaring bitterly upward.

“Every time, I come close. Every time, I hear Her. I feel Eywa guiding my hand—she shows me exactly what steps to take. Exactly what plant enzyme to combine. Exactly which gene cluster to sequence. I’ve seen it in dreams, heard whispers while I’m awake.”

He paused, swallowing hard.

“But the moment the serum stabilizes, the moment it becomes viable… she rips it away again. Like she’s mocking me. Like she’s testing me.”

He clenched his jaw, breathing hard.

“Maybe…” He paused again, the words dragging themselves from his throat like a confession. “Maybe Eywa sees the truth. Maybe she senses what I’m trying to do and denies it deliberately. Maybe humans aren’t meant to change this drastically. Maybe she doesn’t want us here—not truly. Not breathing her air. Not becoming part of her.”

He stared blankly into the camera, the fire gone from his eyes.

“But why lead me this far, then? Why offer glimpses, hints, whispers, only to snatch it away at the last second? What does She want from me if not this?”

The recording ended abruptly. Your chest felt tight.

The man in that log entry was nothing like the scientist you’d idolized. The passionate young researcher you’d admired was gone, swallowed by obsession and frustration. Now only a hollow, haunted shell remained.

He spoke of Eywa as though She were a partner—then an adversary. Guiding his hands, whispering her secrets, only to deny him. To punish him. It was disturbing—this disjointed, feverish logic. You shivered, chilled by more than the clinical coldness of the lab.

Slowly, you turned your head.

You glanced down the hallway, at those silent, unmarked doors stretching in neat rows.

How many failed subjects were behind those doors? How many more logs would tell the same tragic, desperate tale?

Your mind spun relentlessly, anxiety curling tighter with each heartbeat. You’d stepped willingly into this man’s shadow. You’d built your career around his once-brilliant work. You’d quoted him, admired him, aspired to match his brilliance someday. But now…

Now you understood why he was here, hidden away in secrecy, forgotten by history.

He wasn’t brilliant anymore. He was lost. And maybe, just maybe, dangerously insane.

You tapped the next log, breath held as the date on the screen burned in your vision.

2154, August 25.

Two days after the war ended.

Two days after Jake Sully, the Toruk Makto, led the clans to victory and drove the humans out. You knew the history intimately. Everyone did. That moment had become legend.

But you had never seen it through his eyes. The holoscreen blinked to life.

Veyren was seated exactly where you were now—at the very same desk, his reflection like a ghost echoing through time. But he looked… wrecked. Thinner. Gaunt. His hair was longer, falling loose over his shoulders, and his face was pale beneath the screen’s flickering light. The lab behind him was a mess—papers scattered, wires unspooled like veins across the floor. Half the room was in disarray, as though he’d stopped trying to maintain the order that once defined his work.

And yet—he smiled.

A strange, defeated kind of smile.

“Log 5009,” he said, voice rasped, frayed at the edges. “It’s over. We lost.”

He leaned back slowly in the chair, arms crossing over his chest, eyes fixed somewhere just above the lens.

“The humans were exiled. All of them. Only the select few remained. Scientists with clean records. Trusted avatar drivers. No one like me.”

He laughed softly. A bitter, thin sound.

“I suppose that’s why Eywa never let my serum work,” he muttered. “Maybe she always knew this would happen. Maybe she saw the future and thought—‘Why bother?’” He smiled again, distant. “We were never meant to stay here. Not really. We were meant to burn out. To die. On Earth, and here too.”

He turned, grabbing a datapad just out of frame, tapping through it with trembling fingers.

“I got a message from the RDA this morning,” he said after a pause. “Encrypted, direct-line, pre-exile clearance. Last one I’ll ever get, probably.”

His voice dropped an octave. Became a mocking echo of command authority.

‘The Avatar Program’s tech systems will be transferred back to your facility. Final delivery inbound before colony shutdown. You are to safeguard the remaining equipment. This is not the end, Dr. Veyren. We will return. And when we do—we’ll need options.’

He looked into the camera, lips twitching into something like a smirk.

“They meant me.”

He leaned in slightly, voice sharpening, full of irony.

“Isn’t that something? They exiled their own, blew up the forest, and called it defeat—but they still need me. When the next wave comes, they want a backup plan. They want to own their bodies this time.”

He ran both hands through his hair, pacing his breath.

“They’ve realized the flaw in the system. Avatars are slow. Expensive. Clunky. One body takes six years to grow—fully calibrated, gene-sequenced, neural-synced. We didn’t come here with enough time, and we never will.”

He tilted his head.

“So they asked me—without saying it directly. Fix it.” His eyes lit, faintly. Not with joy. But with the quiet madness of purpose rediscovered. “And maybe they’re right. Maybe altering the human body was always the chaotic solution. Maybe it’s not about rewriting our genome—it’s about perfecting the Na’vi’s.”

He turned back to the datapad.

“Jake Sully… he didn’t just survive. He transcended.”

His voice softened, reverent in a way you’d never heard before.

“Every step he took was like a hymn. Eywa blessed him. She didn’t reject his presence—she welcomed it. He was permitted. A transfer. From flesh to flesh. His human body was shed like a skin, and the Na’vi body became him. Fully. Permanently.”

He looked into the camera, the fire starting to return to his gaze.

“So maybe that’s the answer. Not transgenic adaptation. Not serum. Not air. Transfer. Acceptance.”

He stood then, restless now, gesturing with sharp movements as he paced across the screen.

“Grace died before hers completed. But Jake—his was whole. His bond with the Omatikaya. His connection to their people. To Eywa. He was chosen.”

He stopped short, pressing his palms flat to the edge of the desk.

“I need to replicate that. Mass produce that. A system. A model. A base Na’vi shell—grown faster, cheaper, configurable to human neural templates within weeks, not years.”

He rubbed at his temple, thoughtful.

“I don’t just want a new species. I want a vessel. A bridge. A body that passes beneath Eywa’s gaze without rejection. Something she sees not as an abomination, but as… acceptable.”

A long silence passed. Then his voice softened.

“Maybe then I’ll understand Her. Maybe if I build it right… She’ll speak to me again.”

The log ended.

You staring at the blank holo-screen. This was no longer about science. It hadn’t been for years. This wasn’t a project. It was a crusade.

Veyren wasn’t trying to help humanity survive anymore.

He was trying to be accepted by something ancient. Something sacred. Something that had never once spoken directly to a human.

And maybe—just maybe—he believed if he built the right vessel… he could finally belong. You leaned back slowly, your spine prickling. The silence of the lab pressed in again, too heavy now to ignore. Somewhere in this place, Veyren was sleeping—or pretending to. And behind the quiet hum of machines, the real question clawed deeper into your thoughts:

What had he built in all these years? And had Eywa ever really listened?

You stayed in the chair. The logs blurred together. Hours passed unnoticed.

You didn’t eat. You didn’t drink. You barely moved—except to swipe your thumb over the datapad again and again, each motion more reluctant, more compelled than the last. Each tap like peeling back another page of someone’s unraveling.

