#Lost Data Retrieval

[stealingyourspins]

(Click for better quality)

Ninjago Mermaid AU- Zane.

Species: Narwhal. Chosen because of their ability to withstand cold temperatures plus their color pallet.

Zane is a Marine “spy” Robot used by researchers to record and collect data of Merfolk in their natural environment. Made in a partnership with Borg Industries and Julien Laboratories, he is a revolutionary advancement in the robotics field, going past a simple language learning model level to becoming a true AI in the 25 years of development. Zane’s expedition is simple: to help marine biologists to study Merfolk and blend in the best he can.

(Alt version with no spots under the cut and non transparent versions)

[0scill4te]

[cobaltperun]

Hi, i saw your post about taking requests. Can you write a natasha x fem reader were the reader is taller than her and after a difficult mission nat is just very clingy and doesn't want to let her gf qo so reader just picks her up and wak around like that? Just some cute, adorable natasha feeling bad about what happened at the mission and the reader being there for her, maybe talking about it? But overall fluff

Thanks, feel free to add whatever things you want

I'm right here

Natasha Romanoff x female Reader (Request)

Summary: Following a dangerous mission all Natasha needs right now is to be close to you, and you're more than happy to tend to her needs.

Masterlist

Word Count: 2.4k

Set between The Avengers and CA: TWS

Static buzzing of your ruined comms forced you to open your eyes as you pulled the damn earpiece out. The stench of burning plastic and burnt skin and blood and suffocating smoke made you groan as you tried to roll onto your back and sit up. Your head felt like it was going to explode and the warm blood slowly trickling from your forehead down the side of your face wasn’t a good sign. Oh, Natasha was going to be so damn pissed off when she sees you. Assuming she even gets to see you again in the first place. “I got this,” you mockingly repeated as you sat up and leaned against the wall and looked around you. The lab was in ruins, computers blown up, equipment destroyed, enemy soldiers dead, some shot, some killed by the explosion.

You glanced at the USB stick, at least you accomplished what you were after. The data Fury wanted was safely in your hands and all things considered you were sure you bought enough time for Natasha and Clint to get the hostages out. All that was left to do was to get out alive.

Footsteps caught your attention, too many to be Nat and Clint, and the three of you didn’t bring any backup. “I need a vacation,” you sighed. Was there any chance you could convince your workaholic of a girlfriend to take more than three days off?

Probably not.

You tucked the USB stick away and checked your gun, you still had plenty of ammo left.

~X~

Years spent working for S.H.I.E.L.D. changed her, she dared to think she was trying to do something good, to make up for at least a tiny bit of suffering she caused. She grew to care for people, for Clint, his family… for you, and with that care she came to dread the sound of static coming through the comms more than nearly any sound.

Hearing you were in trouble would have been easier. At least then Natasha wouldn’t feel any uncertainty, she’d know where you were and that she needed to get to you. She’d know how much time she had.

Natasha Romanoff despised uncertainty.

She despised not knowing what happened.

She despised knowing the last thing she heard from your side was an explosion.

The worry etched on her face was easily noticeable, especially to Clint. “She’ll be fine,” he assured her, firing off another arrow and taking out a guard with a sniper rifle ready. As much as Natasha wanted to rush toward you, she still had hostages to lead to safety, and as much as she hated to admit it, the wound on her side was bothering her.  

“It should have been me,” and that was the initial plan. She was the best equipped to go in, retrieve the data and blow the whole place up before anyone even realized she was there. Natasha could have done it, she should have done it, and you should have been here with Clint, leading two hostages out. Instead, she got wounded and now you were the one in danger.

Clint took aim, noticing another guard a fraction of a second faster than she could. She really was worried, and it was affecting her more than she ever thought possible.

All Natasha could do was hope her worries and the bad feeling she had was just paranoia, and not her intuition telling her to drop everything and go back to get you. If she lost you here, she would never forgive herself.

~X~

You took several deep breaths as you looked around the room, it was over, you killed every single one of the criminals that came after you and you tossed aside and empty gun. It wasn’t even your own, you ran out of bullets about halfway into the fight, so you grabbed a gun one of the criminals had and just kept firing until there was no one else left to fire at.

The rush of adrenaline slowly passed, and your legs trembled, but you were alive. You held the side of your head, dizzy from the loss of blood and what was probably a concussion. Soon enough this mission would be over and you could rest. You just had to-

A gunshot echoed and a bullet missed your head by less than an inch, causing you to as quickly as possible take cover behind a table that was turned over. “Fuck,” you cursed under your breath. There was a gun close to you, you just had to take a bit of a risk and get it. And also get lucky and find a bullet in the gun.

All a part of the job, you figured.

A bullet went through the criminal’s head before you could even consider making a lunge for the gun and you saw Natasha rushing in, gun drawn and ready to fire. “Nat,” despite knowing you were still in a dangerous place you visibly relaxed.

“Couldn’t leave things to chance,” Clint’s voice echoed as through the room as he walked through the same hall Natasha did.

Natasha was tense, looking for any sign of an enemy, and in your current state all you could do was admire her. “Let’s get you out of here,” you knew her, she couldn’t truly relax until you were both out of here.

“Yes, Ma’am,” you smiled, hoping it would reassure her, even if only a tiny bit. “I’m right here, Nat, you got me,” and despite Natasha being on edge her eyes softened when she looked at you.

~X~

Natasha despised sitting in the S.H.I.E.L.D.’s hospital hall, waiting for you to get patched up. She was relieved that you were fine and basically just needed some bandages, but she was restless, constantly replaying the moments from the mission in her mind, specifically the sight of a man aiming his gun toward you and moving to close the distance so he wouldn’t miss this time. She moved purely on an instinct, firing before she could even consciously make that decision and blowing a hole through the side of the man’s head. Years of trying to wipe red off her ledger and still she took a life with ease, not even considering it, not even for a moment regretting it.

Now though, now she just needed to see you, just to be completely sure you were fine. Nothing else mattered. The doors opened and she jumped to her feet, seeing you walking out on your own, a bit bandaged up but otherwise fine. The bright look in your eyes made the restlessness go away and Natasha met you halfway.

“Saved me again,” you smiled at her as she looked up into your eyes. How many times has she saved you by now? You both lost count. She didn’t lose count of how many times you saved her, eleven times thus far, though she was certain you never counted them. She did, though. And she found relief in knowing that you were willing to go out of your way to save her, even when she herself used to think she wasn’t worth saving.

Instead of saying anything Natasha just threw her arms around you, clinging desperately to you. She wanted to kiss you, right here, right now, but it was too risky. Too many eyes around you, even if the hall itself was empty. Walls had eyes and ears, and she’d rather keep people guessing if these hugs were between friends or lovers. A keen eye might spot the difference, might see the way she wouldn’t let go, the way she’d lower her guard and try to close as much of the distance between you as possible, or the way you’d bury your face in her hair, taking comfort in her presence, especially after missions that end up being too close for comfort.

“What did the doctor say?” she asked as her fingers traced the bandages around your head.

“A concussion and a few wounds, nothing a bit of rest won’t fix,” you answered, prompting her to nod. She checked your injuries as Clint flew toward the hospital, and your answer matched her assessment, but she still appreciated hearing what the professional said. You’d be perfectly fine, you just needed a bit of rest.

Considering you were about as human as her and Clint were, and not a super soldier, or a billionaire with a suit of armor, and especially not near indestructible beings, Natasha considered herself lucky that you survived this many close calls with little more than rest needed to recover.

“Thanks,” it still should have been her, she should have been in danger, but she wouldn’t tell you that.

“We’re the same, I don’t want to lose you either,” not that she needed to tell you, you knew what was on her mind, you understood how much Natasha wanted you out of danger, in part because you wanted her out of danger just as much. So, you compromised, going together on missions hoping you would keep one another as safe as possible.

~X~

What restraint Natasha had while you were out in public vanished the moment you were back in your shared room as she straddled your lap and hugged you on the sofa, and you couldn’t help but smile at how clingy she was. For a deadly assassin she sometimes acted more like a koala, clinging onto you and not letting go.

Like an assassin not letting their target out of their sight for a single moment, only cuddly and soft, and very warm.

And you loved every second of it. “Nat,” you chuckled before she decided your mouth had more important tasks to do than let out sounds and kissed you, preventing chuckling or any form of light teasing that might have come out of your mouth. You’d never complain about that. You ran your fingers through her hair, she hasn’t cut it in a while now and Natasha hummed softly into the kiss, relaxing and just driving you insane with her touch. All you could feel was Natasha, her slightly swollen lips because of course she chewed on her lower lip while you were being patched up, her hands, so used to handling guns, gently holding you, pulling you closer to her, the sound of her soft, barely audible moans between kisses, the scent of the soap she used, and something uniquely her own, the weight of her body on top of your own… And when you separated for a brief moment, and you opened your eyes all you could see was Natasha. Everything else faded into the background and you were lost in her eyes. She looked like she was searching for something, a reassurance, or just another proof that you were just fine. “I’m right here,” you kept repeating those words to her, through dangerous missions and battles, through nights filled with nightmares, most importantly through all the moments when she’d get stuck in her head, thinking she’s not worthy of the redemption she was so desperately chasing. Just a simple reminder that you were with her, no matter what.

Natasha opened her mouth, only to change her mind and just close it before saying anything. Instead she just hugged you tightly, hiding her face in the crook of your neck and letting out a sigh of relief.

“That tickles,” you chuckled, prompting Natasha to huff and then purposely blow air against your neck. “Nat,” you would never complain, you could never. You cherished every single moment like this, when she would just drop every mask and be herself with you. Oh, she could be assertive, and tease, and confidently mess with anyone, but these playful moments free from caution were rare.

The two of you stayed like that for a long time, and you would have stayed like that a lot longer if you could stand being hungry. In your defense you came back home somewhat hungry, and that was hours ago. “Food. Now,” you would starve if this hunger prolonged any longer. Yet Natasha didn’t budge. “Nat?”

“I just got comfortable,” yeah, two hours ago. You rolled your eyes, even if you were smiling and got up with Natasha still clinging to you.

“You’re so lucky you’re cute,” you kissed her cheek and went to the kitchen, not even daring to consider letting Natasha go.

This time it was Natasha’s turn to roll her eyes. “Bitch, I’m adorable,” she was right, of course.

You grabbed some toast and some cream cheese, since that was the first thing you managed to grab with Natasha between you and the fridge. “Pickles or no pickles?” you asked before deciding it wasn’t worth the effort.

“Make me one as well,” Natasha blindly reached back into the fridge to grab peanut butter, and you were still amazed that she could just do it. No hesitation, no second thoughts, just reached into the fridge and pulled what she wanted out.

“Sure,” you made the sandwiches and went back to the sofa, eager to finally eat something. Natasha wasn’t as excited about eating, and while you absolutely slaughtered your sandwich like a woman starving for weeks would, she occasionally took a bit and instead just kept close to you. Your eyes softened and you once again began rubbing circles into Natasha’s back.

It wasn’t the first time she got like this. When you started dating it didn’t really happen, she showed you how much she cared, sure, but it was never like this, never this desperate to feel your heart beating. And then New York happened, and you both had some very close calls, and she spent the night just like this, not moving away from you unless it was absolutely necessary.

She needed to know this was real, to feel it was real. With everything she went through, how much she suffered through, she needed time. She needed you to be with her, so the thoughts of losing you would quiet down.

And you’d give it to her every single time. This and anything else she needed.

“I’m right here,” you whispered into her ear, soft and gentle as she closed her eyes.

“You’re with me,” she replied, slowly falling asleep in your arms, at peace and comfortable.

A/N: Thank you for the request! I really had fun writing it, and I'm sorry it took so long for me to write it 😁💙

[quietsphere]

How to save your artist ass in CSP

Maybe it's common knowledge but just in case some of yall are not aware of this, if your PC or program ever crashed and you either lost your file or it became corrupted, there's a good chance the program still stores some versions of the file somewhere. Here's how to access that: Basically all you need to do is open the settings tab in your csp menu, go to the Maintenance Menu and click on the "Open folder with Clip Studio Paint backup data.

It'll open the window with all your csp backup folders, and if there's nothing in the RecoveryBackup folder to help you, you simply need to click on the DocumentBackup and see what's there.

It should contain all of your recently edited files on various stages of progress, and all you have to do is find the one that's the most recent (probably weights the most) and click on it. It will open in csp with all layers intact and all you have to do is to save it in the desired folder to retrieve it.

Now, I don't guarantee the most recent version will be exactly the version you had before your program crashed, but it saves pretty often and you shouldn't have a lot of data lost! Hope that helps someone, it sure did save a commission of mine once.

[royal-cupidity]

Something happened and I thought that this is gonna make some funny fic.. since I can't write, maybe you can do it? (I'm not forcing you, its ok if you don't do it) This is really embarrassing.. before I tell it, I WAS ON MY LOWEST POINT. I was ovulating, horny, single and research was killing me.

I had fun with a test tube.. it almost got stuck. I tried to pull it out but it was really slippery and I thought of using forceps but I was scared that it might break it inside so I had no choice to get it out with my fingers.

I'm so sorry you had to read this. A few days ago I was defending you from some fools on the internet and now this.

This isn't how I usually talk but I have used up all my grammar skills due to our research paper. I'm so tired. College makes you do questionable things.

“In Vitro, In You.”

Rating: T+ (mild sexual content, no actual smut) Pairing: Senku Ishigami x Reader (I found this EXTREMELY FUNNY and too good to pass up. Thank for you sharing lmfao— took my mind off of my wisdom teeth consultation…)

You weren’t going to die like this. You refused.

Not on the laboratory floor, pants halfway down, staring at a poster of Marie Curie and wondering if she’d be proud of your “curiosity.”

The test tube was still inside you.

You were still inside your lowest moment.

One ovulation-induced, thesis-writing, brain-rotting moment of weakness. You'd seen it lying there, glinting under fluorescent lights like a siren from hell. Slim. Smooth. Sterilized. And, regrettably, conveniently phallic. And in your hormonal haze, you’d thought:

“Science is exploration.”

Not even two minutes later, you were on your back trying to remember if borosilicate glass had a tensile strength strong enough to survive vaginal suction.

You’d panicked. Reached for the forceps. Recoiled. Visions of ER visits danced behind your eyes. You imagined explaining it to your gynecologist. Worse: a male gynecologist. Worse still: Senku Ishigami, who was, tragically, your partner for this semester’s Advanced Experimental Design.

That was when the lab door opened.

Click.

Rustle.

“Yo. You forgot your data sheets—”

And then silence.

You couldn’t even look.

“...You know, there are safer methods for artificial insemination,” Senku said dryly, voice echoing off your pride. “Unless this is some radical new protocol you forgot to mention during hypothesis design.”

You wanted to die. No, you wanted to evaporate. Maybe combust. Something quick and volatile that left no body, no evidence, no test tube.