Veyren’s unraveling.

Log from 2158. Location: Corridor Lab 3A

The holoscreen snapped on to a sterile, dimly lit chamber you’d never seen before. It had the same modular walls, the same flickering lights—but this room was colder. Narrow. Filled with a deep, bioluminescent blue glow.

And at the center—four amnio tanks.

They stood like pillars, each filled with translucent fluid, each connected by humming cables and silent vitals monitors. Within the softly lit liquid, figures floated. Humanoid, yet still unfinished. Limbs long but not yet filled out. Their skin tinted that unmistakable blue, their features gently alien—Na’vi.

But not grown. Not yet.

Children. Or the beginnings of them. Your stomach clenched.

You’d seen only one avatar body suspended in a tank before—Grace’s. Back in the ruins of Hell’s Gate. It had hovered in its chamber like something sacred. Untouchable. Even dead, it had felt alive.

But this… this was different. Four of them. Small. Quiet. Fragile. Veyren stood beside them, half in shadow.

“Log 5748,” he said, voice low. “Subject group Two. Delta and Beta were failures. Alpha and Gamma too. Tissue instability. Neurovascular collapse. But these…”

He placed a hand on the thick glass of one tank, staring into it like it might blink back.

“DNA is identical across all four shells. Human neural templates normalized, Avatar cortex adjusted for rapid sequencing. Same base code. Same markers. But… different growth rates. This one,”—he tapped the glass gently—“is twelve percent behind. Why?”

His voice wasn’t angry. Just puzzled. Frustrated.

He stepped toward the tank farthest on the right.

Inside floated a young Na’vi girl. Her body was still childlike—her tail barely developed, her hands curled close to her chest—but you could already see her features forming. Delicate. Uncluttered by time.

“I named her Epsilon,” he said, smiling faintly. “She’s the first of this series to reach viable stage two growth without mutation. No human DNA in her baseline. She’s a clean shell.”

He placed a hand gently on the glass. The fluid shimmered faintly.

“She’s perfect.” You couldn’t look away.

Veyren was speaking to her like she could hear him. Like she might respond. And he meant it. This wasn’t observation. It was affection. Quiet. Measured. But there.

“She grows slowly. Slower than the others. But she endures.” He didn’t smile. Not anymore.

He just turned away, and the log cut.

You jumped ahead—Log 6105, dated 2160.

Veyren again. Older. Thinner. His beard patchy, eyes bloodshot. The lighting in the lab was always dim now, his quarters barely lit at all. Most logs weren’t even addressed to anyone anymore. They were murmurs. Private rambles. Fragmented thoughts muttered into the air.

You watched as he soldered a control circuit with shaking hands. He didn’t speak for the first two minutes—just the sound of his breathing, the buzz of the welding pen, the occasional grunt.

Then, softly: “Omikron died today.”

He didn’t look up.

“The tank failed. Oxygen leak. I knew the protein bonds were wrong, I should’ve aborted the development last cycle. Should’ve started over.”

He set the tool down, ran both hands over his face. “I buried him in the nutrient trench. Said a few words.”

You blinked.

Buried. He was burying them. Like children.ó He turned, angled the camera without speaking. A slow pan across the tanks. Two were empty. One was dark.

Only one still glowed—faintly. Epsilon.

“She’s still with me,” he whispered. “She always is. No neural degradation. No vascular deformation. Every check shows she’s still viable.”

He leaned closer to the tank, the image blurry.

“I don’t think she’s just lucky. I think… she’s listening.”

You stared at the screen, pulse thudding in your neck. What was this man doing?

In another log from April, he walked the corridor alone, murmuring to himself.

“They’re talking again. Whispering when I sleep. Not voices. Not really. Just… pressure. Like something behind my ears. Like she’s here. Watching.”

He didn’t explain who she was anymore. You didn’t need him to.

Log 9720. 2170.

A ten-year jump.

You knew the moment you saw him, this was nearing the end of something. Veyren looked hollowed. His cheekbones sharp. His voice so soft you had to raise the volume. He was seated beside one of the tanks, a hand resting gently on the steel.

The tank held a male avatar. Larger now—almost full-grown. The body twitched once, a reflexive, unconscious movement.

Like a baby rolling in a womb.

Veyren barely reacted.

“I’ve always wanted to drive one,” he said, not looking at the camera. “Always thought that if I could feel what they felt—walk through the forest without a mask—maybe I’d understand Eywa.” His voice cracked slightly. “Maybe I’d hear Her.”

He sat there, for a long while.

"Maybe I was always meant to watch. Never join. Never belong."

Then he reached up and turned the recording off. You sat back slowly, heart heavy, breath uneven. His words echoed, twisting through your mind like ghosts, leaving behind more questions than they'd answered.

Had Eywa ever truly guided him—or had he been chasing an echo, a delusion formed from isolation?

And why… Why had he kept going, alone, through all those empty decades?

You sat numb.

Years ago, Veyren had been obsessed with survival. Then with adaptation. Then… with becoming something more. But now? Now you saw the truth.

He was chasing Her.

Eywa.

Every cell grown. Every serum mixed. Every body named and buried and replaced. It was all for Her. And as you stared at the screen, your throat dry, your hands clenched— You wondered if Epsilon was still in that tank. Still floating. Still listening. Still waiting.

You scrolled through the logs, your throat tightening as you tapped the next video.

The holoscreen flickered to life again.

Log 10025 — 2171.

It was dark, the dim glow barely illuminating the room. Veyren sat slumped against the wall, knees drawn up, staring blankly ahead. You shivered, leaning closer to the holoscreen instinctively.

He didn’t speak at first. Didn’t move. Just stared. Then, softly, barely audible: “She’s a fortress. A perfect, beautiful fortress.”

He tilted his head back against the cold wall, eyes vacant and rimmed dark with exhaustion. “How do you understand something that perfect? How can something mortal—flawed, like us—ever comprehend something so complete?”

He closed his eyes briefly. “I just wanted to see Her,” he whispered. “Just once. To feel what She feels.”

A slow exhale.

“It’s not fair,” he murmured, voice cracking. “She speaks through every leaf, every root, every breath. But never to me. Why not to me?”

The log ended abruptly, plunging the room back into silence.

You kept watching, heart hammering now, unable to stop yourself from tapping the next log.

Log 10684 — 2173.

Veyren stood silently before an amnio tank, face pressed gently against the glass, one hand touching its surface reverently. “I lost Theta today,” he said, voice distant, as though reporting to someone. “Her vitals crashed so quickly. Like she was summoned. Maybe Eywa called her child back home.”

He looked down, eyes hollow. “Maybe… maybe she always calls them back.” He stayed there, pressed to the glass, breathing slowly, eyes fixed on the still form of the avatar inside.

Time blurred as you continued, each log increasingly fragmented. Sometimes he talked. Sometimes he just stared. Sometimes he laughed softly at nothing, muttering to shadows. Your skin prickled with each entry, watching the slow, inevitable descent of a brilliant mind into isolation-fueled madness.

You forced yourself onward.

Log 11207 — 2175.

This time, Veyren appeared more alert. Still thin, haunted—but focused. He stood before two large amnio tanks, both fully illuminated.

“I figured it out,” he said simply, pride creeping back into his voice. “I can grow them now. Less than a year. Ten months, maybe less. Genome streamlined. Growth hormones perfected. Neural compatibility almost instantaneous.”

His eyes shone brighter as he gestured to the tank on the left. Inside floated a male avatar, features faintly familiar. You leaned closer, pulse quickening—it looked like him. The same angular lines, the same shape to the brow. Altered, yes, softened slightly to Na’vi proportions—but undeniably him.

“This one was mine,” he murmured quietly. “I used my own base sequence, modified by 40%. But you can still see it. It’s still me, somewhere in there.”

He turned slowly to the second tank—and your breath hitched again.

Inside floated Epsilon.

You’d seen her before—smaller, childlike. But now she was fully matured. Her long, raven-black hair floated gently in the fluid, framing features smooth and serene, graceful limbs suspended effortlessly. Her bioluminescent markings shimmered faintly beneath the blue liquid.

Veyren stepped closer, hand hovering lovingly over the glass.

“She is my miracle,” he whispered. “Seventeen years and she still thrives. Other prototypes die—within days, sometimes months. But not her.”

He looked up, eyes shining softly. “I think… I think she’s Eywa’s favorite. Her chosen. Waiting for something I can’t yet understand. But I’ll wait too. However long it takes.”

His voice lowered, almost reverent. “Whatever she’s waiting for… I want to be here when it happens.”

The log flickered out.

You sat frozen, staring at the now-black holoscreen. Every muscle felt locked in place.

Seventeen years. A body, waiting patiently in fluid and silence, for nearly two decades.

How many bodies had he made? How many lay behind those doors? How many secrets were buried here beneath Pandora’s lush forests, hidden from both Na’vi and human eyes alike?

And most importantly, your mind whispered fiercely—

Was Epsilon still alive?

And if so, what exactly was she waiting for?

Log 11478 – 2176 The screen flickered on, dimmer than usual. Just blackness at first. Then a slow light—pale, cold—and Veyren came into view.

He was sitting on the floor of his quarters again, knees drawn up, back pressed against the wall beneath a flickering panel. The overhead light barely touched him. He looked thinner than ever, sunken-eyed, the ghost of the man you once idolized. The room around him was shadowed, a hollow cave of quiet machines.

His voice came slowly. Dry. Stripped raw.

“I died,” he whispered.

He didn’t look at the camera. Just stared forward, eyes unfocused, as if trying to remember how it felt.

“I decanted him—the body,” he said. “The one with my genome. The closest thing I’ve ever made to… me. Seventeen years of research. Generations of failure. But he was ready.”

A pause.

“I checked every system. Calibrated the pod. Neural pairing showed 97.8% sync. I climbed in, initiated transfer.”

You leaned closer, barely breathing.

“I remember it clearly,” he murmured. “The link pulled me in. There was light. A weightlessness. I felt the jungle in the back of my mind. I opened my eyes—his eyes.”

He swallowed. “And then… nothing.” He lifted his trembling hands in front of the camera.

“I was ripped back. Woke gasping in the pod. Heart racing. Body shaking. I thought—I thought I’d had a seizure. But no. He was gone. The avatar collapsed. Brain dead. Total shutdown.”

He lowered his hands. Pressed them to his face. “It was like dying.” Silence. “I think Eywa hates me,” he said, finally. “I must be cursed.”

He laughed, short and sharp—no humor in it.

“Everything I’ve done… it’s all been for nothing. All the years. All the logs. The theories. The grief. I will never belong to this place. Never be one of them. She doesn’t want me.”

He leaned his head back against the wall with a soft thud, exhaling through his teeth.

“I’ve started shutting them down,” he said quietly. “The other tanks. Delta, Gamma, Zeta… even Omikron. It’s time.”

His gaze dropped.

“They don’t have minds. Not without drivers. Just sleeping flesh. But I can’t leave them like this. They were never meant to be prisoners.”

Another breath.

“I’m letting them go back to Her. To the roots. Even if She never sees them.”

The screen flickered faintly as he shifted, the image shaking slightly.

“But not Epsilon.” His tone changed—gentler now. Softer. Almost reverent. “She’s still here. Still breathing. Seventeen years. She never failed. Never twitched wrong. Never sickened.”

He turned his face slightly toward the camera now, the light catching in the wet gleam of his eyes.

“She’s waiting,” he whispered. “I know it. For what—I don’t understand. Maybe not for me. Maybe not for anyone. But she’s constant. Still.”

He looked away, toward something you couldn’t see—maybe the tank just outside the frame.

“I talk to her sometimes. I think she hears me. Or maybe I’m losing my mind. Doesn’t matter.”

He smiled faintly, eyes distant.

“She’s not just a specimen. She’s… peace. The one thing I haven’t broken.” His voice dipped almost to silence. “I can’t let her go.”

The screen froze there. His hunched form, shadows stretching around him like the ribs of some sleeping beast. Then—

End of log.

You sat in that stillness a long time, your chest hollow.

So that was it. The great Dr. Elias Veyren. The prodigy. The pioneer. The man who tried to outwit a goddess. And now, after all these years, the only thing he had left… was a sleeping avatar floating in a tank. Waiting. And maybe—just maybe—not for him.

Log 13001 — 2180

You tapped it. The screen came alive again, and this time, you blinked in surprise. He looked… better.

Veyren sat at the desk—not hunched, not hollowed out, but composed. His hair was clean, pulled back in a low tie. His beard had been trimmed and shaped, and for the first time in dozens of recordings, he wore a fresh lab coat. The lighting was even. The room around him was tidied, as if scrubbed back to its original state.

For a second, you thought it might be an old log. But then he spoke. And his voice was older. Clear. Steady.

“They came back.”

He looked into the lens, eyes sharper than you'd seen in years of footage.

“The RDA.”

A slow, bitter smile crept over his face—not triumphant. Not even surprised. Just tired.

“They landed last week. I got the message six months before, of course. They wanted to know what I’ve been doing these past thirty years. Thirty years.” He shook his head. “They used to call me reckless. Dangerous. Now they call me an asset.”

He leaned forward.

“They want Syeha. The full genome progression. The delivery sequences. They want the blueprint for mass-producing avatars—my streamlining protocols, my acceleration serum. They want the ‘recipe.’” His fingers curled into fists atop the desk. “And they don’t care what it cost.”

He paused.

“I used to hope for this,” he admitted, softly. “Back in the first decade, when the logs still felt like letters to someone. I used to hope I’d see people again. Be part of something. But now?”

He leaned back, breath catching.

“They’re strangers to me.” His voice dropped. “They’re aliens.”

He stared ahead for a long moment. The screen caught the subtle shift in his expression—something like grief, but older than that. Worn thin with time.