“I can explain,” you croaked, not moving. “Actually, I can’t. But I can theorize. Hormones. Stress. Sleep deprivation. A warped sense of agency.”

“You’re giving me citations while a test tube is still halfway inside you?”

“Please stop talking.”

Senku crouched, annoyingly calm. He set your data sheets on the counter, adjusted his lab coat, and leaned forward with the investigative interest of someone studying fungal growth in petri dishes.

“You want help?”

You turned your head sharply. “No!”

He raised a brow. “Then stop clenching.”

You whimpered. “I wasn’t clenching until you walked in!”

“You’re literally creating negative pressure,” he muttered, and—oh god—he reached for gloves. Snapped them on. Powdered latex and your dignity now mingled in the air like acid and base.

“Senku, if you even think about going near—!”

He pulled back. “Relax. I'm not gonna go spelunking in your sin cave, jeez. I was going to hand you the lubricant from the prep kit, but if you’d rather do this raw—”

You flung a hand toward him without looking. “Give it!”

He placed the small bottle in your palm like a soldier passing a grenade.

Five minutes of slippery, shameful maneuvering later, you managed to retrieve the test tube with a soft pop and an echoing sense of lost innocence.

You lay there, limp, glaring at the ceiling. “If you ever tell anyone about this, I’ll spike your food with potassium cyanide.”

He snorted. “You wouldn’t waste good cyanide on me.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

Senku grabbed a disinfectant wipe, flicked the tube clean with an almost too-practiced motion, then held it up to the light.

“...Still intact. Glass is more durable than most people assume. Honestly, I’m impressed. You chose a high-quality one.”

“Are you complimenting my taste in emergency sex toys?”

“No, I’m complimenting your subconscious material analysis skills under stress.”

You sat up, face hot enough to sterilize the entire counter. “I can’t believe I’m in love with you.”

The words fell out. Just—slipped. Like everything else today.

Senku paused. Like someone who just got an unexpected positive result in a wildly unethical experiment. Slowly, he turned to you.

“Oh?” he said, voice infuriatingly smug. “So that’s why you were willing to risk internal lacerations in the name of biology. You were thinking about me.”

“No I wasn’t.”

“You literally just said—”

“Shut up! That was a—heat of the moment—delirium confession!”

He leaned in, way too close. “So you’re saying if I ran a controlled trial—let’s say, increased proximity and chemical stimuli—you’d still deny any feelings?”

“Don’t you have platinum to purify or something?”

“You’re deflecting.”

“I’m threatening to kill you.”

Senku’s grin was a slow-burn reaction, heat rising without a single spark. “Alright then,” he said. “When you’re ready to write your case report on how not to use lab equipment as a coping mechanism, let me know. I’ll peer-review it.”

He turned to go.

But before he reached the door, he looked over his shoulder.

“And hey,” he said. “If you’re still curious about inserting things for science—”

“GET OUT.”

[gardenladysworld]

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: @nerdylawyerbanditprofessor-blog, @ratchetprime211, @poppyseed1031, @redflashoftheleaf, @nikipuppeteer@eliankm, @quintessences0posts, @minjianhyung, @bkell2929, @erenjaegerwifee, @angelita-uchiha, @wherethefuckiskathmandu, @cutmyeyepurple

Part 21: To expect

Part 22: To lost

You were supposed to leave early.

That had been the plan. The xenobotany team was scheduled to depart at dawn—before the sun fully breached the trees, before the jungle heat set in. The RDA had sent a formal directive from Bridgehead: retrieve soil samples from the abandoned mining site, collect regrowth data, and document any signs of accelerated rewilding. Standard protocol. Nothing unusual.

Still, the weight of it settled uncomfortably in your chest.

You didn’t like how formal the request had been. Didn’t like that Bridgehead had taken such sudden interest in what had long been considered a dead zone. But you hadn’t let yourself dwell on it. Not last night. Not when Neteyam had looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

The shrill cry of a wild ikran echoed high above the trees, a haunting song that pierced the soft veil of morning mist. It pulled you from your sleep slowly, like drifting up from the warmth of a dream you didn’t want to leave. You stirred with a sleepy groan, your eyes fluttering open slowly the familiar rustle of the pelts brushing against your bare skin. The air inside the kelku was still warm with the heat of the night before—humid and thick with the scent of sweat, smoke, forest, and him.

With a soft, sleepy groan, you sat up slightly, the blanket falling around your waist. Cool air kissed your naked skin, but it was nothing compared to the warmth still radiating beside you.

You turned—and there he was.

Neteyam.

The soft glow of morning filtered through the woven walls, casting golden stripes across his skin. And gods, how you loved looking at him like this.

He was so still, so unguarded in sleep. All the quiet tension that clung to him like a second skin was gone. His face—so often hardened by expectation, by leadership, by responsibility—was smooth. Boyish, even. His full lips slightly parted, the rise and fall of his chest slow and even, the quiet exhale of his breath whispering between them.

Your gaze traced over the familiar shape of him. The way his long braids fanned across the pelts in a wild halo. The way his much heavier kuru rested over his chest, curled like a sleeping vine. His ears, so expressive when he was awake, twitched slightly even now—like they were still listening for danger, even in dreams.

You smiled.

God, he looked so young when he was like this. Like the boy he once was, before all the pressure, before all the duty. Before the weight of the People carved itself into his shoulders.

Carefully—slowly—you reached out, your much smaller hand hovering above his face for just a second your fingers brushing softly through the braids at his temple, careful not to tug. Then, gently, you cupped his cheek, your thumb brushing over the strong line of his jaw.

His skin was warm under your palm. You let your thumb drift higher, tracing the arch of his eyebrow bone, then further still, letting your fingers brush the edge of his ear.

Flick.

They twitched away from your touch.

You giggled softly, biting your lip to keep the sound quiet, your heart so full it felt like it could split open. His ears always did that—flicked away from you like he wasn’t already yours. Like his body didn’t melt for you every time you whispered his name.

You leaned down, just a little, resting your forehead to his for a moment through the thin shield of your mask. Just breathing him in even through the mask’s filtration system.

You thought about last night.

About how intense it had been—how desperate. Like your bodies couldn’t get close enough, like no amount of touch could satisfy the ache that bloomed between you. You’d clung to him with everything you had, and he held you like he was terrified you’d slip through his fingers. There had been nothing soft about it—not at first. Just need. Just hunger.

But afterward… after the storm of it, he’d held you so gently. Kissed your shoulder. Whispered your name like a prayer.

You loved him. Eywa, you loved him so much you didn’t know what to do with it sometimes. It still hit you sometimes—like this. Quiet moments, just before sunrise, with your body still humming from the night before and your heart pressed too close to your ribs. You loved him so much it scared you.

You lay back down slowly, curling closer to him, nuzzling into the heat of his chest. His arm shifted in his sleep, instinctively sliding around your waist, pulling you in tighter without ever waking up.

You could stay like this forever. You wanted to. But the sun was rising fast now, and your time was running out.

Today, the full research team was heading to the old mining site. The mining site trip was scheduled for early morning departure, and Norm would already be pacing the lab, asking where you were if he couldn’t find you soon. You were supposed to be packed and ready, and you weren’t even at the outpost.

And worse—if someone from the village saw you now, slipping out of Neteyam’s kelku just after dawn… You didn’t even want to think about what that would mean. What it could cost him. You couldn’t risk it. Not for yourself. Not for him.

Still… you didn’t want to go. Not without saying goodbye. You hated leaving like that—like you’d stolen something, like you weren’t supposed to be here at all.

Your fingers brushed over his chest—slow, reverent. “Neteyam,” you whispered.

His name came soft and full of affection. Your palm spread over his heart, feeling the strong, steady rhythm beneath your hand. “Neteyam…” you said again, voice barely above a breath. “Wake up. I have to go.”

You didn’t want to. But you would. Because the world outside of this kelku didn’t stop just because your heart did every time he looked at you like you were his whole world.

Your fingers caressed down the length of his chest now, tracing the outline of his muscles, memorizing the feel of him one more time—just in case it had to last you longer than you wanted. You hated waking him. He looked so peaceful. But if you disappeared without a word, he’d worry. He always did.

So you said his name again, a little firmer this time, a gentle kind of urgency in your voice. “Neteyam…” Your fingers kept moving, soft and slow as they traced gentle circles over the hard muscle of his chest. “Neteyam,” you whispered again, leaning closer. Your nose brushed the hollow of his throat through the curve of your mask, and you felt his breathing hitch—just slightly.

Then he stirred. A low sound rumbled in his chest, more growl than word, and his brows furrowed faintly. You watched, smiling, as his ears twitched, then flattened just a bit. His lips parted. “…s’early,” he mumbled, voice deep and raw with sleep. “Too early…”

Your heart melted. His voice always sounded like that in the mornings—low and gravelly and a little broken around the edges. Your favorite sound in the whole world. “I know, love” you whispered, trailing your fingers higher to his collarbone. “I didn’t want to wake you…”

He groaned softly, eyes still closed, and then—just like every morning you were wrapped up together—he moved. His arm curled tighter around your waist, pulling you into him in one smooth motion. You squeaked as your smaller body met his chest fully, your face tucked under his chin, your limbs tangled like vines. He buried his face in your hair with a sigh so content, it made your stomach flutter.

“No goin’,” he mumbled thickly, the words muffled by your curls. “Stay.”

You giggled, your smile blooming wide across your face as you felt him nuzzle into your neck like a sleepy, oversized cat. “Neteyam,” you whispered, your voice full of quiet laughter, “I have to.”

“Don’t,” he sighed, dragging you impossibly closer, like his body could melt into yours if he just squeezed hard enough. “Stay here. Warm. Good.”

You laughed again, your cheeks already aching from smiling so hard. “Oh, is that it? I’m warm and good, so I have to stay?”

“Mmhm.” His voice dropped into a soft, almost whiny grumble. “My girl. Mine.”

Your heart skipped. He always got like this in the mornings—soft and clingy, all instinct and heat, holding you like the day might steal you from him if he let go. Like he could keep the sun from rising just by wrapping himself around you tight enough.

“I love when you’re like this,” you whispered, still giggling, your fingers sliding up to clutch his shoulder. “Such a big, clingy baby in the morning.”

He made a low, sleepy huff at that, then shifted again—and you sighed as his much larger body slowly began to settle over yours. Not his full weight—never that. He was too careful. But enough. Enough to press you down into the pelts, to blanket you in his warmth, to bury you under the protective curve of his frame. His leg slid between yours, his arm curled beneath your head, and his chest—so broad and strong—molded against yours like a second skin.

Your breath caught. You loved this. Every single time. “Neteyam,” you whispered, smiling so sweetly your cheeks ached. “You know I can’t move when you do this.”

“Exactly,” he muttered into your hair, the smile in his voice barely hidden. “S’why I do it.”

You burst out laughing, your hands running up and down his back, fingers curling into the warm ridges of his shoulders. “You are such a menace.”

He didn’t answer. He just breathed in deep—so deep his whole chest expanded over yours—and then exhaled against your throat, murmuring softly, “Just a few more minutes. Rutxe.” [Please.]

And even though the sun was rising, and the world was calling you back—you didn’t move. Because being trapped under Neteyam like this, swaddled in his sleepy weight, his breath warm against your skin, his arms holding you like you were the most precious thing he’d ever touched?

This was home. And you’d steal a few more minutes of it. Every time.

*

The morning air was warm and soft, heavy with the scent of the forest just beyond the kelku. Inside, the fire had dwindled to glowing embers, casting the room in gentle orange light. You were already moving, half-dressed and sighing quietly to yourself as you tugged your panties up your thighs.

Neteyam sat cross-legged on the pelts, bare and relaxed, his long limbs loose and sprawling, golden eyes tracking your every move. He watched you with that slow, lazy hunger he always had in the mornings—when his blood was still thick with sleep and you were trying to pretend you had the strength to leave.

You reached for your pants next—but you didn’t get far. His hand caught your wrist before you could lift the fabric. With one firm tug, he pulled you back toward him, and your breath hitched as you stumbled into his lap. Even seated, he was eye level with you—taller, really—and it made your chest flutter.

“Neteyam,” you warned softly, trying not to smile as you braced your hands against his broad shoulders. “I really have to go—”

He tilted his head, nuzzling against your chest before you could finish. His lips found the swell of your breast just above your arm, and then your collarbone, his large arms circling around your waist and pulling you flush against his bare body. You sighed, already melting. “This isn’t fair,” you murmured, fingers slipping into his braids as he pressed another kiss just under your collarbone.

He hummed against your skin. “Not trying to be fair. Just trying to keep you.” His mouth moved lower, lazily, like he had all the time in the world. He kissed the top of your breast, then the soft skin along the curve, then lower—and you gasped softly as his lips closed over your nipple. Warm. Wet. Unhurried. Worshipful.

Your fingers tightened in his braids, your breath catching in your throat. “Neteyam…”

Neteyam smirked against your skin. “You always say my name like that when I do this.”

You bit your lip, trying—failing—not to whimper. His tongue flicked over you, teasing, followed by another slow, open-mouthed kiss. You shivered. “I love when you sound like that,” he murmured, shifting to mouth at your other breast now, slower, lazier, like he was savoring every inch of you. “Makes me feel like I could keep you here. Just like this. Wrapped up in me.”

“Neteyam,” you breathed, more of a sigh than a word.

“I know,” he whispered, his hands moving slowly up and down your back, holding you steady as he kissed you again. “I just don’t want you to go. Not yet.”

You melted into him, forehead dropping against his. “It’s just for a day,” you said gently, brushing your fingers across his jaw. “We’re just going to gather what we can from the pit and head back to the outpost before eclipse.”

His brows furrowed, just slightly.

“And after that,” you added with a small, reassuring smile, “there’ll be testing. Weeks of it. Two, maybe more. But during that time…” You leaned in a little. “I can still come to the village if I have enough time. To see you.”

That softened his expression, just a little.

“Or,” you said slyly, eyes glinting, “you could come to the outpost. Where I don’t have to wear a mask.” You leaned closer, voice dropping, “Which means you could get all the kisses. No glass in the way.”

Neteyam growled softly, low in his throat, his lips curving against your skin. “All the kisses?” he asked, eyes gleaming.

You grinned. “Every single one.”

He kissed the center of your chest, right over your heart, and wrapped his arms tighter around your waist, holding you like he never wanted to let you go. “You make it impossible to let you leave,” he murmured, and for a moment, he sounded almost boyish. Almost broken.

You tilted your head against his, your fingers brushing gently over the base of his neck. “I’ll always come back to you,” you whispered.

And you would. Every time.

*

The wind rushed past your ears as the forest blurred beneath you, the beat of wings steady and powerful. Neteyam’s ikran, Tawkami, soared high and silent through the early dawn sky, the sun barely peeking over the edge of the trees. You sat close before Neteyam, his arms snug around your waist.