“They walk in here like they understand what I’ve done. What I’ve lost. They talk in numbers. In payloads. In scalability. They bring me samples like bribes. Viperwolf specimens. Rare orchids. A whole fucking cluster of carnivorous spores from the mist biomes.”

He laughed. Sharp. Exhausted.

“They even brought me a new exo-mask. Said I could walk outside again if I wanted. ‘Get fresh air, Doctor.’”

His voice turned cold.

“I don’t want your air.” He stood, the frame adjusting slightly as he paced. “I don’t want your masks or your plants or your bribes. I don’t want your desperation disguised as hope. You think because I worked alone, I must want your company?”

He turned back, face dark now.

“No. I want you to leave.”

His voice hardened.

“There is no world where humanity belongs here. No future where we root ourselves into this land without rot following behind us.”

He placed both palms on the desk, leaning forward again.

“This planet does not want us. Eywa does not want us.”

He looked past the camera then—his eyes drifting toward something unseen, something beyond the screen.

“Except maybe… her.”

You knew who he meant.

Epsilon.

He sat slowly, the mask of composure cracking around the edges.

“They don’t understand. All these years, all these failures—because she knows. Eywa knows. Every time I tried to force the path, to shape it with my own hands, she broke it. She stopped me. Like a parent slapping a match out of a child’s hand before it sets the whole forest on fire.”

He exhaled. Long. Quiet.

“I’m tired of being the child.”

The silence stretched, filled only by the low hum of the machines. “I won’t give them the serum,” he said finally. “And I won’t give them the bodies.”

He looked back into the lens—into you, without knowing it.

“This world belongs to the Na’vi. It always did.” His eyes softened. “And if they won’t listen to that truth, then let them choke on the air like we did at the beginning.”

End of log.

You sat there for a long time, hands tight around the edge of the datapad. In that moment, Elias Veyren didn’t sound mad. He sounded right. More than any scientist, more than any outsider who had stepped foot on this moon— He understood.

And maybe that was the real curse. He understood it too late.

You scrolled quickly toward the last log entries, eyes scanning the dates anxiously until one caught your attention.

Log 13178 – 2180/06/14

You stopped. Breath tight in your chest. The exact date when you’d stood at that mining pit. The same night you’d stumbled, fallen, gotten lost, alone, injured.

Heart racing now, you tapped the log entry, dread pooling slowly in your stomach as the screen flickered to life again.

The scene unfolded before you.

Veyren sat at his workstation—his face drawn tight with anger, shoulders tense beneath his rumpled coat. It looked like he’d just come out of some confrontation, some conflict, his eyes still smoldering with cold fury.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low, clipped, barely contained.

“They came again today,” he said, fingers tightening sharply around the edge of the table. “The RDA. They came here like they owned the forest, with heli and dragon.”

He spat the word as if it tasted bitter on his tongue.

“They wanted to ‘check in.’ To monitor progress—as if I’m still their property, still their damned asset. After everything.”

He exhaled roughly, jaw clenching tightly as he looked up.

“But this time… this time they wanted something else.”

He lifted his gaze directly toward the camera.

“They wanted Epsilon.”

Your heart clenched at his words. Even now, after all you’d learned, the mention of her sent a strange ache through your chest.

“They said they needed her,” he continued. “Needed her to ‘verify stability.’ They wanted to take her, to run their own experiments, to dissect her—to take her apart piece by piece, like some goddamned lab rat.”

He let out a breathless, cold laugh, hollow and devoid of any humor.

“As if I would let them touch her.” His voice dropped dangerously low, the edge razor-sharp. “I pointed a gun at them. First time in thirty years I held a gun, but god help me—I was ready to fire. They left quickly after that.”

He paused, silence stretching. Then, slowly, the hardness in his expression softened slightly. His voice shifted—no longer sharp-edged anger, but thoughtful, quiet, almost distant.

“You know… dreams are strange things.” His gaze drifted toward the floor, brow creasing slightly. “It’s been decades since I’ve had one. Not a real dream—not anything I’d remember in the morning.”

His voice was lower now, softer. “But last night… last night, I dreamed.”

He leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, eyes glazed with distant memory.

“I was standing in the forest. Not this cold lab, not these sterile walls—real earth beneath my feet. Trees stretching to the sky above me, bioluminescence brighter than stars. I could feel wind. I could smell soil.”

He hesitated, swallowing carefully.

“And then I heard it… my name. Soft, repeated, whispered through leaves, through roots, like the forest itself was chanting—calling to me. Elias. Elias. Elias.”

He shook his head slowly, a bitter, tired smile tugging faintly at his lips.

“But when I turned around, no one was there. Just empty woods and whispers.” He chuckled once, softly, the sound humorless, broken. “I’ve clearly lost it. Truly, completely insane.”

He lifted his gaze back to the lens—eyes sad, tired, full of quiet resignation.

“Perhaps this is how it ends, then. A madman alone in a hidden lab beneath a foreign moon, dreaming that the trees are calling his name.”

He let out a slow, weary breath.

“Maybe it’s just Eywa mocking me. Or maybe I’ve finally cracked.”

He stared into the lens one last moment, eyes flickering with something fragile and lost. “Either way… I’m tired of fighting. Whatever happens now… I’ll wait for her call again. Even if it’s only in dreams.”

End of log.

The screen faded back into darkness, leaving you alone again, heart beating heavily in your chest.

So, he’d dreamed—he’d dreamed the very night you’d fallen into the pit. The same night you had lost yourself, wandering blindly in the forest.

You shivered, a strange feeling crawling up your spine. Your pulse echoed in your ears, louder in the absolute silence of the lab. It felt like coincidence—but a part of you, deep down, didn’t believe in those anymore. Not after Pandora.

You swallowed thickly, staring blankly at the dark screen. Something had shifted. Something had changed. You didn’t know what it meant—not yet—but you knew it mattered.

And for the first time, sitting alone in this strange place, you felt certain of one thing:

You weren’t here by accident.

Your eyes drifted slowly over the screen, catching on a file titled simply: 'Lost Girl'

Your breath stilled. The date was unmistakable—it was the very day you'd woken here, underground. The day your life had shifted forever. With trembling fingers, you tapped the file open.

The screen flickered, then filled with the familiar room. The sterile white walls, the quiet hum of machinery. And there—right behind Veyren, lying unconscious in the hospital bed—was you.

Your breath hitched sharply, hand flying to your mouth as you watched yourself—pale, fragile, barely breathing, your chest rising and falling in shallow rhythms. Tubes and IV lines snaked over your limbs, the bandage around your head stark against your dark hair. It felt wrong to see yourself this way, so exposed, so vulnerable.

Veyren appeared closer to the camera, his face tired, his eyes wary and uncertain. He looked back at your sleeping form for a brief second, before exhaling slowly and turning fully to the lens.

"I never imagined I'd step outside again," he began softly, voice heavy with disbelief and exhaustion. "Three decades underground. Three decades I haven't set foot above, haven’t breathed real air. But last night…" he shook his head, eyes distant with memory. "Something called to me. Something drew me out there. A voice, a whisper. I thought—" He sighed roughly. "I thought I'd gone insane. Completely. But then—I found her."