The ride had been quiet—gentle, even. As gentle as a ride on a powerful mountain-bonded predator could be. And you knew that wasn’t an accident. Neteyam had flown slow on purpose. He always did when you were with him. Like the longer the ride, the longer he got to keep you with him before the world caught up.

Tawkami let out a low, pleased rumble as the outpost came into view below. The landing pad shimmered slightly from the heat of early morning sun, and already the team was outside, bustling around the Samson, packing up the last of the gear for the field mission.

You sighed quietly. The ikran circled once, then began to descend, smooth and deliberate. His wide wings beat once, twice, before folding slightly to slip through the morning air with practiced grace. When he landed, it was soft and sure.

Neteyam slid down first, moving with feline ease. His feet hit the ground silently, and before you could even fully loosen your grip from the saddle, he turned and reached for you. His arms lifted you easily, his large hands wrapping around your waist as he helped you down from the saddle like you weighed nothing at all. Your boots barely touched the ground before he set you gently on your feet, his hands lingering at your waist for just a second longer than necessary.

Before either of you could say a word, a deep, happy chirp sounded behind you—and you turned just in time to see Tawkami nudge his massive, scaled head against your shoulder with a surprisingly affectionate push.

You let out a startled giggle and stumbled back a half step, grinning up at the creature. “Hey!” you laughed, already reaching up to run your fingers affectionately along the curve of his jaw. “Aw, you big baby—what was that for, huh?”

He made a low trilling sound, leaning into your touch like a giant, puppy. You beamed up at him, stroking along his snout with gentle, practiced hands. “You’re just like your rider,” you teased, voice playful as you leaned in to bump your mask against his thick brow. “All bark, no bite, and completely clingy in the mornings.”

Tawkami huffed loudly, almost in agreement, and Neteyam chuckled behind you. His golden eyes glinted with quiet amusement as he watched his bonded spirit-brother nuzzle you like a hatchling. “He likes you too much,” he murmured, a grin tugging at his lips. “I should be worried.”

You turned back toward him with a bright smile. “You’ve known this already.”

He smirked. “Still surprises me sometimes. He’s never this gentle with anyone else.”

You glanced back at the massive ikran, now crouched and watching you intently with his huge golden eyes, and your heart warmed. “That’s because he’s smart,” you said sweetly. “He knows a good thing when he sees one.”

Neteyam huffed a laugh, but didn’t argue. Just beyond the edge of the pad, the rest of the xenobotany team was already gathering by the Samson. Kate and Brian waved when they spotted you, and you waved back. Norm, standing closest to the side compartment, squinted as you approached.

“You’re late,” he called out.

“I’m not late,” you replied, arching a brow as you stopped a few feet away. “You’re just early.”

Neteyam crouched beside you then, one knee pressed to the ground, his hands resting lightly on your hips. You looked at him, your smile softening.

“I’ll be fine,” you said quietly, reaching up to press the edge of your mask against his forehead. “Don’t worry so much.”

His eyes flicked up to meet yours, full of warmth and something deeper—something heavy and hard to put into words. You kissed his forehead through the glass, then pulled back with a mischievous grin.

“Try not to miss me too much,” you teased.

Neteyam scoffed softly. “Too late.”

You giggled, brushing a stray braid away from his face. “You should hurry,” you said, tone light but pointed. “Before someone notices you’re missing.”

He tilted his head slightly. “Let them.”

You gasped dramatically. “Excuse me? And get me in trouble? No way. If your mother finds out her perfect firstborn son’s been sneaking around with a ‘filthy little human’—” you deepened your voice in mock-Neytiri impression “—she’ll shoot me full of arrows before I can even scream.”

Neteyam chuckled, shaking his head. “She wouldn’t.”

“She would,” you said, grinning wickedly. “You know she would. And you know what’s worse?”

“What?”

You leaned in, voice dropping low. “While I’m off at the pit, far away and defenseless, you’ll be here… surrounded by those three dream girls.”

His brow arched. “Oh no.”

You nodded solemnly. “What if you get lonely? What if one of them finally wins your heart? You wouldn’t want to break tradition, after all.”

Neteyam smirked. “Mm. You’re right.”

You gasped again, shoving his shoulder playfully. “Neteyam!”

He grinned up at you, catching your wrist and pulling you closer just enough to press his lips to the glass of your mask, right where your mouth would be.

You shrugged with a grin. “Still. Try to keep it in your pants while I’m gone.”

He leaned in, voice low and warm and close to your ear. “I’ve only ever wanted one.”

Your cheeks flushed instantly, but before you could say anything else, he pulled back, fingers brushing down your arm in a parting touch.

“You come back to me,” he said softly, almost like an order.

You nodded. “Every time.” And as he turned to climb back onto Tawkami, the ikran chirped once more and took off into the skies, leaving the air thinner in his absence—and your heart already counting the minutes until you saw him again.

*

You gave the retreating form of Tawkami one last wave before turning toward the Samson, your boots clicking softly on the metal platform. The jungle heat was already rising, thick with morning mist curling through the tree line.

Kate was standing near the ramp of the transport, arms crossed, her blonde ponytail pulled through the back of her cap. She gave you a long, very knowing look as you approached. “You’ve got that look,” she said, grinning wide. “The ‘I just rolled out of a Na’vi’s arms and now I’m pretending to be a serious scientist’ look.”

You laughed, not even bothering to hide the flush creeping up your neck. “Yeah, well. When he holds me like that, it's hard to care about data sheets.”

Kate snorted. “I don’t blame you. If I had a tall forest prince waking up next to me, I wouldn’t care about photosynthesis either.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled as you stepped into the transport. The air inside the Samson was cooler, fans spinning gently. Norm and Max were already strapped in near the cockpit, checking through the last of the gear.

“You good?” Norm asked, not even looking up from his tablet. “You look like you’re still half in the kelku.”

“She is,” Kate said behind you as she climbed in. “Body’s here, but her heart’s still tangled in arms.”

You swatted at her gently and slid into your seat across from Norm, strapping in as Max finished securing a crate of sample canisters near the rear. The Samson’s engines kicked on with a low hum, and within minutes, the transport lifted into the air. The jungle fell away below, turning to endless green—an unbroken canopy that stretched for miles in every direction.

Norm leaned forward, looking out the side window. “I can’t believe they want us to go back there,” he muttered.

Max shrugged. “After twenty years, I’m surprised they remembered the site even existed.”

You turned slightly, adjusting your mask. “Why now?”

Norm frowned. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out. The directive from Bridgehead was vague—just that they need a full ecological sweep of the area. Samples, scans, updated topography.”

Kate scoffed. “Sounds like they’re sniffing for a reason to reopen the pit.”

Max gave her a look. “We can’t prove that.”

“No,” Norm said, “but we all know how they work. If they want us there this fast, it’s not for nostalgic reasons.”

The flight took a little over than three hours, the canopy eventually breaking into hills and twisted valleys, the scars of human intervention beginning to show. You could see it clearly from the air—the old access roads, now overgrown, the faint gridlines of disturbed forestland. And then, like an open wound: the pit.

The mining site sprawled beneath the Samson, a massive crater carved into the earth, jagged and raw even after two decades. The giant excavators—once the heart of the operation—lay silent and broken at the center, its enormous arms rusted and collapsed, half-buried by time. Vines had begun to creep over the structure, curling around the rusted frame like skeletal fingers reclaiming a corpse.

Trees had begun to sprout along the edges of the pit. Not many—but enough to see Eywa was slowly healing. The land bore deep red and ochre scars where the topsoil had been stripped away, but small patches of green—brave little seedlings and mosses—dotted the edges like stubborn hope.

Streams had changed course through the pit floor, collecting in shallow pools where dragonflies and glowing moss now grew. Creatures had begun to return—small things at first. Insects. Birds. Signs of renewal.

The Samson hovered for a moment above the site before beginning its descent.

“God,” Kate whispered, looking down. “It looks like a battlefield.”

“It was,” Norm said softly.

You nodded. “And Eywa is still trying to stitch it closed.”

The Samson touched down with a hiss of hydraulics. As the doors opened, the heavy scent of disturbed earth and damp vegetation rolled in. You stepped out slowly, your boots crunching on broken stone and dried mud, the air thick with heat and the distant hum of insects reclaiming the silence.

Everyone spread out, scanning and cataloging. The hum of portable scanners broke the silence. Brian adjusted his goggles and crouched near a patch of moss clinging to a rusted pipe. “It’s amazing,” he muttered. “This whole place should’ve been dead for another century… but look at this. Fungal colonies, early-stage tree roots—Eywa’s network is creeping back in.”

Max walked up beside him, scanning deeper soil layers. “This level of regrowth shouldn’t be happening this fast. Unless…” He paused, eyes narrowing at the scanner. “Unless the unobtanium left behind is affecting the soil. Drawing in bioluminescent mycelium. They could be feeding on it.”

You frowned. “Why would the RDA care about that?”

Norm looked up at you. “Because if they know Eywa’s starting to re-establish control over this land… they might see it as a threat to their mineral claims. Or worse—an opportunity.”

Your stomach turned, just a little. You glanced back at the pit, at the broken bones of metal and stone, and felt the old ache of history settle into your chest. Some wounds didn’t heal easily.

*

The morning sun climbed higher as the team spread out across the site, boots crunching softly against soil that had long since begun to recover from the human brutality once carved into it. The air was thick with humidity and buzzing life, cicada-like insects clicking somewhere in the undergrowth, and strange bird calls echoing from the canopy above the surrounding crater walls.

You adjusted your scanner, the display flickering softly as you scanned the base of a vine-covered steel structure, its rusting frame nearly swallowed by moss and roots. The rest of the team moved with practiced ease around you, weaving between bent girders, overgrown tracks, and crumbling concrete.

"Hey, this lichen sample is glowing." Brian still overly excited about literally everything, held up a vial near his face. His freckles were visible even through the clear front of his rebreather mask. “Is this bioluminescent fungi or something else?”

You turned, brushing stray strands of hair out of your mask’s field of vision. “Run a spectral analysis—see if it’s reacting to UV or just ambient light. It might be a new strain. Eywa’s good at recycling.”

Norm chuckled from a nearby ridge, holding a bulky sensor over a cluster of strange ferns. “Recycling, huh? I’d call it aggressive terraforming. Nature’s got claws out here.”

“Good,” Kate replied from behind a collapsed stairwell. “She should. This place was a crime scene.”

Max looked up from his portable analysis kit, tapping in new results. “Soil nutrient levels are higher than expected. We’ve got nitrates, magnesium, even phosphorus returning to baseline. That’s fast healing.”

"Nature’s better at fixing our mess than we are,” you said absently, kneeling to collect a sample of a broad-leafed plant that had grown straight through the axle of a rusted-out hauler. Its roots split the steel like it was nothing. “But it remembers. All this growth? It’s still defensive. Opportunistic.”

Kate crouched beside you, eyes narrowing on the scanner in your hand. “Looks like it likes you.”

You smirked. “Everything does.”

A laugh rippled through the group.

“You and your forest aura,” Max teased. “Should put that on your resumé.”

The team moved methodically throughout the day, collecting everything from plant clippings and moss cultures to sediment cores and atmospheric samples. Two of the other researchers—Hye-Jin, a quiet but brilliant mycologist, and Raj, a botanist focused on invasive growth—were cataloguing the return of fungal spores to the shattered biome, amazed at how certain species were adapting to colonize rusted metals and concrete.

"There's a fungus literally growing inside the carbon-scored plating," Hye-Jin murmured, eyes wide behind her glasses as she examined a sample under her hand lens. "It's feeding on the iron oxide. I’ve never seen anything like it."

“It’s like the forest sent in a cleanup crew,” Raj added. “Look at the spore spread patterns—they’re targeting metal first. Prioritizing the unnatural.”

“Smart,” you said, bagging another specimen. “They’re breaking down the RDA’s trash before it can rot the rest of the forest.”

"You’ve been quiet today," Norm said casually, leaning on a rusted support beam beside you. "Thinking about someone?”

You gave him a wry look through your mask. “Maybe.”

He grinned, then after a pause, his tone shifted just a little more thoughtful. “So... how’s the apprenticeship going? With Mo’at?”

Kate, who had just zipped up her own pack, perked up instantly. “Oh yeah—‘learning from the Tsahik.’ How’s our little undercover romance-student mission going?”

You laughed, rolling your eyes good-naturedly. “It’s going well, actually. Mo’at’s been... more patient than I expected. At first, it was just basic observation—watching her during ceremonies, simple herb identification. But now she’s letting me take a more active role.”

Kate’s brows lifted, impressed. “Really? That’s huge.”

You nodded. “Yeah. I’ve been learning more about how they process certain roots for pain and inflammation. There’s one plant they use that has a latex-like sap—helps draw venom out of deep punctures. I’ve actually started helping with poultices, small treatments… she even let me tend to Neteyam’s wounds after a few hunts.”

Norm let out a quiet whistle. “Damn. That’s trust.”

You shrugged, trying not to smile too much. “Stubborn idiot didn’t want help, but I insisted.”

Kate smirked. “Of course he didn’t want help. Warrior pride, all that. And of course you insisted.”

“Obviously,” you said, grinning now. “But he didn’t complain once I started working on him. Mo’at just watched the whole time, didn’t even say a word. I think… she’s beginning to see I’m not just a passing curiosity.”

Norm chuckled softly, arms crossed. “What I don’t get is how Jake and Neytiri haven’t figured out this whole ‘studying under Mo’at’ thing is really just your cover to be near their son.”

You glanced at him with a small, knowing smile. “Maybe they have. Maybe they just haven’t said anything.”

“But still,” Kate added, cocking a brow. “You’ve been going there for, what, almost a month now? They’re not dumb.”

You turned to Norm then, voice curious. “You’ve known Jake longer than any of us. Since before—before all of this. You guys were friends when he was still human. Why haven’t you said anything to him?”

Norm looked thoughtful for a moment, his gaze drifting to the treeline, the rusting ruins of the RDA’s greed all around him. “Because,” he said finally, voice quieter now, “I know Jake. I’ve known him since the first time he rolled into Hell’s Gate in that busted-ass wheelchair, full of attitude and zero science background. He was stubborn, reckless, impossible to teach. And the most loyal guy I’ve ever met. But it took him a long time to learn how to trust people—really trust them.”

He looked back at you then, his expression gentler. “If he hasn’t said anything about you and Neteyam, it’s either because he doesn’t know... or because he’s waiting to see what kind of woman you are.”

Your throat tightened slightly at that. Kate bumped her shoulder into yours. “He’s waiting to see if you’ll run when it gets hard.”

You gave her a small, confident smile. “Then he’ll be waiting a long time.”

Norm nodded, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Good. Because Neteyam? That kid’s carrying the weight of the world. He needs someone who won’t flinch.”

You looked down at the dried leaves by your boots, feeling a quiet surge of warmth swell behind your ribs. “He has that,” you said softly. And you meant it.