He glanced back at your sleeping body, expression unreadable.

"She was in a thanator den. Half-dead. Barely breathing. Bleeding out from a wound at the back of her head, deep enough to see bone. There’s no way she should have survived that."

His voice softened, gaze narrowing slightly in thought.

"I almost didn't notice at first… but when I moved her, I saw them." He hesitated briefly, then rose, the camera shaking slightly as he carried it back to his lab, away from the room where you'd slept.

The view changed to his cluttered desk, and there—spread out across the surface—were delicate, silvery mycelia, like fine threads of silk. Roots. Fragile tendrils.

"These were wrapped around her neck and head when I found her," he murmured, fingers brushing lightly over the thin, shimmering filaments. "They came up out of the earth beneath her, like they’d grown directly into her. Like they were a part of her."

His eyes glittered sharply, curiosity and confusion warring behind them.

"Almost like a neural queue," he whispered, voice catching slightly. "Like a connection. To Eywa. But how—how could Eywa form that connection with a human? What is she? Why would the Great Mother save her? Maybe I’ve gone mad. But these are real. These tendrils grew into her. The sensors confirmed partial neural resonance.” His eyes darted, his mind clearly spiraling through thoughts. “She was unconscious. But something down there—something—tethered to her.”

His gaze turned inward, jaw tight with thought.

"Her condition was… unstable. Critically unstable. Last night, on her first night here, she crashed completely. Cardiac arrest. Circulation collapsed. I had to revive her. More than once." His voice trailed into quiet uncertainty. "I didn't think she’d make it."

He paused, a heavy silence stretching as he sat slowly into the chair before the desk, head bowed into his hands for a moment. When he finally lifted his gaze again, it was filled with a quiet desperation.

"I didn’t know what else to do," he confessed slowly, his voice rough. "I had nothing left. So, I injected her with Syeha. My final version. The last vial."

Your heart seized sharply, a gasp escaping your mouth involuntarily. His voice grew quieter still, almost a whisper now.

"I fully expected her to die," he admitted, exhaustion etched deep in his face. "Just like everyone else before her. But she didn't. Her vitals stabilized. Got stronger. She survived the night."

He looked directly into the camera, pale eyes wide, almost haunted, but hopeful in a way you hadn't yet seen.

"I feel… I feel like she’ll survive this."

The recording ended.

You sat frozen, trembling, eyes fixed blankly on the darkened holoscreen.

He injected you. Without your consent. Without your knowledge. With a serum that had killed, destroyed, broken everyone and everything it had touched before you. You swallowed harshly, throat tight with nausea.

Your mind raced, wild and frantic. What had he done? What had he made you?

Your gaze flicked numbly down to the files again, barely registering another entry marked yesterday, afternoon, timestamped just hours earlier, while you'd slept unaware.

Hands trembling violently now, you tapped it open.

The screen flashed awake, Veyren appearing clearer, sharper, more vibrant than you'd ever seen him—his eyes sparkling with the kind of wonder and energy you'd watched fade from him across decades of logs.

"She woke up," he began immediately, his voice breathless with awe, with genuine astonishment. "She woke up, and she spoke. She ate food, drank water. She moves. She thinks. She's… she's normal."

He let out a shaky breath, leaning forward eagerly toward the camera.

"She’s alive. She’s really alive. After the serum—after everything—she survived. I don't understand how. Maybe… maybe it was those mycelia. Maybe Eywa herself protected her, stabilized her somehow. Maybe she’s chosen."

He laughed softly, joyless and startled, eyes alight with frantic hope and confusion. "I spent three decades buried here, thinking I'd failed—thinking Eywa had cursed me. But what if—" His voice broke, trembled slightly. "What if this was why I was here? What if she is why I am here?"

The log flickered closed.

The room pressed in around you, crushingly silent, your pulse thundered loudly in your ears.

You’d been experimented on—changed. The serum that had killed countless others coursed through your veins even now. And you’d never known it.

Yet somehow… you were still breathing. Still conscious. Still you. You sat back slowly in the chair, chest heaving with shallow breaths, panic, confusion, anger, and awe swirling violently inside your chest.

Who—or what—were you now? And why had Eywa spared you?

You sat numbly, your eyes locked blankly on the darkened holoscreen. The realization—the weight of it—pressed heavy in your chest, suffocating.

Modified.

You were no longer simply human. The serum—the same serum that had killed countless others, that had left them hollow, lifeless shells—now coursed silently through your veins. If Veyren was to be believed, if the logs you’d just watched were true, you could breathe the toxic Pandoran air without an exomask.

A shuddering breath filled your lungs, half terror, half cautious excitement. The idea was thrilling and terrifying. Impossible and intoxicating.

And suddenly, sharply, your mind flashed to Neteyam.

Your breath caught sharply in your throat.

The thought seized you fiercely—if this were true, if you truly could breathe the air of Pandora, it meant—

You could kiss him. You could kiss Neteyam without worry, without the barrier of the mask, without the fear of suffocation clawing at the edges of your awareness. For just one moment, joy surged wild and uncontrolled within you, your heart thundering at the thought of finally feeling his lips against yours, unguarded, unhindered.

A quiet sound, the soft shuffle of footsteps, broke sharply through your thoughts.

Your heart jolted violently in your chest.

You spun instinctively, gripping the datapad like a shield.

Veyren stood at the entrance to the lab, silent, unmoving, his pale gaze fixed steadily on you. Shadows clung heavily beneath his eyes, lines of exhaustion etched deep into his face. Yet there was a calmness there, a steadiness, as if he'd already anticipated this moment, had prepared himself for it.

Your voice came out rough, thin, trembling violently with barely contained fear and disbelief.

"What did you do to me?"

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stepped slowly into the room, movements careful, measured, as if wary of spooking you further.

"I didn't think you would find it this early," he murmured softly, voice weary, almost resigned.

You stared at him, your knuckles white where you gripped the datapad, chest heaving shallowly.

“What did you do?” you whispered again, desperation and fear woven tightly through your voice.

His gaze met yours fully now—steady, unapologetic, yet edged with something softer, something more conflicted.

“I saved you,” he said quietly, calmly, as though stating a simple fact.

Thank you for your unwavering patience! Q_Q

Part 27: (Soon)

151 notes · View notes

contentloadingandstuff · 8 months ago

Text

Halloween Special: Basement Secrets | Hu Tao x Male!Werewolf!Reader

A/N: I know it's late, and I'm sorry for it. I'll still call it a special, since that was my original intention. Enjoy, and sorry for being late again.

CW: Smut, sedatives (drugging I guess?), reader in heat, non-human genitalia.

A flick of the wrist causes the lamps to spark to life, illuminating the corridor. The Director stops to appreciate her surroundings. She guides her hand across the wall ornament, feeling the smooth, cold texture. Hu Tao hums in appreciation. The carpenter did splendidly. Maybe she should have the coffin wood polished as well?