The team had been working nonstop since morning, collecting, documenting, and organizing samples into careful containment. The old RDA mining site had proven to be a treasure trove of data—plant regrowth, fungal spread, even signs of early animal repopulation—but it was also enormous, overgrown, and half-swallowed by the jungle after twenty years of neglect.

Norm crouched over a sealed container near the old excavator, jotting down a quick note on a data pad. “We’ll need to run full isotope analysis on the soil layers. Especially the areas closest to the old blast zone. Max, you still have the portable centrifuge on standby?”

“Yeah,” Max called out, emerging from behind a broken section of wall overtaken by moss. “It’s already calibrated for mineral content and toxin density. We’ll get the full profile by morning.”

Kate zipped up another sample bag, brushing dirt off her knees. “We need to start packing the heavy gear soon. Eclipse is in a few hours. I don’t want to be flying over dense canopy in dark.”

Brian chimed in from across the clearing, hefting a container. “I think we’ve got what we came for. If we rush analysis tonight, we’ll have something decent to send to Bridgehead in a few days.”

You nodded as you clipped your sample pouch closed. “I’ll take one last sweep along the eastern edge—there’s a cluster of new growth I want to get closer to. Only take a minute.”

Norm waved vaguely without looking up. “Don’t go too far. Yell if you see anything weird.”

You offered a quick smile and ducked under the low-hanging vines, weaving carefully through the uneven terrain. The plant you’d noticed was just beyond the dense fringe—half-hidden behind a tangle of roots and glowing lowlight ferns. It caught your eye immediately. Thin stalks. Bioluminescent cap. A faint shimmer of color that reminded you of Tsahìk’s poultice ingredients—but twisted, unfamiliar.

Your curiosity overrode your sense of time. You stepped closer, brushing aside a vine and crouching down, and then slowly follow it one after the other. You took out your scanner, slowly waving it over the plant, reading the energy signature and chemical composition. It pulsed with a strange frequency—half-familiar, half… wrong. You frowned, logging the scan and taking a quick clipping.

Just as you were tucking it into your bag, you straightened—and realized the clearing behind you was gone. Your stomach sank.

You turned left—dense foliage. Right—nothing familiar. No sign of the excavator or the rusted husk of human machinery. Even the undergrowth felt thicker here, like you’d stepped into a different piece of the forest entirely.

You were alone. The faint sound of voices and equipment was gone.

“…Shit.”

You spun in a slow circle, trying to orient yourself. But the more you looked, the more everything looked the same. Trees. Roots. Leaves. Ferns. Glowing spores flickering lazily in the dusky light. The sun was already sinking fast.

And you were lost.

Your breath hitched as you turned again—desperately scanning the thick undergrowth, the gnarled trees, the same damn glowing moss lighting up every root like it was mocking you.

No sign of the pit. No echo of voices. No rusted metal shapes to guide you back. You reached for your datapad, your hands already trembling a little, and tried to pull up the locator. It flickered once, then again, before spitting out a mess of unreadable static and error codes. You cursed under your breath.

Of course. The flux vortex.

Norm warned all of you about it earlier—how the dense pockets of unobtanium left buried beneath the pit screwed with signals and electronics. No GPS, no comms. Too unstable. That’s why no one had wandered too far from the pit. They all agreed to stay within shouting distance. It seemed fine at the time. Logical. Safe.

But now you were alone. Surrounded by a jungle you didn’t know. And your tech was useless.

Your stomach twisted as the reality hit you. The outpost was almost three hours away by air. On foot, through this terrain? That was at least two days—if you had a direction. And right now, you didn’t even have that. You hadn’t left a trail. No markers. Just... wandered off chasing a glowing plant like an idiot.

You forced in a shaky breath and tried to center yourself. Okay. You live in the forest. Every damn day. You walk it. Catalog it. You know how to read signs. You’ve done hikes longer than this.

But it didn’t help. Because this place—it wasn’t like the forest near the outpost. Or the paths you’d walked a hundred times near the Omatikaya village. This was uncharted jungle. Wild. Twisted. Left alone for decades while Eywa slowly pulled it back into her arms.

And now, the sky was changing. You glanced up through the canopy—past the tangled leaves and vines. The light was dimming fast, the soft lavender tones of the eclipse already creeping into the horizon. Shadows grew longer. Cooler.

Your heartbeat picked up. They’ll notice. Norm will call out. Max’ll start looking. They’ll find me. But a voice inside you—quieter, colder—whispered something else.

What if they think you just went back to the Samson? What if they already left? What if no one saw you slip away?

You took another step forward, and the foliage shifted again—branches scraping across your clothes. Your mask hissed softly as the filter adjusted to the change in humidity. You were breathing too fast.

Your fingers gripped your sample pouch tighter, knuckles going white as you spun in another slow circle. Everything looked the same. You were lost. And the jungle was closing in.

Your hands dove into your satchel with growing urgency, breath hitching as you rifled through its contents, willing something—anything—to give you a plan.

Okay. Think. Come on. Think. Your fingers closed around the exo mask first—your spare. Still functioning. You placed it gently beside you, hands shaking as you pulled out the rest.

A thin coil of synthetic rope. A few sealed protein bar. A small canteen of water. Your datapad, still flickering uselessly. Three sample vials from the glowing plant you’d wandered off after. And a lot of empty vials.

Your torchlight—old but working. You clicked it on, watched its bright beam cut through the deepening purple haze of eclipse light, and clicked it off again. Save the battery.

And finally, the knife. You held it in your hand for a moment—small, practical, sleek steel fitted with a non-slip handle. Not military-grade. Just a field tool meant to cut vines, dig up roots, or scrape samples.

But out here? In this part of the forest? It was nothing. Absolutely nothing.

If one of the six-legged panther beasts caught your scent—this knife wouldn’t do a damn thing. Not against teeth. Or claws. Or poison-tipped stingers. Not against this forest, which seemed to grow darker by the second. You gripped it tighter, knuckles bone-white.

Shit.

The fear pressed against your ribs now, heavy and real. You were alone. No comms. No signal. And the team—Norm, Kate, Max, all of them—they’d look. You knew they would. They were smart. They cared.

But even if they started searching right now, they’d have to leave before the eclipse hit in full. It wasn’t just policy—it was survival. No human stayed out here after nightfall. Not without shelter. Not with the predators that hunted in the dark. Norm had drilled that into you from day one.

Only one thing more dangerous than the Pandoran forest… Is the Pandoran forest in the dark. You swallowed, throat tight and dry. Every RDA safety seminar you’d ever half-listened to came rushing back in jagged pieces.

If lost in the field:

Don’t move too far. Conserve energy.

Make yourself visible if possible.

Stay calm. Focus. Panic kills faster than the forest.

Do not travel at night.

And yet here you were. Lost. Terrified. Trapped between that exact panic and the knowledge that if they didn’t find you before full eclipse, they’d have no choice but to leave you behind. Your satchel lay open in your lap, its contents spread around you like puzzle pieces you didn’t know how to solve.

You sat slowly, curling your knees to your chest, the sample vials clinking softly. You looked at the tiny green sprigs inside them, glowing softly. The very reason you’d wandered off in the first place. Stupid. Stupid. You should’ve called to someone. Should’ve told Max or Brian. Should’ve marked your path.

And now?

Now you were stranded in a place where even the trees looked like they were watching you. Even the air felt thicker. Like the forest could sense your heartbeat—and was already deciding whether to ignore it or snuff it out.

The truth hit you then. Hard. You might die out here.

In the forest you loved more than anything, on the moon that had somehow become your home—you might actually die out here. Alone. With nothing but a knife, a mask, and a few glowing plants to keep you company.

And the worst part? You hadn’t even said goodbye to Neteyam.

You tilted your head back, peering up through the thick canopy—and your stomach dropped.

Clouds.

Heavy, dark, churning with the promise of rain. Not the soft kind that dusted the forest with misty kisses. No, these were the kind that roared. That tore branches from trees and drowned fires before they could start. You cursed under your breath, gripping the strap of your satchel tight against your chest.

Shit. Shit. No, no, no. Not rain. Not now.

You scanned the trees again, ears straining. Maybe someone was calling for you—maybe Max, or Brian, or Kate, yelling your name, swearing as they pushed through the undergrowth looking for you. But no.

Nothing.

No voices. No distant machinery. Just the haunting, symphonic rhythm of the forest: insects humming in waves, leaves rustling like whispers, some distant animal shrieking in the rising dusk. The music of Pandora… beautiful and terrifying all at once. You were utterly alone.

And for the first time since you’d come here—you hated it. The forest had always felt alive to you. Safe, even. Breathing with Eywa’s presence, with the pulse of a world untouched by greed. You’d fallen in love with it the way you’d fallen for Neteyam—slowly, all at once, and with your whole damn heart.

But now?

You didn’t want to be here. You wanted to be back in the outpost. You wanted clean air, light, your bunk, voices—Neteyam. You wanted his arms around you. His voice telling you it would be okay. That you were safe. That you were his.

Think. Come on, think.

He’d told you a million things over the years. Stories. Warnings. Lessons in passing while your fingers were buried in moss or pressed to some blooming root. He knew this forest like it was in his blood—and it was.

But all you could think about now was that you might never see him again. That realization broke something in you.

You stared at the ground, your knees still folded under you, your fingers trembling at your sides. The dirt beneath you pulsed with life, but it felt like none of it was on your side.

For several moments, you couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. The thought of Neteyam’s face, the way his ears twitched when he smiled, the sound of his laughter in the morning, the way he kissed your mask like it was real skin—

You might not get to feel that again. Your eyes stung. Your chest ached. But then something snapped. No.

Fuck that. You surged to your feet, hands curling into fists at your sides, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. “Fuck that,” you said aloud this time, voice low and sharp and furious. I’m not dying here.

You looked around again, sharper now. Searching. Calculating. You didn’t have his instincts. You didn’t have his strength. But you had your brain—and a will to survive. You would find shelter. You would wait out the rain. You would not die in this fucking forest.

Not tonight. Not like this.

The first cold drop hit the back of your neck like a warning shot. Then came the second. The third. A thousand more. Until the heavens cracked open, and the sky spilled its fury over the forest.

Within seconds, the world turned to chaos—rain thundering against leaves, the scent of wet earth rising sharp and fast, the ground beneath your boots softening into slick, treacherous mud. Every step you took became harder, heavier, dragging you down like the forest wanted to keep you.

You slipped once—your hands catching on a mossy root just in time to stop your fall—but your heart hammered like a drumline in your ribs. You couldn’t stay low.

That was the first rule Neteyam ever taught you when it came to storms in the deep forest. “If the water rises, the lowlands become a death trap. Find height. Anything. Just—climb.” But the trees around you… they were massive. Towering, ancient things. Their trunks too smooth, too vertical to scale without gear, and you had none. Just a satchel full of samples, a flashlight, and sheer desperation.

The shadows deepened. The eclipse was coming fast. And then—Eywa must’ve heard you.

Because just as your lungs began to burn and your muscles screamed from trudging uphill, you spotted it: a fallen tree trunk, arched across a shallow gorge like a bridge. The massive root system had ripped up from the earth, leaving the trunk wedged against another tree’s mid-level branches. Almost like a ladder. Rough bark. Cracks wide enough for handholds. Jagged limbs to brace yourself.

You staggered toward it, slipping on the slick undergrowth, your breath heaving from your lungs as you dropped your satchel to test the climb first. It wasn’t graceful. You scrambled. Clawed. Mud coated your palms and soaked through your pants. Your nails broke. But you climbed.

And when you finally reached the thick, sturdy branch it rested against—you almost cried. A hollow.

A natural crevice in the massive tree, hidden under a curl of thick, waxy leaves and massive moss curtains, just wide enough for your body to squeeze into. Not perfect. Not dry. But cover. Protection. Something.

You collapsed inside, panting, the storm now screaming through the canopy above you, rain battering the forest in sheets. You wrapped your arms around your knees, pressing your back to the inner bark, breath trembling from exertion and adrenaline.

And for the first time in hours—you allowed yourself to whisper a prayer.

“Please,” you murmured softly, staring out at the glow beginning to rise from the forest floor. Bioluminescence shimmered like starlight below. “Please, Eywa. If you’ve ever thought I was a gift… please help me get back to him.” Your fingers curled tight over your satchel. “I just want to go home.”

You sat there, curled into the hollow of the tree, your back pressed against the cool, rough bark as the storm howled outside. The downpour only grew heavier, thick sheets of rain slicing through the air like cold blades, soaking everything. Even under your meager cover, the chill crept in—up your spine, beneath your clothes, through the fabric of your pants until your skin ached.

You always loved the rain on Pandora.

It was different than Earth’s—richer, warmer, like the forest sang with it. Sometimes it fell soft and slow like a lullaby, a heartbeat through the leaves. You remembered how it sounded from inside Neteyam’s kelku, curled in his arms, your body tangled with his beneath the pelts. You loved that sound most when it thudded gently against the woven roof while his warmth seeped into your bones. He ran hot, always had. He was like a living furnace when he slept, wrapping you up like a second blanket, arms tucked around you as though the rain might steal you away if he let go.

In those moments, the rain had been comfort. A balm. Music.

Now?

It was merciless. Cold. Indifferent. The kind of rain that reminded you you were small and flesh and breakable. You shifted slightly, tucking your knees tighter against your chest, trying to conserve heat. Your wet clothes clung to your body, your mask fogging slightly from the way your breath hitched with every inhale. You blinked against the dampness—not from the rain this time—but the building pressure behind your eyes.

You couldn’t cry. Not yet. That would come later—if you survived the night.

Your eyes turned to the outside again. The eclipse was in full swing now. The forest, so dim before, had fallen into eerie darkness, broken only by the glow of bioluminescent plants. The strange, flickering light of Pandora’s heart pulsed all around you like veins under skin.

You’d studied it for years. Lived among it. Loved it. But right now, it felt alien. Even hostile. You tried to focus. Tried to think. Your breath slowed, your heartbeat thudded in your ears. What do I do when the sun rises? You repeated it like a mantra. Something solid to anchor you. The rain wouldn’t last forever. The sun would return. And when it did, you had to move. No more wandering.

You had to mark where you were now. Use the trees. Landmarks. Leave signs behind. Something the others might spot if they searched. You’d need to ration your water. Eat sparingly. Stay alert. Find a way to signal—anything.

But even those thoughts rang hollow when you remembered: You were three hours from the outpost by air. On foot, through dense jungle terrain, alone? Four days at best. More if you got turned around again. And that’s if nothing found you before then. A wave of cold sank into your chest.

Because here, in this unfamiliar stretch of forest—you were the most fragile thing.

Soft. Slow. Easy prey.

Not even a threat. Just meat in the wrong place. You looked down at your hands. Mud-caked. Shaking. Your flashlight rested beside your satchel, dim but steady. Your knife sat in your lap, small and pitiful.

You swallowed hard. “I can’t die here,” you whispered into the dark, the wind stealing your words. But the forest didn’t care. It only answered in thunder.

The rain had stopped somewhere deep in the belly of the night.

You hadn’t noticed the exact moment—it just faded, slowly, from pounding, merciless torrents to soft pattering... then nothing. Only the sound of dripping leaves remained, like a forest sigh settling into stillness. You sat, knees drawn tight to your chest, still shivering beneath your damp clothes. The canopy above was darker now—blacker than pitch—but around you, the world had come alive in glowing blues and purples.

Pandora at night. The bioluminescence of the forest was breathtaking. The veins of leaves pulsed with soft light, vines shimmered like constellations in the dark, and moss under your boots glowed faintly with each trembling breath you took. It was beautiful. Unbelievably so.

And terrifying. Because in that beauty, things moved.

You heard them long before you saw them. The crackling of underbrush. The rustling of leaves. The soft click of padded paws on wet ground.

And then— That sound. A low, guttural laugh—sharp and eerie and too much like a hyena. Then another. And another.

Viperwolves.

You froze. They were close. Maybe less than a hundred meters. You couldn’t see them—not yet—but you didn’t need to. You knew what they were. You’d seen their tracks before. Heard their calls from the safety of the outpost. Watched their patterns in recorded data. But nothing—nothing—prepared you for hearing them while alone. While lost. While soaked and freezing and so very, very human.

Your hand moved without thinking, fingers curling tightly around the hilt of your knife. It was small. Practically useless. Just a tool meant to cut samples, open packs, slice rope. Not to defend against that. You didn’t want to use it.

You didn’t want to hurt anything. You didn’t belong here—not like them. You were an outsider, a visitor, a speck of dust pretending to understand a world that was older and deeper and infinitely more sacred than you. These forests were theirs. Not yours.

But Eywa help you—you didn’t want to die. Your breath slowed as you pressed yourself further into the hollow, heart hammering as the laughter echoed closer. You could imagine them below—glowing eyes scanning the trees, wet paws sliding across mossy earth, heads tilting as they caught your scent on the damp air.

They’ll find me. They’ll climb the trunk. They’ll smell me. They’ll know I’m here.

But they didn’t. They ran past. Laughing, snarling, howling into the darkness. For minutes, you heard them—circling, moving. And then they were gone. Nothing but silence and the distant whisper of wind through glowing leaves.

You didn’t loosen your grip on the knife for a long time. You were too wired, too full of adrenaline to cry or speak. You just sat, breath shallow, ears straining, body curled in a tight ball.

And still... somehow, sleep pulled at the edges of your mind. Dull and heavy. Even fear had limits, and your body was exhausted. So you dozed. Never for long.

Every time your head dropped, a sound would jerk you awake—cracking branches, the rustle of wings, a whisper of movement below. Your eyes would fly open, heart in your throat, knife still clutched like a lifeline. Then you'd breathe. Wait. Listen. Try to settle. And again—darkness, silence, the distant hum of a world that didn’t even know you were there.

When the first hints of golden light bled through the thick, mist-drenched canopy, it almost didn’t feel real.

Your eyes snapped open, wide and disbelieving, heart stumbling in your chest as you leaned out from your makeshift hollow, staring at the forest bathed in early dawn. Pale orange rays sliced through the bioluminescent haze, chasing away the blues and purples of night, casting long shadows and waking birdsong. It was morning.

You almost cried. Your shoulders shook as you exhaled, a breath so full of relief and fear that it left your chest aching. You hadn’t realized how tight you’d been holding yourself. The tension. The cold. The fear. It was still there—but daylight made it feel… survivable.

You sat for a few more minutes, curled in your makeshift shelter, watching the forest come back to life in a different way. Birds called to each other through the trees. Insects buzzed lazily. Leaves dripped and shimmered with dew. It was beautiful. Almost peaceful.

But your throat was dry, your head pounding, and you knew—if you didn’t find water soon, you wouldn’t last another day.

You dug into your satchel with stiff, cold fingers and pulled out your datapad, flipping it open and pressing the flickering power button. The screen buzzed weakly to life—glitching, blinking, fractured into thin lines of static and unreadable symbols. But the map was still up. Sort of.

Fucking flux vortex.

You cursed under your breath. The damned unobtanium in the earth around the pit made every piece of tech behave like it had one foot in another reality. This was why no one brought comms here. Why they all agreed to stay close.

But you’d wandered. And now the price of it was glitching tech and no way to reach anyone.

You stared at the flickering screen, trying to piece together the fragments of the topography that flashed and disappeared every other second. There—there was something. A thin blue line. A creek, maybe. At east. It was hard to tell, but you prayed it was real. If you could get there—follow the water—you might have a chance. Water meant hydration, but it also meant direction. Movement. Sometimes, even safety.

You tilted your head, squinting through the leaves. The sun was rising from that way. East. Good. At least now you knew which direction to go.

You folded the datapad shut, tucking it back into your bag with numb fingers. Then you looked up again—toward the sky now streaked with soft yellow light. The clouds were breaking, and the forest glittered under the sun’s gentle heat. Your soaked clothes clung to your skin, heavy and cold, but it was better. Everything felt better.

Still… your chest ached when you thought about them. The team. Please let them have made it back.

You knew them. Norm would’ve tried to find you. Kate, Max, even Brian—they’d stay as long as they could. But they couldn’t stay past eclipse. They’d be forced to return to the outpost. And if they were back now… they were probably already planning a rescue. You had to believe that.

But rescue or not—you had to survive long enough to be rescued. That meant finding that creek. Getting water. Eating. Moving. Staying alive. Getting back.

You adjusted the straps of your satchel and reached for the rope hanging from your makeshift perch. Time to climb down. One more deep breath. You looked up at the sky one last time.

“Just a little longer,” you whispered, like you were speaking to Neteyam. To yourself. To Eywa. Just a little longer. Please.

It took nearly three hours of slow, careful hiking—stumbling over slick roots and wet underbrush, slipping more than once in the thick mud—but finally, finally, you found it.

A creek. The soft sound of rushing water filtered through the trees first, then grew stronger with every cautious step. And when you pushed aside a curtain of damp ferns and saw it, your knees nearly gave out.

It was real. Crystal clear, winding like a silver ribbon through the dense foliage, the creek cut across the forest floor—shallow, but fast-moving. Rain had filled it more than usual, water bubbling over smooth stones, reflecting the shifting light of the canopy above.

You fell to your knees at the bank, trembling from exhaustion and relief. You fumbled for your bottle first, unscrewing the cap with shaking fingers and dipping it into the stream, watching the water fill the container as if it were the most precious thing you’d ever held. And then—slowly—you sat back on your heels, heart pounding, and reached for the latch of your exo mask.

Your fingers hesitated. Just a second. Just a few gulps. That was all you needed. Just to feel it—not filtered, not processed. Real water.

You took a breath, then released the seal with a soft hiss. The air hit your lungs sharp and clean, and you didn’t waste time. You tipped the bottle back and drank—three big gulps, fast—cool water flooding your mouth and throat, nearly choking on the second one, but you didn’t care. You could’ve cried from the way it tasted.

Then, with practiced speed, you snapped the mask back on, the seal hissing into place.

You sat there, kneeling in the mud, your breath finally slowing. You didn’t move for a long minute. You just… watched the water. The way it curved around rocks. The way tiny bubbles clung to the edges of moss. The way sunlight dappled through the trees and danced on the surface like fireflies.

For a moment, it almost didn’t feel like you were lost. For a moment, the forest was beautiful again.

Then—a sound. Your whole body stiffened.

A rustle—definitely movement—on the other side of the creek. Your heart shot into your throat. Your hand reached for the knife in your belt on pure instinct. Your brain screamed run, but your legs refused. What was the point? Whatever was out there could outrun you, outclimb you, outfight you. And you were tired.

So damn tired. But what stepped out of the trees… was not what you expected.

It was a yerik. Its sleek body stepped through the brush with silent grace, blue hide glowing faintly even in daylight. Its two, large eyes blinked, ears twitching once as it looked around—cautious, but not alarmed.

You didn’t dare move. They were known to be skittish. Sensitive to sound. One wrong breath, and it would bolt like a ghost into the trees. But this one didn’t run. Instead, it walked forward—deliberate, calm. It reached the creek’s edge, bent its long neck, and drank.

Right in front of you. You blinked, too stunned to think, too amazed to move. Your fingers loosened around the knife.

Then—its gaze lifted. Glowing eyes met yours. Curious. Quiet. Unafraid. You weren’t sure if it was studying you or simply acknowledging your presence. Maybe it didn’t see you as a threat. Maybe it didn’t see you as anything at all. It just looked. As if it couldn’t quite understand what a fragile little human like you were doing here, kneeling in the mud, alone.

And then—without a sound—it turned. The yerik walked back into the forest. Graceful. Unbothered. Vanishing like smoke between the trees. You stayed frozen there, lips parted, breath caught in your throat.

Then a single word whispered in your mind, like a prayer, like a gift: Eywa. And for the first time since getting lost, you didn’t feel completely alone.

You knew—knew—this was a terrible idea.

The rational part of your brain, the one trained by every RDA survival protocol and Norm's endless lectures, was practically screaming at you to move on. To keep walking, to find higher ground, to follow the creek until you hit something familiar. Anything that got you out of this goddamn forest.

But the scientist in you? She had other ideas.

You spotted it by chance, just a glimpse of color clinging to a tree trunk a few meters ahead, where the bark was dark with moisture. A cluster of fungi—pale lilac with speckled caps—hugging the tree bark in a half spiral about two meters off the ground. Too high to reach easily, but not impossible.

Your breath caught. You knew that fungus. Well—not knew it. You’d never seen it in the forests near the outpost, not in the usual samples your xenobotany team collected. But you’d seen it with Mo’at.

She called it eyotswal—“wound’s sleep.”

Used in healing salves, especially for burns. You remembered the smell when she’d crushed it into a paste between her hands. Sharp. Earthy. She’d smeared it across a burn on a hunter’s arm and muttered prayers to Eywa as she worked.

You’d always wanted to study it. To run tests. To understand it. And now, somehow, in the middle of a forest you weren’t even supposed to be in, hopelessly lost and barely hanging on to your own survival—you’d found it.

“Of course you’re here,” you murmured under your breath, your voice dry as you stepped closer to the trunk. “Just like a field researcher’s fever dream. Completely irresponsible… and completely worth it.”

You glanced around, making sure nothing was watching—no skittish yerik, no slinking viperwolves—before setting your satchel down and digging into it quickly. You found an empty specimen tube, still sealed and pristine. The tube clicked as you twisted the cap off and shoved it under your arm, then turned your attention to the fungus.

“Okay,” you whispered, eyeing the cluster, “don’t fall. Please don’t fall.”

You stood on your toes, reaching up, your fingers brushing the underside of one of the larger caps. Damp. Spongy. Alive. With delicate care, you pinched it at the base and twisted, pulling until it popped free.

You let out a soft, victorious ha! as you dropped it into the tube. Then another. And another. Three samples in total. All fresh. All perfect.

Sheer pride lit in your chest like a flare. You sealed the tube and tucked it into the padded section of your satchel. “You little miracle,” you whispered to the fungus, voice low and breathy with disbelief. “I’ve been looking for you for months.”

But the smallest part of you—scientist, dreamer, relentless fool—was so proud. “I’m gonna run the hell out of tests on you when I get back,” you said softly to yourself.

Lost in the wilds of Pandora. Terrified. Tired. Wet. And still collecting samples. You shook your head and laughed softly under your breath. “God, Neteyam would kill me if he knew.”

You crouched near a strange cluster of red-veined ferns growing out of the base of a massive root, their undersides glowing faintly with a shimmer you’d never seen before. Not in the outpost's region, and certainly not in the controlled domes of the RDA’s old Earth-based biodomes.

You reached out, fingers grazing the smooth, waxy surface of one of the fronds. “God… You’re beautiful,” you whispered. They pulsed slightly under your touch—just a breath of movement, like they were aware of you. Reacting. Evolving.

You shook your head slowly, reaching for a stylus and tapping quickly on your datapad screen, even if it still flickered and glitched every few minutes. “Red-vein fern variant, subjectively bioluminescent. Possibly altered by long-term exposure to mining runoff… or maybe flux radiation.” You paused, squinting at the twisting structure of the root system it clung to. “Growth pattern seems… adaptive. Maybe even parasitic?”

And before you could stop yourself—you popped open another sample tube and snipped the edge of a frond, sliding it inside with a quiet snap. The thrill was real. The curiosity was louder than fear now.

You didn’t even mean to keep going, but your eyes kept catching new flashes of color. Fungi with thick, waxy caps the size of your head. Spore sacs that throbbed slightly, humming at a frequency you could feel more than hear. Creeping vines that smelled like iron and sugar. Every few meters, something new pulled you in.

“Okay—no more collecting,” you muttered to yourself, trying to sound firm as you slipped another capped vial into your satchel. “Seriously. This is insane. Norm will skin me alive if I somehow survive long enough for him to find out I’m off collecting samples while lost in Eywa’s most cursed pocket of forest—”

You froze mid-sentence as you spotted another low bush, barely a foot high, with wide purple petals and a cluster of black thorns coiled in the center like a defense mechanism.

You blinked at it. “…Okay. One more.”

The plant practically shimmered in the growing sunlight, the purple deepening into a wine-red at the edges, and as you knelt down, nose wrinkling at its heavy, pungent scent, you whispered to yourself, “If this is toxic, I swear to Eywa I’m going to cry.”

Still, you snipped it. Logged it. Capped it.

Back of your mind, you knew you were wasting time. You knew the sun was already climbing higher, and you had no map, no comms, no way to tell if you were heading anywhere safe. Nightfall wasn’t far off—not with how long it took you to move through this terrain.

But this forest… It was a living record of change. Of survival. Of how the planet resisted and adapted to human touch in the strangest, most beautiful ways. Everything here looked familiar—but wrong. Or maybe it was right now. Maybe this was the next version of the forest. The version that grew in spite of what humans tried to take.

“I can’t leave this undocumented,” you whispered, crouching beside another unfamiliar bloom and snapping a photo with your tablet. The image glitched slightly, shimmered—like even the tech wasn’t sure what it was seeing.

You tucked the tablet away and sighed.

“If I die out here,” you muttered to yourself with a crooked, tired smile, “they better name a fungus after me.” And despite everything—despite the fear, the exhaustion, the ache in your legs—there was still that fire in your chest. That same relentless pull that had made you fall in love with Pandora in the first place.

Even if it killed you.

Each step forward felt like another reminder of how utterly lost you were. The undergrowth was thick, tangled like the knots in your stomach, and your boots slipped more often now as the ground grew uneven, roots rising like ribs from the earth. Your muscles screamed with every movement, and your hands were scratched raw from gripping bark and vines and pulling yourself up steep embankments.