Her eyes gravitate towards the other end of the hallway, where a large bookcase stands. Approaching it, she puts the paper bag under her arm and reaches for one of the books. A firm tug moves the lever, allowing the furniture to be moved to the side. She doesn't need much effort - her ancestors were smart in installing rails into the floor. A gust of cold air hits her through the iron bars, causing her hair to sway slightly. The air carries a hint of fur, sweat and…

“Ah~” She breathes it in, enjoying the scent thoroughly. Anger. Frustration. Hate. Desperation.

Without a moment of further delay, Hu Tao slides the key into the slot and turns it twice, opening the gate. The lamps behind it, already lit by the chain reaction she started earlier, cast golden light on the many stone stairs leading downwards. She secures her entrance, pressing a button to slide the shelf back into place. It's best not to spark curiosity, even of her consultant Zhongli.

“The ninth fell down and cried aloud, the tenth asked ‘Why?’~” She hums, going down with lively steps. She matches her feet to the increasing rhythm of her heart. It demands her to go faster, but she doesn't listen - after all, good things come to those who wait… “For the fifth won't ever come back.”

Another door, made of thick iron. There's a viewport, but she knows well what it hudes. This time, all she has to do is lift the hook and pull the handle to get in. When she does, she makes sure it doesn't close fully.

“What do you want?” A deep, sharp voice comes from the other end of the room and Hu Tao turns to face it. The room is lit just by the dim flame of the gas lamp, leaving most of the room in complete darkness. A pair of big, yellow eyes stood out on the black backdrop.

Hu Tao placed the bag on the desk and approached the lamp. “Do I need a reason to visit you, hm?” she says as she turns the dial of the lamp, letting the flame grow bigger. “Can't a girl check up on her-”

“I'M NOT YOUR DAMN DOG!” You lunge forward, but the thick collar around your neck stops you from slamming your body against the bars. Your captor chuckles, not even bothering to turn around.

“... puppy~?”

Hearing this, you let out a growl of annoyance. You would have broken out already, got rid of her and ran free if not for this damn inhibitor stuck around your throat. Not only was it forcing you into this unwieldy, overgrown form, but it was also spiked and chained to the wall - any attempt at breaking free resulted in discomfort, turning into pain.

You back away from the bars to stop it from stinging your neck. Hu Tao withdraws a small, mesh bag of something brown. Your sensitive nose picks up the scent of jerky right away. That traitorous tail of yours starts swaying left and right as the woman presents it to you.

“Something tasty for you, Y/N. You were such a good boy this week, weren't you?” The bag is moved close enough to the bars for you to extend your arm and hook your claw through the fabric.

You rip it open as soon as you can, and stuff a handful into your snout. The salty, powerful, smokey taste of meat fills your mouth, finally providing something simulating. You don't notice it, but there's a slightly unusual aftertaste to the meat. You don't notice Hu Tao smiling either.

“Thank you, Hu Tao.” You sigh in satisfaction. A little distraction was very welcome, even if it was temporary. At least you weren't thinking about the h-

She rattles her rings on the iron bars, interrupting your thoughts. “Ah, no need to thank me, Y/N. I'm in charge of you after all.” Hu Tao scans your cell, her ember eyes coming to rest over your pillow. You follow her gaze.

It's… a mess. The innocent fabric was torn in places and thoroughly stained with dark patches of fluid. A thick scent of musk was all over it, contributing to the stuffy air in your cell. You can't help but look down in slight embarrassment.

“Aiya Aiya~ You've been quite a naughty boy in here, looks like. Hmph, and I have already given you treats…” She scoffs in mock disappointment. “How are you feeling, pup?”

Although your fists tighten at being referred to like a dog, again, you're too tired of it to butt heads with her. “Why are you even asking? Do you enjoy seeing me embarrassing myself here?”

As luck would have it, the Liyue people decided to catch you right before the mating season of wolves. Because of your lycanthropy, you were just as horny and snappy as them - but most of the time it wasn't a problem. You could easily find yourself a seasonal fuck buddy or visit Ying’er for a few hours each week, but with no mate to nut inside of, your instinct remained at an all time high. You had to relieve yourself through any means necessary as the need was maddening, making your cock constantly, painfully erect. The pillow had the bad luck to be around and became the victim of violent, shameless humping as you imagined it to be a welcoming pussy of a she-werewolf. But it still wasn't enough.

What didn't help either was the fact that your captor was female. A female that, as your nose told you, fingered herself regularly, teasing your nose with her pleasure pheromones. You were almost sure she was completely aware of how big your desire to bend her over was, surely making it all the more entertaining to see you struggle.

“Ugh. Fine, I'll play along. I'm horny all the damn time, hence the… the state of the pillow.” You clear your throat. “Yeah. And you being here doesn't help it in any way.”

Hu Tao smirks at your embarrassment. “Oh, I see~! But how could that be when you're so happy to see me, hm?”

Your anger flares up again as she theatrically taps her chin, shamelessly looking between your legs, making you bare your teeth in response. You weren't exactly expecting to get caught, so you didn't bring along spare clothing. Clothing that was made to stretch and fit your werewolf self. It was very expensive and tailor made, so Hu Tao obviously didn't have anything like it, at the end of the day forcing you to talk to her like the steel bar you call a werewolf cock wasn't always in her face. Guessing by the sheer amount of times she stared at it, she didn't seem to mind.

Which pissed you off even more. She could really give you a hand right now. Or a throat. Or a cunt. You grab the bars and groan - intimidating, but tired. “Look, please, just… don't make it worse for me. Please?”

Surprisingly, she nods. Hu Tao reaches for the paper bag and pulls out a fresh, pristinely white pillow. Without a word, she passes it on to you. You eagerly swap the old one for it. As your mind anticipates the coming moment of her departure, instead of leaving, Hu Tao continues to stand in front of you.

Before you can say anything, she moves closer to the bars. “My dear Y/N~ You may not believe me, but I do know how awful you must feel…” Her fingernails tap the steel as she speaks. “All that energy, all that need, all that lust with nowhere to deposit it all feels simply terrible.”

You cross your arms over your chest. “What's your point?”

“My point is, my dear doggy, that I have been feeling something quite similar.” There's a small tint of red on her cheeks as she says it out loud. Upon noticing the smirk on your face, she pouts. “Don't look at me like that! Us girls have needs too, I'll have you know.”

This is the last thing you expected to hear. Your mind opposed taking up the opportunity, but luckily for you, all the blood supplied to it was quickly directed south as soon as you picked up the implication.

You push against the bars with one hand, and - as much as the chain would allow you - lean forward.

“Tsk. And what are you going to do about it, huh?” You ask. Hu Tao now needs to look up to see your eyes, sapping just a little of her confidence.

“I was thinking we could make a little deal. Just a friendly agreement between pals, hm?” She points at your groin. “You lend me that slimy…” she says, stretching out the word with deliberation, “...smelly thing between your legs, and in return I let you play with my pussy. Are you up for it, big boy?”

By this point, your cock has swelled from its frustrated, semi-hard state to its proper, impressive form. Just the mention of a snatch makes the tip moisten with precum, your feral body already preparing for the mating to come. It may be a trick, though. Why would she-

Your reconsideration is cut short by Hu Tao sneaking her hand through the bars, placing it flat against your furry chest. She trails it down, caressing the bulbous pecs underneath the gray hair. You watch on as she continues, traversing the thickening line of fur as it leads downwards, her finger soon lost in the dense bush of pubes covering your groin. She lightly grazed your cock with her fingernail, dragging it from the base, over the knot and right to the tip of your canine dick, throbbing at her touch.

“I agree…” You say with a sigh. “Just don't tease me, alright?”

You would swear her eyes sparkled when you gave in, her lips forming into a satisfied, sly smile. “Wonderful~! Good boy.”

“Hold still.” She raises the object she took earlier, bringing it closer to your wolf snout. It’s a muzzle. As much as you’d love to lash out and bite her, this is not the time. You lower your face, submitting to her safety measures, letting the muzzle stand between her supple throat and your thick, sharp teeth. Surprisingly, it makes you salivate more...

Hu Tao walks back to the table and returns with a pair of handcuffs in her hand. Handcuffs… They are more like shackles, made of thick steel and connected with a sturdy chain. Hu Tao throws them at you, perfectly passing between the bars separating you and her. You catch it without issue.

“There are only a few ‘buts’, doggie. First, the cuffs stay on. Second, you don’t cum inside. Got it?” You open your mouth to reply. to no avail. “Good. Now cuff yourself to the chair…”

Turning around, your eyes lock onto the piece of furniture. You slide it from under the desk and move it to face the door, back against the wall to allow the maximum slack of your steel leash that’s possible. The shoddy wood creaks as you sit your animalistic form down, arms reaching around the headrest. Feeling your way through the process, you secure both vracelets around your wrists, looping the chain around the beams of the chair’s support. A tug confirms you did well.

Her eyes don’t leave you for a moment. Once she sees you’re done, Hu Tao grabs the key from her pocket, as well as something from the nearby shelf you can’t quite make out, and opens up the cell. She cautiously steps in, just in case you tried to pull a funny on her. You grit your teeth in frustration… Why can’t she get it over with? It’s not like you’ll bite her.

“Nice! And they say werewolves are ‘bad’ and ‘rebellious’. Looks like a little enticement goes a long way, hm?”

You shift in your seat, your lust growing and patience waning. “Get on with it already!”

She sends you a mock offended look, but relents. She snatches the newly brought pillow from your bed and puts it on the stone floor before slowly kneeling down.

Your dick now eye level with her, she wraps her hand around it, feeling the heat against her skin. It's shaped starkly different from your human form’s manhood, being thick, bulbous with a knot near the base. Hu Tao glides her hand over its length, causing you to groan as she touches it. It's been swollen for far too long to be comfortable and, on top of that, it aches more with every throb of your impatient cock. Hu Tao doesn't care, focusing her attention on the bulging veins, dark blue against the furious red of the shaft. Her other hand finds its way down to your sack, cupping the furry, cum swollen balls hanging below. She rolls them between her fingers as if weighing the unspent seed inside. They're heavy, she thinks, perfectly heavy. Bringing her nose closer to the tip, her nostrils fill with the musky stink of your juices, with tangy hints of still fresh cum stuck in your fur.

“Fufu~ That thing is even more impressive up close…” Looking you in the eye, she giggles as she flicks the tip of your cockhead. You squirm in response, instinctually baring your teeth. “I’m afraid to ask what kind of plans you had for me~”

Soon you feel the slick, hot tongue of the director flick curiously against your head, lapping up the precum leaking from the slit. It tickles more than anything, so you try to inch your hips a bit closer, as much as the chair would allow. But she didn't listen, even if you didn't have to wait long to feel the flat of her small tongue rub against your shaft. It feels good, but it's nowhere near enough. You move your hips backwards, trying to bring the tip closer to her lips, but she grips the base tightly, keeping it in place as she continues to worship your shaft. It's slow, but eventually the consistent grinding of her wet tongue stirs some pleasure in you. You focus your attention on the feeling, praying for it to be enough to make you cum. She feels you throb in appreciation, eliciting a satisfied hum from her. Suddenly, she stops, switching her tongue for her hand and wrapping her lips around your tip. You whine at the sudden stimulation. Finally…! As her speeds up and her wet mouth sucks you deeper inside, pressure starts to build in your knot. A moan escapes your lips as she sucks and strokes, your orgasm drawing closer by the second. Each throb makes her take you deeper, you can feel the back of her throat rub against you when her head bobs up and down. Your thighs tense up in expectation. Almost… Almost… Almost…!

She stops. Hu Tao takes her hand away from you and spits your cock out of her mouth’s warmth, letting it flop down, sad and unsatisfied. You can only whine in confusion as you feel your orgasm fading slowly.

“W-what…? Why did you stop…” You stutter out, your voice turning angry at her smile. “Oh you-”

“Heh, did I say anything about you finishing?” She dismissively throws her twintails behind her shoulders. “Good things come to boys who wait. And I bet you'll be the best boy, won't you Y/N?”

This. Little. Nasty. Witch. Your thoughts buzz with both anger and desperation as you feel your release slipping away. “I'll be good, just let me cum… I need it…”

She takes off her hat and reverently places it on the bed. “Mm~ Say it, doggie! I want to hear it, and if I like it, I might just give you something better~”

With that, she reaches to the strings of her coat, undoing them with little issue. Your impatience is temporarily replaced by excitement, your tail swishing as she strips her jacket, revealing a short-sleeved red shirt underneath. You can see two points poking through the fabric on opposite sides of her chest. She looks at you, waiting.

“I want to see more, please…” You plead, feeling a heat on your face as you say it.

“You can do better.” She reaches for her coat, now thrown on the bed, causing the beast inside you to flare up in alarm. You try to spring up, only to be dropped by the cuffs.

“Wait! Please, Hu Tao, I want to see them…” Desperate and horny, you swallow your pride and continue. “I want to s-see your tits, please!”

Just moments ago, you were ready to tear into her. Now, you plead with her for some boobs. And she'll make you beg for her cunt to - you'll do as she wants and you know it. The animalistic heat is too strong to ignore, forcing you to give in to its demands.

Clearly satisfied with your words, she undoes the buttons holding her cover together. Her hands pull it open, revealing an exceptionally flat chest with two perky, rock-hard nipples. You twitch in excitement, harder still when she guides her hand down to her shorts. She pulls them down, revealing a pristine white pair of panties, decorated with a pink ribbon near the band. Her finger sneaks underneath it and pulls it down just enough to reveal a small patch of brown hair, dense yet neatly trimmed.

She was preparing for this, wasn't she…

Her hand undoes the string holding her panties together, letting them fall open. They are promptly tossed aside, letting you finally see her heat in its full glory, her lips swollen and sticky with lust. Blushing, she continues rubbing herself with your dick and you can painfully feel her swollen, pretty clit gliding on you and her own juice.