You glanced down at your datapad, your fingers smearing mud across the already-dirty screen. The glitching was worse now, jagged green and red lines cutting through the map, the screen flickering like a dying firefly.

Battery: 35%.

“Shit…” you hissed under your breath, your shoulders sagging.

You turned off the screen to conserve what little charge you had left, though you knew it was useless. Even if—if—you managed to walk far enough to leave the flux vortex behind, your tech would be as dead as you if the sun went down and you were still out here.

“Okay… it's fine,” you muttered, trying to force your heartbeat to slow down. “The datapad dies, but I’ve got the samples. I’ve got…” You paused, reaching into your satchel and checking the sealed tubes again. “Yeah. I’ve got something to show for it. Even if I have to walk my ass back through the entire jungle to get it out of here.”

You wiped the sweat from your brow, smeared dirt across your temple, and kept walking. Then… you saw it. You blinked, squinted through the golden shafts of sunlight streaming between the trees, your steps slowing. Up ahead, suspended in a snarl of thick vines and flowering roots, was a Samson.

Its faded black and grey frame was tangled like a massive ornament, swaying slightly in the breeze where it hung halfway out of a collapsed tree trunk. The vines had grown through it—into it. Rust painted it from tail to nose, jagged metal edges worn dull and flaking. The cockpit glass was shattered, long since taken over by moss and webs. One of the rotors was missing entirely, snapped off like a broken wing.

And yet, somehow… it was still there. Like a relic. Like a warning. Your throat tightened. “Eywa,” you whispered. “Was this… from the war?”

It had to be. You knew the stories—Jake had told them, Norm too. The final stand at the Tree of Souls, the way the sky people fell from the sky in fire and smoke. This one must’ve gone down nearby, never recovered. Left to rot. A part of the jungle now.

But as you slowly stepped closer, something else clicked in your mind. Shelter. If you could get up there—somehow—you could stay for the night. Safe from predators. Out of reach. Dry, if the rain returned.

You bit your lip, glancing up at the Samson's tilted frame. It wasn’t too high—maybe twenty feet off the ground—but the vines that held it looked old, some as thick as your arm. Strong. You dropped your satchel and scanned the area, eyes darting across the surrounding trees. Then you saw it: a fallen trunk leaned like a ramp against one of the nearby roots. If you could climb that, and then use the vines…

It would hurt. But you could try. “Okay, girl,” you muttered, tying your satchel’s strap tighter across your chest. “Let’s do something stupid.”

You scrambled up the log, hands slipping as bark flaked beneath your fingers. Your foot jammed into a crook of wood, wrenching your ankle enough to make you hiss, but you gritted your teeth and kept going.

Once on the elevated root, you reached for a hanging vine. You tested your weight. It groaned. You groaned. Then you pulled yourself up.

Your arms trembled as you inched higher. A sharp edge of metal bit into your palm, and you cursed as warm blood smeared the cold surface. “God, dammit—” You clenched your jaw, breathing through it.

A few more climbs, one foot braced awkwardly against a twisted vine, and you finally reached the side of the Samson. The door was missing. You stumbled inside, panting, heart hammering in your chest as the old air wrapped around you like a tomb. And then—you stopped.

Your eyes locked on the pilot’s seat. Inside, slumped over the rusted control panel, was a skeleton.

Still wearing the remains of a charred, faded RDA flight suit. One arm hung loosely off the side, the helmet rolled somewhere in the back. Moss grew from the hollow of the ribs. A vine curled through one eye socket like a grotesque crown.

You didn’t scream. You just stared. Froze. Your breath came out shallow and harsh as you backed up a few steps, your knees bumping into the long-cold wall. “…you didn’t make it out either, huh?” you whispered.

The skeleton didn’t answer. But it didn’t need to. You were sitting in the same seat it had—fighting the same wild that had already won. You slid to the floor slowly, your breath finally evening out. And then… very gently, you whispered, “I’ll stay here tonight, if that’s okay.”

You weren’t sure who you were talking to. Eywa. The dead. Yourself. But you were too tired to care. You set your satchel beside you, curling your arms around your knees. For now… this would have to be home.

You pulled off your exo-mask slowly, letting it hang at your side as you reached for your canteen. The water inside was lukewarm, tasting slightly of metal, but it was clean. You took a few gulps, letting the water soothe your dry throat, then hastily sealed the mask back over your face before the air could thin too much around you. You couldn’t afford to be reckless—not now.

Your body ached as you rummaged through your satchel for the medkit. The cut on your palm had started to crust with dried blood, but it still throbbed. You hissed softly as you cleaned it, wincing as the antiseptic foam bit into the wound. You were careful with the bandages—only using what you absolutely had to. The thought that you might need more later wouldn’t leave you.

Then you remembered the cockpit. You turned slowly, inching toward the rusted compartment, past the unmoving frame slumped in the pilot’s seat. You tried not to look at the skull. But your eyes drifted there anyway.

“…sorry,” you muttered, crouching beside what was left of a medpack stashed near the seat. It was coated in dust and time. The label was half-scratched off, the seal brittle, but the contents inside were… surprisingly intact. Gauze, some freeze-dried painkillers, a nearly fossilized bandage roll.

“Guess you really were hanging on for dear life, huh?” you said softly. You weren’t even sure why you said it out loud. But it made you feel less alone. You patched your ankle next—nothing broken, but definitely twisted. Enough to make walking hell for a while. As you worked, you found your eyes drifting to the view outside.

The forest below was glowing. That familiar bioluminescent hue bathed everything in shades of electric blue, deep violet, and green-fire. Leaves shimmered like stars. Vines sparkled in the breeze. Even the old twisted wreckage of the Samson itself seemed to pulse faintly with reflected light.

It was… beautiful. Still, even now—especially now—you couldn’t comprehend just how alive this planet was. Even in the middle of nowhere. Even in fear. It sang around you. Every sound was part of something bigger.

And yet… You were small.

You looked back to the skeleton. “…you saw it too, didn’t you?” you murmured, voice low and tired. “Even through all the gear, and the orders, and the… bullshit. You saw it.”

You didn’t expect an answer. But talking to him—whoever he once was—made it bearable. Maybe because he’d been left behind, just like you. “Guess that makes us two broken pieces of the same story,” you whispered.

A howl echoed in the distance—deep, animalistic. Not close, but not far either. You flinched instinctively, tightening your grip around your knees, and leaned back against the rusted hull. The metal was cold beneath your back, but steady.

“I swear, Eywa,” you whispered, staring up at the warped ceiling of the Samson, “if you let me get back… I’ll change everything. I’ll be better. I’ll worship the ground you walk on. I’ll build you an altar in my sad little bunk.”

Your eyes fluttered shut. You didn’t expect to fall asleep. You never did—not in moments like this. But your body was done fighting. And when the dark pulled you under, it brought his face with it.

Neteyam.

His smile. The way his eyes crinkled when you made him laugh. The press of his forehead to yours. His hands cupping your hips. His voice whispering your name in the quiet moments between sleep and sunrise.

God, you missed him. It wasn’t the first time you’d spent nights apart. He had duties. You had research. Sometimes weeks would go by. But this—this was different.

It had only been two days, and it already felt like twenty years. You didn’t cry. You couldn’t. But as your breath evened out and sleep dragged you deeper, you clutched your satchel tighter like it was him. You prayed—not to science or logic—but to Eywa.

To let you see him again. Just once.

Before you die.

Your eyes blinked open slowly, drawn awake not by light or sound—but by the gnawing ache of hunger. Your stomach growled, deep and loud in the quiet morning.

For a single, blissful second, you thought it was a dream. That maybe you were back in your quarters at the outpost. Or, even better, in Neteyam’s kelku, wrapped in pelts and arms and warmth.

But then the wind pushed against the metal hull of the Samson, making it groan and sway on its tangle of vines. And reality settled heavy and cold across your chest. You sat up with a groan, your back stiff, every muscle in your body aching in protest. The stale scent of rust, earth, and wet bark surrounded you like a blanket. You looked down at your ankle, carefully adjusting the bandage to peek beneath it.

The makeshift wrap was still in place. The swelling had gone down, and it didn’t hurt as much anymore when you shifted your weight. Small victories.

You flexed your fingers next, checking your palm where the other wound had been. The gauze was still white. Clean. The cut hadn’t reopened overnight. You sighed in relief. “Still alive,” you murmured to yourself, voice dry. “Go me.”

Your stomach growled again, more insistent this time. “Okay, okay…” you mumbled, reaching for your satchel. You dug through the compartments with tired fingers until your hand closed around the rough packaging of a ration bar. Your emergency stash.

Five left.

You stared at the silver-wrapped bar for a moment. You hadn’t eaten in two days. Not properly. Adrenaline had kept you going, kept you sharp, but now that your body was slowing… you needed something. Anything.

You peeled the wrapper open, pull the mask off slightly, took a small bite and press the mask back. It was dry and gritty, but it tasted like salvation. As you chewed, your eyes drifted to the skeleton in the cockpit. And before you could stop yourself, you spoke.

“Hey. You want some?” you asked around a mouthful, holding out the ration bar with a crooked grin. The bones, of course, said nothing. You snorted. “No? Suit yourself. More for me.”

There was something absurdly comforting about the banter—even if it was one-sided. You kept eating, swinging your legs gently as the Samson swayed again, the vines groaning in protest.

“I gotta say,” you muttered, “I’ve had worse company.” You laughed softly—actually laughed—and shook your head. “Eywa help me, I’ve officially lost it.” The skeleton, unsurprisingly, didn’t answer again. You chuckled to yourself anyway. “This is officially the weirdest breakfast I’ve ever had,” you muttered, taking another bite.

But the moment faded quickly. Because even though you were laughing, even though you were alive, you didn’t want to stay here forever.

You wanted to go back. You needed to go back. You loved this forest, you truly did. More than anything. Its rhythms, its layers, its secret language—all of it had become a second home. But this part? This wound near the pit, where the forest still bore the scars of human greed? It was wild and wrong in a way you couldn’t explain. It was alive—but it was angry.

And being alone in it? That was a death sentence. You pulled your datapad from the satchel next, flipping it on. The screen flickered and glitched like a busted comm feed. The flux vortex was still in full effect, warping the signals, twisting everything out of shape.

But you managed to make out enough of the forest grid to find your heading. East.

Always east.

That was the direction of the outpost. The map was warped, sure, but the topography hadn’t changed that much. You could use the sun as your guide once it was high enough. You’d travel in the morning and seek shelter before dark. Ration your food, collect water when you could, and avoid everything that moved unless it was rooted into the ground.

It wasn’t much of a plan. But it was the best you had. Still, not today.

Today… you’d rest. Heal a bit more. Gather water. Maybe even forage for some fruit, if you were lucky. The Samson, as creepy and old as it was, was shelter. Protection. And right now, it was safer than anywhere else.

“I’ll give it two days,” you said aloud, more to yourself than to the skeleton. “Just two. Then I’ll move.”

The forest outside was already buzzing with life—soft humming, faint clicks, distant howls and chattering from unseen treetop dwellers. You glanced down at the moss-carpeted jungle floor far beneath the wreck. It was beautiful, in a way that still stole your breath.

Terrifying. But beautiful.

You took a deep breath, staring down at your satchel. It was heavier than it should be. If you were going to find water, maybe even food, you couldn’t carry everything. Not today.

So, you made a choice.

You pulled out the samples you didn’t urgently need, set aside one of the larger pouches, and repacked only the essentials—medical supplies, your dwindling food stash, your knife, a torch, the datapad, and a few collection tubes. You kept the fungi you’d found earlier, safely tucked away in its vial. That one felt too important to leave behind.

As you rifled through the cockpit one more time, your fingers brushed against something stiff and slightly warped with age—a manual booklet. The cover was still barely readable beneath the dust and moss. “VTOL RDA Samson: Flight Systems & Repair.”

You snorted. “Yeah, don’t think we’ll be doing any mid-air fixes today.”

Still, you shredded it up carefully and stuffed the paper into your satchel. More breadcrumbs to leave behind. Just in case.

Climbing down was harder than getting up—your muscles were sore, your ankle still tender—and the vines creaked ominously with every shift in your weight. You tried to go slow, deliberate, but in the last meter, your foot slipped.

With a yelp, you landed hard on your back, the wind rushing out of your lungs as you hit the moss-covered ground. For a moment, you just lay there, stunned, staring up at the morning sky peeking through the canopy.

Then, you laughed. Like—really laughed. “If Neteyam saw me now…” you wheezed between chuckles, “he’d definitely stop calling me a gift. ‘You are Eywa’s curse dropped into my lap,’ he’d say.” You wiped your eyes. “Demon girl falling out of the trees.”

Your laugh faded slowly as you sat up, still catching your breath. And that’s when you heard it—a faint rustle from the brush nearby. Your whole body tensed.

You grabbed for your knife, heart thudding in your chest, the memory of viperwolves from that awful night still etched in your bones. But then… a familiar shimmer of blue and white appeared between the ferns.

A yerik.

You blinked. It stepped cautiously into view, delicate and strangely calm. You recognized it—or at least, thought you did. Maybe the same one from the creek the other day.

“Hey there,” you whispered, voice soft. “Are you stalking me?” The yerik just stared at you, unbothered. You smiled in disbelief, still sitting on the ground. “Don’t suppose you know where the creek is?”

No answer, of course. Just those intelligent eyes watching you. And then—it turned. Took a few slow steps toward the brush, paused… and looked back at you. Like it was waiting.

You stood up, wincing at your ankle but pushing through the pain. “No way,” you muttered. “There’s no way you’re guiding me.”

The yerik shifted again—waiting. You hesitated only a second longer before you moved. As you followed, you reached into your satchel, pulling out the first scrap of shredded manual paper. You dropped it behind you, marking the trail.

One step at a time. And the yerik led.

It wasn’t fast. It stopped every few minutes to glance back, making sure you were still there, still following. You kept leaving little paper trails, trying to memorize the path, the turns, the roots. And then—you heard it.

Water.

Fast-moving, bubbling over stone. The forest opened just slightly, light spilling in through the trees, and there it was. The creek.

“Oh, thank God,” you gasped, stumbling the last few steps forward, dropping to your knees by the edge. You filled both bottles quickly and without hesitation pulled off your mask for a moment, drinking deeply, greedy gulps that soaked your parched throat.

Cold, fresh, clean.

You put the mask back on and let out a shaky sigh. It was glorious. You washed your arms, even carefully peeled away the bandage from your palm to rinse the wound. The cold made you hiss, but it felt better already.

You looked around the area, scanning the underbrush for anything you recognized from your months—years—of studying the Na’vi and their ways.

There. A few small fruit pods growing near the rocks. And not far from them, a fallen log split open—and inside, a teylu nest. Plump, wriggling little worm-like creatures curled into themselves.

Your stomach growled again at the sight. You glanced toward the brush where the yerik had disappeared, a quiet smile playing on your lips. “Thanks,” you whispered.