Hu Tao steps out of her pants and approaches you, sitting her half-bare ass on your lap. Teasing, she props your dick against her clothed slit. She presses it down, letting your precum soak into the silk and feel the warmth underneath. She rocks her hips against you, grinding at a slow and deliberate pace. Your eyes are fixed on her steady movements, the words slipping out of your lips going unnoticed by your lust-filled brain.

“Please…” You beg. “Please put it in already…!”

She smirks. “No way this will fit inside me, pretty boy. Do you see how big it is?” Hu Tao presses it against her stomach. The hefty cock really does look quite intimidating, the tip going way above her belly button. “But I bet you’d like to fuck me regardless, hm?”

Each stroke of her lips makes you hurt. She’s so close, but so far… Your heart beats faster and faster and faster and faster still as your body writhes in anger. You try to sit still, try to enjoy the feeling as much as you can but the wolf within you demands her. Your canine mind feels the insignificant weight on your lap and feels the cuffs are just a little malleable… How easy it would be to break out and take her properly… It wants it, relentlessly, and your mind soon succumbs.

Gritting your teeth, you focus your attention on your wrists. You grasp the cuffs with your thumbs and pull with all your strength. Hu Tao is blushed, too focused on pleasing herself to notice the tension in your arms. You feel the steel bending and stretching, doubling your efforts. The edges of the metal dig painfully into your furred flesh, surely leaving painful welts that will last for days, but you don’t care. You almost… can… feel…

Snap!

Hu Tao’s face snaps up to look at you. Her eyes go wide.

“W-wha-?!” The word gets stuck in her throat as your massive left hand snatches her neck, the other pushing you up as you raise. Your form stands tall, ears nearly touching the ceiling, obscuring the light of the lamp inside and casting an ominous shadow over Hu Tao, currently dangling from your outstretched arm. Your other hand reaches the muzzle and rips it straight from your face as if it were made of paper. Leather straps are no match for a lust frenzied wolf.

“L-let go of… me!” You don’t choke her tightly, but her words still come out raspy. She hits her small fists on your hand, but they do little against rippling werewolf muscle. Her legs are far too small to reach your chest or stomach, even if those meat stilts could do any damage. “You… b-brute…!”

You lift her higher, bringing up her pussy to your nose. The salty, musky scent of her sex overwhelms your sensitive nose, making your eyes water. There’s no fear amongst the smell, just eagerness, lust and… fertility.

“Ngah~!” She whines as your rough tongue reaches out and gives her a probing lick, feeling up the willing cunt in front of you. You slide it from her clit down to her entrance. A whimper flees her lips as you push your way in, her mock struggles ceasing as she feels you tasting her. “Mhm…”

She tastes delicious, making you push yourself further inside. Your hand goes from her throat to her ass, tilting her to the side to allow you better access. You waste no time and press your nose between her pussy lips, drawing in more of her scent. Her arms drift from your wrist and land on your head, fingers digging into the fur as her legs lock over your neck for support. Hu Tao rocks her hips, enticing you to explore deeper. You oblige and soon you feel her flesh pulsate around your intrusion as she clings onto you for dear life. You take it all in, scent, taste, slick and bumpy texture of her hole… But you can’t take it much longer. It wasn’t made for your tongue.

Your tail starts swishing in excitement as you lift up your leg and stomp it down next to her face. You grab your cock and guide it towards her entrance. In a bit of vengeance, you rub the tip between her hungry lips, smearing them with thick precum. Before she can get comfortable though, you ram into her, burying yourself balls deep inside her tiny snatch.

You pull back, leaving a string of saliva connecting you to her. She squeaks in surpise as unceremoniously toss her on the bed. When she lands, her eyes immediately turn to you as she flips on her back.

“A-ayia ayia…” She stutters out, flushed, watching you slowly approach her. She opens her legs, hoping to buy your mercy. “Please be gentle…”

But you have no plans for that. Even if you did, your heat doesn’t give a damn. You grab her waist and flip her around. Before she can regain her balance, you clasp your claws around her ass and pull her closer, dragging the sheet that she’s desperately holding along with her. When she feels your talon drag between her cheeks, you feel her skin crawl and shudder in response. Her back is arched as you examine your prey. You groan as soon as you notice and deliver a rough open palm on her ass.

“Waah!” She whimpers, feeling the sting on her skin. She fixes her posture, making proper space for your full length.

Both of you moan in joint ecstasy as you fill her to the brim. Unable to control yourself, you start moving. With you dictating the pace, all Hu Tao can do is clench the blanket for dear life as you begin pistoning in and out of her. The room fills with a symphony of triumphant growls, desperate whimpers and obscene sounds of your nuts repeatedly slapping against her wet slit. Her eyes roll back as she endures your violent coupling, her eyes crying tears of mixed pain and pleasure. She feels her small pussy being stretched to its absolute limits, feeling herself throb as her body, confused between fear and mindless lust, fights back against the too big intrusion. Her tries to meet you halfway are met with no result as every snap of your hips pushes her back. She can’t think straight with a cock impaled into her so deep, so any thoughts quickly leave her mind with the many moans she shamelessly lets sound out.

Feeling your much needed release draw closer, you dig your claws into her small ass, eliciting a whine from your mate. You shift into a merciless pace that sends bruising ripples across her body, the beast inside you caring only for the tension in his nuts. At last you strike forward, forcing the knot into her tight hole. She wails, arching her head backwards to meet your eyes. You lean forward and wrap your arms around her torso, keeping her close as you unload, each throb of your cock flooding her ravaged insides. She can feel each pulsing rope of cum pouring into her helpless, waiting womb.

Slowly, your mating fury dies down, and an overwhelming sense of exhaustion sets in. Hu Tao remains still under you, still too blazed by the intensity of your fuck. Her pleasure rotted mind still sits between her legs when the clarity hits you, relaxing your muscles and letting your exhausted cock finally soften. With a groan, you pull yourself out with a small noise from her to go along with it. A moment later dense cream emerges from inside her, starting to lazily drip out.

You feel your head spin, soon followed by a trembling of your arms and knees. You move Hu Tao closer to the wall and collapse next to her, large arms pulling her close to your furry chest.

Hu Tao reaches her hand around to touch your nose. No response. She breathes a sigh of relief, thanking herself for sneaking that sedative into your snacks. Looks like she still had some sense in her when her panties were soaked.

A moment later, thoughts start to sprout back in Hu Tao’s fucked out mind. She groans - everything either hurts, is sore, or can’t be felt at all. Especially her hips.

“D-damn you..” She mumbles, rubbing the tears from her eyes. Well, she thinks, she deserved it. Could she not have provoked you? Maybe. Was it totally worth it? Hell yes.

Your arm is quite comfortable. She snuggles her head into the crook of your arm, enjoying the softness of your monstrous form’s fur. Absent-mindedly, her hand glides over her belly.

Hopefully lycanthropy isn’t hereditary…

Thanks for reading!

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