With careful hands, you collected a few fruits, using your knife to slice one open and check the flesh. Sweet, dense—like the ones the Omatikaya often roasted. You hesitated at the teylu, but your survival instinct had long since swallowed your squeamishness. You took only a few—enough for the day. Enough to keep going.

As you packed them away, you smiled to yourself. You had no fire. No home. No way to call for help. But you had water. Food. A direction. And you were still breathing.

And Eywa—maybe—was still watching over you.

Even with the little paper shreds marking your path, winding your way back to the hanging Samson was slow and exhausting. The forest didn’t make it easy—every branch snagged your shirt, every root tried to trip you, and every slope felt like a personal insult from Eywa herself.

When you finally caught sight of the rusted metal frame tangled in thick vines above the canopy, you let out a dramatic gasp. “Home sweet fucking home,” you muttered under your breath, half-laughing, half-ready to collapse.

You wiped your sweaty forehead with the back of your wrist and squinted up at the climb. Even worse the second time. “This is why Na’vi make it look so damn easy,” you grumbled to yourself as you started scaling the trunk and vines again. “Jumping around like goddamn blue squirrels while I’m over here on the verge of death, asking Eywa if she wants a roommate.”

You slipped once, almost lost your footing again near the top, bark scraping against your palms—but you made it. Breathless and trembling, you hauled yourself into the Samson and flopped hard onto the rusted floor.

You lay there for a second, panting, staring at the ceiling. “I swear,” you wheezed, “if you’re up there, Eywa, I’m not even mad anymore. Just... be gentle when you take me.”

The skeleton in the pilot’s seat said nothing. Of course. “God,” you said, dragging yourself up on one elbow to look at it, “you must’ve been a real idiot too. What were you even doing flying this thing during a war? Were you trying to play hero?”

You sighed, softer this time. Then gave a tired smile. “Well, we make a nice pair now, huh?” You sat up, opened your satchel, and glanced at your little stockpile—fruits, a few teylu, your remaining ration bars.

Then your gaze fell to the wriggling bugs. The teylu were moving. Curling, undulating, disgusting.

You gagged a little. “Ughhh, Eywa help me.” You pushed them gently with the tip of your knife. They squirmed. You gagged again. “Neteyam swears they taste good. ‘Nutty and warm,’ he said. Like that’s supposed to help.”

He’d tried to get you to taste one so many times. Always grinning, always teasing. Just try it, yawne. It’s delicious, I promise. You always chickened out.

But now? It was either eat one raw… or wait to pass out from hunger and never wake up.

You stared at the worms for a long moment, then slowly—slowly—closed the lid on the container and set it aside. “Maybe... maybe later. When I’m brave. Braver than right now. Or, like… on the edge of death again. That seems like the right time.”

Your stomach growled in betrayal. “Traitor,” you mumbled.

Lying back on the floor again, you stretched your aching limbs, eyes fluttering closed for just a moment. A breeze stirred the vines outside, rocking the Samson gently like a cradle.

The forest was still alive with sound—buzzing, chirping, a distant animal call here and there—but in this metal shell, suspended above the jungle floor, it almost felt safe. Almost. You tilted your head toward the skeleton again.

“I’m need to rest today,” you told it. “Maybe tomorrow too. Just until I can walk more than an hour without wanting to cry.” You sighed. “Then I’ll figure it out. A plan. I’ll move east. I’ll find a ridge or a signal or... something.” You let your head fall back against the rusty metal.

“And if not...” you whispered, watching the light play off the ceiling, “at least I tried.” But deep down—you knew you weren’t giving up. Not yet. Not until you saw him again. Not until Neteyam knew you didn’t just disappear.

The rain came without warning—crashing down with a sudden roar that tore you from the edges of sleep. Thunder cracked across the sky, shaking the jungle canopy like a warning growl from Eywa herself. You jolted upright with a gasp, your hand instinctively clutching your satchel where it lay against your side.

For a moment, you forgot where you were. The inside of the Samson was dark, creaking in protest as the wind pushed against its rusted frame. But then you remembered—this was your refuge. Your rusted, broken haven dangling like some forgotten toy in the treetops. The paper markers…

Your stomach twisted. "Please," you whispered, eyes searching the dark forest floor through the cracked side panel. "Please let the rain stop before they all wash away…"

You scooted back, crawling toward the rear of the copter, where the hull was mostly intact and dry. Cold water dripped from a crack in the ceiling, but it didn’t touch you here. You wrapped your arms around your knees and exhaled slowly, trying not to let the panic crawl its way back into your throat.

Lightning flashed—and that's when you saw them. Below, barely visible under the glowing blue and purple haze of the forest, moved a dozen shapes. Low to the ground. Fluid. Sleek.

Viperwolves again. A full pack.

They padded through the underbrush like shadows given form, and for a second, your breath caught in your chest. They were hunting.

Your scent. Probably picked it up before the rain, and now they were following the ghost of it. You were only safe because of this flying coffin hanging high in the trees.

You shuddered and turned away, curling tighter against the wall of the copter. "You're still the best roommate I’ve ever had," you whispered toward the skeleton. "You don’t talk back, and you don’t eat the last ration bar."

The skeleton, of course, said nothing. Just stared eternally out the cracked cockpit window like some weathered, silent guardian.

Your eyes drifted down to the bundle of leaves near your satchel. The teylu squirmed inside. Two fingers thick. Glossy, pale-skinned, still alive.

Neteyam’s voice rang in your memory—playful, warm.

But he always gave them to you roasted. Never raw. The Na’vi always roasted them. Maybe it made them less… disgusting. You stared down at the bundle, your stomach clenching at the thought. The ration bars were running low, and you had to save them. But the teylu…

You looked out the window again. The rain was coming harder. The Samson swayed more now, creaking and groaning, and the pack of viperwolves were still circling below, their bioluminescent markings slashing through the dark like ghostly fire.

This wasn’t the time to be squeamish.

You reached out, hand trembling slightly, and picked up the wriggling larva. It pulsed between your fingers, slick and warm. Your nose wrinkled involuntarily. "Oh my god, I’m going to throw up," you muttered to yourself, pulling your mask off just enough to shove the thing in. "Please, Eywa, don’t let me die with this as my last meal."

You took a deep breath—and popped it into your mouth. The texture was the worst part. It burst between your teeth with a soft pop, like biting into a warm, gummy fruit… if that fruit was still alive. But the taste?

Surprisingly… sweet. You blinked, chewing slowly, processing.

Okay. Not great, but not awful either. Like raw honey mixed with a nutty, earthy flavor. Still wouldn’t be your snack of choice, but… Neteyam hadn’t lied. Of course he hadn’t. You laughed softly to yourself, shaking your head.

"Alright, fine," you whispered. "You win, forest. You broke me. I just ate a live grub." Outside, the storm kept raging. But you leaned back against the cold, rusted metal, stomach not quite as hollow, limbs still shaking—but not from hunger anymore.

You chewed the last teylu slowly, grimacing more at the texture than the taste. It wasn’t bad, really. Just… teylu. Warm, nutty, slightly sweet—but the squirming? The burst in your mouth? That part you could’ve lived without. You gulped it down and wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, groaning softly as you slumped back against the metal.

“That’s it,” you muttered to yourself. “If I ever get out of this jungle, I’m roasting every damn one of you before it even looks at me.”

And you meant it.

If—when—you made it back to the outpost or the village, you’d try the roasted ones. The way the Na’vi ate them. The way Neteyam always tried to get you to. You’d even let him feed you one, smug smile and all. He’d make a whole event out of it, probably. Hold it between his fingers like it was some rare delicacy, tease you until you rolled your eyes—then kiss you like it was your reward for being brave.

That sounded a hell of a lot better than this. You sighed, glancing toward the wrinkled, half-split fruit in your satchel. Its deep blue skin had begun to fade in the corner, a sign it wouldn’t last much longer. You reached for it, tested the flesh with your thumb, then pulled your hand back.

“Breakfast,” you whispered, voice scratchy from the rain. “You’re breakfast. If I live through the night.”

With a soft grunt, you shifted your weight and leaned back against the Samson wall, stretching your legs out and staring down at your hands. Your fingers trembled slightly as you unwrapped the gauze from your left palm, trying not to wince.

The fabric peeled back slowly, sticky with dried pus—and your stomach dropped. The wound wasn’t better.

It was worse. The skin around the gash had swollen more overnight, the edges raw and angry red, and a faint yellow sheen glistened at the corners.

“…Fuck,” you whispered, breath catching. “No, no, no…”

Your eyes squeezing shut.

The antiseptic from your kit hadn’t been enough. Maybe it had slowed the infection, but it sure as hell hadn’t stopped it. And if it kept spreading like this, you knew exactly what came next.

Fever. Shaking. Delirium. Organ failure. And then— Sepsis. Death.

Not in a blaze of glory. Not in a noble sacrifice or even a tragic last stand. Just… a scratch. An infection. A slow, pathetic ending in a rusted-out copter somewhere in the ass-end of the jungle. You were going to die of sepsis.

The idea hit harder than expected. It sat in your chest like a cold stone, heavier than the storm, heavier than the exhaustion. You hadn’t crossed galaxies, learned to read a foreign moon’s forest like scripture, fought for your place beside a man who made your soul ache just by looking at you… just to die from a fucking scratch.

“No,” you whispered, jaw tight. “No. Absolutely not.” If you were going to die out here, it wasn’t going to be like this.

If you had to go, it would be in some ridiculous, spectacular way—a slinger charging from the shadows, and you with a knife in each hand. An epic final stand. Something everyone would tell stories about for years. Not rotting alone from a festering wound.

You refused. Your heart beat harder now, fast and clear under your ribs, fueled by defiance more than fear. You sat up straighter, pulling your satchel closer. The pain in your hand pulsed, but it felt distant now. Like your body knew what came next.

Your fingers tightened around your satchel as you pulled it closer, flipping it open and dragging out your sample kit. Vials. Dried leaves. Spare wraps. The fungus you’d collected, the strange lichen you’d clipped from a vine. You stared at them all like they might suddenly assemble into a miracle.

Tomorrow, you’d need to find real medicine. Not from your kit. Not human-made. You needed plants. Roots. Bark. The kind Mo’at used. The kind that worked.

You closed your eyes and focused. What did she teach you? “Eyotswal,” you murmured aloud. “Purple fungus. ‘Wound’s sleep.’ Antiseptic properties. Crush and apply raw.”

That was one. You had that one already. But it wasn’t enough. “Rulvansip,” you whispered, voice steadying. “Sap from the thick vine. Dark red. Stings like hell, but kills infection. Should grow near water.”

Your thoughts were sharper now. Each name that surfaced brought back flashes of lessons, of Mo’at’s hands moving with purpose, of Neteyam watching quietly in the corner, arms crossed, hiding a little smile every time you got something right.

“Seltun bark. Antimicrobial. Peel it fresh.”

“Nant’k leaves. Big, waxy. Grind and use as poultice base. Crushed into paste, it helped reduce fever and draw toxins out through the skin. If you could find that, you could start.

You’d need something to bind it, too. Maybe that silken moss she showed you—ramun. The one that stayed moist even in heat, good for holding salves against wounds. If not, you’d improvise. Bark strips, maybe. Vines, if they weren’t too fibrous.

You didn’t have the tools. You didn’t have the lab. But you had your brain. And you were too fucking stubborn to die without a fight. Even if you couldn’t make the whole salve, even if you didn’t have fire or pestle or ceremonial oils—you’d improvise. You always did.

You breathed deep, drawing in the humid scent of the forest wafting through the cracked window.

Tomorrow, you’d search. You’d follow the creek. Find what you could. You weren’t a Tsahik—not even close. But you were a xenobotanist with four years in the field and a stubborn streak wide enough to shame a direhorse.

You were not going down without a fight. “I’m not dying until I see him again,” you whispered.

You needed him to know you survived. That you fought. That you came back. You smiled faintly to yourself, vision going soft at the edges as fatigue finally won. Tomorrow, you would fight.

The morning light was soft through the gaps in the trees, golden fingers reaching into the rusted shell of the Samson. You blinked slowly, still half-wrapped in the warmth of sleep and the ache of your limbs. Everything hurt—your back, your shoulders, your ankle—but it was your hand that dragged you back to full consciousness.

Throbbing. Hot. Angry under the gauze. You sat up slowly, heart already sinking, and peeled back the makeshift bandage with care. You hissed between your teeth.

Worse. The skin was swollen now, shiny and red around the gash, and the yellow edge of infection glistened in the light. It looked worse than it had yesterday. Much worse. You clenched your jaw, trying to keep your chest from caving in.

Then your gaze flicked upward—just a little—and caught on the thing wrapped around your wrist.

The bracelet. Thin, brown forest vine, woven with simple knots. Tiny blue pearls spaced between the twists. You hadn’t taken it off since he gave it to you—months ago, on an afternoon when he’d shown up at the outpost unannounced. He’d handed it over so casually, like it wasn’t the most intimate thing he could’ve done. You’d smiled and thanked him, thinking he was just… thoughtful.

Later, you’d realized what it meant.

He’d been courting you in a way too silent way. You brushed your thumb over the bracelet now, fingers trembling slightly. The blue of the beads—his blue. The color of his skin. His people. His world. And still, somehow… it was yours too. Your throat tightened. You missed him so much your bones ached.

You swallowed hard, then reached for your satchel. The wrinkled fruit you'd saved for breakfast was soft now, one corner beginning to turn, but it still smelled sweet. You finished it in a few bites, chewing carefully. Every bite reminded you why you had to keep going.

It would hurt to move today—you already knew that. But when you looked at your hand, red and hot and pulsing, you didn’t hesitate.

You started packing.

Every empty sample tube went into your satchel. Your dwindling medical supplies. The last of your gauze. Anything that could still be useful. Then you turned to the Samson, combing through the wreckage for anything salvageable. Most of it was two decades old, but some scraps of metal might double as tools. A rusted clip. An old strap you could repurpose into a tie. A cracked plastic med-case with one last alcohol wipe tucked deep inside.

When you finally climbed down from the Samson, your hands and knees screamed in protest, but you kept moving. The vines were slick, bark still damp from the night’s storm, but the sun had risen clear and bright. No clouds today. The forest was warm and still, painted in light.

And then—relief bloomed in your chest. The paper markers you’d left were still there. Faded a little, but clinging to the low bush branches, safe and visible. You exhaled a shaky breath.

"Thank you," you whispered—whether to Eywa or the forest or dumb luck, you didn’t know.

You followed them. One by one. Carefully, slowly. Your ankle ached with every uneven step, your hand pulsing like fire, but you didn’t stop. You walked until the trees began to thin. Until the moss under your boots grew damp again.

Until you heard it. Water. You limped forward faster, pushing past a curtain of hanging vines—and there it was.

The creek.

Just as you remembered it, clear and cool, winding between roots and stones like a silver ribbon. You dropped to your knees at the edge, fumbled with your mask, and took a few long, greedy gulps of water straight from your bottle. Then, slowly, you pulled the mask back into place—and plunged your hand into the creek.

The cold hit you like a shock. You gasped.

But oh, it felt good. The throb eased almost instantly. You stayed there, wrist submerged, letting the chill sink in. Letting the forest hold you. Your fingers moved slowly, brushing over the smooth rocks below, sending small ripples across the water’s surface.

You smiled. It was faint. Barely there. But real. You’d made it. You were still alive. And now… it was time to think. To work.

You leaned down, studying the banks, the way the moss grew thicker near the base of the ferns, the pale glow under certain clusters of bark. You scanned for anything familiar—anything that matched what you’d listed to yourself yesterday.

Eyotswal. You already had that. Seltun bark. Rulvansip sap. Nant’k leaves. Ramun moss.

You knew what to look for. Because you weren’t just a xenobotanist. You were something else now. You smiled again, more fully this time, as you dipped your fingers in the creek and wiggled them gently in the water. Basically a Tsahik-in-training.

Not officially. It would never be official. But it felt like it. Mo’at had taught you. Let you sit beside her during healing rituals. Let you observe, then help. Kiri, too—always nudging you forward, whispering what each herb meant, each gesture, each symbol. They’d tried. They wanted you to be part of this, even if the world around you didn’t.

Even if you could never be worthy enough to claim that kind of place beside Neteyam. But they tried. For him. For you. And you were grateful. You dipped both hands into the creek now—one strong, one weak—and smiled through the burn. You were a human girl in a world that had no place for you, and still… you were learning. You were fighting.

Despite knowing Neytiri would probably skewer you on sight. Despite knowing Jake Sully would be the most disappointed father in the history of fathers if he found out his golden boy was in love with someone like you.

But Neteyam had loved you anyway. And if you could find what you needed in this forest—if you could live—you’d make it back to him.

You’d show him that you fought for this. For you. For him. For the chance to choose each other, even in a world that said you never could. And that was worth every goddamn step.

You closed your eyes.

The creek babbled beside you, gentle and constant, cool water sliding over your fingers as they rested just below the surface. The sunlight filtered through the canopy above in shafts of gold and green, dappling your skin. You breathed in slowly, deeply—filling your lungs with the scent of moss and clean water, wet bark and growing things.

And then you listened. Really listened.

Mo’at’s voice echoed in your memory, soft but certain: “If you are quiet—truly quiet—you will hear her. Eywa speaks to all who listen.” You remembered the way she’d looked at you when she said that. Not with pity. Not with hesitation. But with something like… hope.

You weren’t Na’vi. You didn’t have a kuru. You couldn’t bond with the forest the way they could, not really. Not like Neteyam did when he flew with his ikran, or Kiri when she walked barefoot through glowing roots with her eyes half-closed, like she felt the world breathing around her.

You’d always envied that. But right now—this moment, with the forest pressing in warm and bright around you—you were willing to try.

Because it was your only option. So you focused. On the trees. The air. The feel of water against your skin. You tried to open yourself to it. To her. To Eywa.

Nothing happened at first. Just silence. Wind. The gentle groan of distant branches.

And then—

The hum of the insects grew louder. The rhythm of the water deepened. The light behind your closed lids shimmered golden. And just beneath it all, softer than sound, you felt it.

Something steady. Something ancient. And in that stillness, you heard him. Neteyam’s voice, whispered on memory. “You see things others don’t. You feel them.” He’d said it one night when he thought you were asleep, your head tucked under his chin, his hand resting on your back. His breath had ghosted against your temple. “Eywa made you... not Na’vi, but still hers. A gift. You just don’t know it yet.”

You remembered wanting to cry. But you’d stayed still, pretending sleep, too afraid to let him know you’d heard something so intimate.

You couldn’t hear Her the same way. But you still tried. Because right now, Eywa was your only hope. The forest was your only ally. And you… you were all you had left. So you whispered to the water. To the trees. To Her. "Please… help me."

Maybe… maybe you didn’t have to feel Eywa the way they did. Maybe it was enough that you were trying. That you’d always loved this world with your whole heart.

You opened your eyes. The forest didn’t speak in words. But it gave you direction.

With a deep breath, you pulled your hand from the water, shaking off the droplets. The moment it left the cool stream, the heat returned, pulsing just beneath your skin like a warning bell. But you ignored it. You were too stubborn to stop.

Your eyes scanned the banks of the creek, sharp and focused despite the ache in your bones. And then—you saw it. Rulvansip. A thick red-veined vine curling up from the roots of a fallen log, its skin rough, bleeding dark red sap where it split.

You crouched and pressed your blade to the vine’s surface, drawing a clean line. The sap oozed slowly, like blood. You dipped your fingers in it, watching the thick, bitter-smelling liquid coat your fingertips. It stung almost immediately. “Yep,” you muttered. “That’s the one.” Antibacterial. Painful, but it worked. Mo’at called it “Eywa’s fire.”.

You let the sap drip into a small glass vial, then wrapped the vine with a bit of cloth so it wouldn’t dry out too quickly. Next, you moved along the water’s edge, eyes scanning every inch. There—beneath a knotted tangle of low-growing roots—you spotted broad, waxy leaves curling like little bowls to catch dew.

Nant’k.

You gathered several, gently folding them and tucking them into your satchel. When crushed, they created a cooling paste, one that helped draw infection out through the skin. Mo’at used them for burns and swelling, and once, even on a young hunter’s fractured ankle.

You crept deeper into the foliage, careful of every step. The air was thick with the scent of damp moss and wildflowers. It felt alive in a way the jungle never quite did during the day—gentle, somehow. Quiet.

In the shallows, your gaze caught on the delicate bloom of ewa’lim petals—small white flowers that opened only when the humidity was just right. You crushed one lightly between your fingers. The scent was sharp and earthy.

Internal use. When chewed, it helped regulate fever. Bitter as hell, but if you didn’t want to end up hallucinating by nightfall, you needed it.

You plucked every one you could find.

You kept going. You found a cluster of yellow-bodied rhumak pods, bulbous and sticky, nestled under a shaded fern. The inner pulp, when mashed, formed a kind of salve that helped seal shallow wounds—especially those that were already open too long.

You grinned to yourself. “You’re a gift,” you muttered, carefully cutting one open and sliding the sticky pulp into another small sample tube. By the time you stood up, your satchel was noticeably heavier—and you were almost lightheaded. Still, you pushed on.

You moved along the creek, watching carefully now for food. The wild root fruits weren’t common here, but if you were lucky—

There.

You spotted the fat, bulbous body of a kalu root peeking up from the muddy bank. You dug it out with your fingers, scraping away the sticky top layer. It would need fire to taste like anything other than soil and sadness, but it was full of starch. Energy.

You added it to your pack. Not far from it, hidden under a sun-warmed stone, you found another gift—a few more teylu squirming lazily in their damp burrow. You grimaced.

“Well,” you muttered, scooping them into a leaf wrap, “you’re officially part of my diet now. Congratulations.”

By the time you turned back toward the Samson, your legs ached, your ankle throbbed, and your arm was stiff—but your heart was lighter. The forest had answered. Maybe not with words. But it had given you what you needed.

You followed your paper trail, thankful all over again that the rain hadn’t washed it away. The sun climbed higher. Warm. Steady. Almost gentle. By the time you reached the Samson again, your limbs were trembling.

Climbing back up was hell. You slipped twice, cursed once, and nearly burst into tears when your injured hand grazed a rusted edge. But you didn’t fall. You were alive. Still. “Well,” you muttered, turning your head toward the skeleton, “you’re not gonna believe what I found.”

You opened your satchel, laying out the herbs and plants one by one. “Rulvansip. Nant’k. Seltun. Ewa’lim. Rhumak. And some kalu for dinner. Look at me. Tsahik-in-training.”

You laughed softly to yourself. Then stopped. Because you were talking to him. Again.

You stared at the skeleton for a long beat, then shook your head. “God, I’m really losing it, huh?” you murmured. “Day four of talking to a corpse. Day six, I start giving you a name.” But still… it helped. Just a little. It made the quiet less sharp.

You leaned your head back against the wall, letting your body rest. The cool moss-stuffed cracks in the hull pressed against your shoulder. Your wounded hand pulsed with fire, but now you had something to fight it with.

Still, you knew the truth. Soon, you’d have to leave.

You couldn’t stay here forever. The Samson wasn’t a shelter—it was a memory. A grave. And once your hand was better—once you were strong enough to walk farther, longer—you’d have to keep going. Toward the outpost. Toward him.

Because every minute you spent in this forest, Neteyam was probably tearing himself apart trying to find you. You couldn’t let this be where the story ended. You closed your eyes again. Soon, you told yourself.

Soon, I go.

The moment your fingers brushed the old cockpit console, you felt it—a weight, like time pressed into metal. The dead pilot hadn’t moved, of course, but something about his silent presence grounded you. Gave you purpose.

You crouched beside him, scanning the faded wreckage until your eyes caught a familiar shape tucked beneath a half-collapsed panel.

An old exo-mask.

The rubber seals had long since cracked, and the filtration unit was missing entirely, but the faceplate—the curved glass dome—was still intact. You pried it loose, gently, cradling it in both hands like something precious.

You smiled, small and tired, and ran your thumb over the inside of it. “You just became a mortar,” you murmured.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was shaped like a bowl.

You sat down cross-legged on the cold, uneven floor, placing the makeshift glass bowl between your knees. Your satchel landed beside you with a soft thud, and you started pulling your finds free, laying them out like puzzle pieces on the dusty metal.

Then you grabbed your knife, flipped it around, and pressed the blunt hilt to the edge of a thick nant’k leaf. The wide, waxy surface crumpled easily under pressure. You ground it down, one leaf after another, until you had a greenish pulp sticking to the bottom of the glass.

Next, the rulvansip.

You uncorked the vial, carefully tilting it over the pile of crushed leaves. The sap oozed out in thick, red drops—slow and sticky, with a sharp, metallic smell that burned your nostrils. Just a few drops was all it took. Already the salve was starting to shift color, deepening into a dark rust-brown, the mixture thickening as you stirred it with a sliver of wood.

It looked disgusting. But it might save your life.

You stared at it for a long moment, your heart pounding harder now. You knew what was coming. Knew this was going to hurt like hell. Rulvansip wasn’t just a disinfectant—it was fire. Living fire. You’d seen it used a dozen times, but always on someone else. Always applied by Mo’at’s gentle, practiced hands.

You dipped your finger into it—just the tiniest bit—and winced as it prickled against your skin. This was going to be awful.

You grabbed the last clean strip of gauze from your own kit, then set it aside with the makeshift salve bowl. For a moment, you just… stared at your hand.

It looked even worse now. The skin was so taut around the edges of the wound that it looked like it might split. The gash itself had grown darker, the yellow pus congealed like rot. The swelling had reached your knuckles, and your fingers were starting to feel… distant.

You sighed. “This is going to suck.” And then you peeled back the old gauze fully.

You dipped your fingers into the salve. It clung like wet clay, thick and tacky. It didn’t drip. It didn’t slide. It stuck. You hovered it over the wound. “One,” you whispered. “Two…”

Three. You pressed the mixture onto the gash.

The pain hit instantly—white-hot, blinding. Like you'd plunged your hand into boiling oil. Like fire crawling beneath your skin, chewing its way into your veins. You gasped—no, choked—a sound that tore from your throat more animal than human.

Your whole body recoiled. Muscles locked. Your vision blurred. It burned. It burned.

You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think—every nerve in your hand lit up like a struck match. Your legs kicked out, your back slammed against the inner wall of the Samson, and still—you didn’t stop. You pressed harder. Made sure the salve filled every crevice, coated every raw edge, soaked into the heat of the infection.

Your vision swam. A high-pitched ringing screamed in your ears. Your lips pulled back in a grimace, teeth clenched so tight your jaw ached. You thought you might black out. A sob clawed its way up your throat. But you held on.

Because you remembered something else—something faint and ridiculous and maddeningly clear. God, how had Neteyam endured this?

You remembered. That day—he’d stumbled into the tsahik’s tent after a hunt, shoulder torn open from a skirmish. You were there. Mo’at had passed you the bowl, told you to apply the sap, and you’d done it—hands steady, lips pressed tight.

He hadn’t even flinched. Just a soft hiss between his teeth, and those golden eyes locked on yours. Calm. Still.

And you?

You were practically dying. You let your head fall back with a laugh that sounded more like a sob. “Neteyam, you lying bastard,” you whispered. “You said it wasn’t that bad.”

You were practically dying, and he’d taken it like he didn’t even feel it. Tears finally spilled. You wanted to scream his name. To cry into the forest and ask for him to find you. To hold you.

But all you could do was pant, curled over your hand, sweat dripping down your temple as the pain finally, finally began to dull. When your head stopped spinning, you reached for the last of the gauze, wrapping it with trembling fingers. The pressure made the burn worse, but you didn’t stop. You needed to seal it in. Let the herbs do their work. Give Eywa time to decide if she was going to let you live.

When the last strip was tied, you sagged against the wall, eyes fluttering shut. You didn’t want to move. You didn’t want to eat. But you had to.

Slowly, numbly, you reached for the wrap of fruit and root and the few unfortunate teylu you’d gathered earlier. The root was bitter and hard, even raw, and the fruit was warm from your pack. You chewed it anyway, swallowing like it was ash. The teylu went down with a shudder.

Food was fuel. You needed it. You ate until your stomach stopped aching, then pushed the rest to the side and curled in on yourself again. Your bandaged hand pulsed like a drumbeat. But your body… your body was warm now, alive with pain and healing.

And your heart? Your heart was still fighting.

The morning came with a hush.

Birdsong drifted through the broken cracks in the hull of the Samson, gentle and tentative, as if the forest were testing the edges of peace after too many days of rain and fear. You stirred slowly, the ache in your limbs settling into a dull throb, not gone—but bearable.

Your hand was the first thing you checked.

You peeled away the bandage carefully, your teeth worrying at your lower lip as the gauze came free, sticking slightly at the edges where sap had dried and crusted. The moment the air touched your skin, you braced for the same white-hot agony from the day before—but it didn’t come.

It still hurt, yes. Still throbbed. Still made your jaw clench. But not like before. Your breath hitched as you stared at it. The angry swelling had gone down.

The edges of the wound were still raw, still red—but the yellow had faded. The skin wasn’t pulled as tight. There was no new pus. It was ugly, sure, and still far from healed, but it looked like something… fighting. Something surviving.

“Eywa,” you breathed softly, voice thick. “Thank you.”

You traced a fingertip gently around the wound—not touching it directly, just close enough to feel the heat. It was still bad. It might scar. But the salve had done something. Maybe even enough.

You sat back against the wall, exhausted even from that small act, and glanced down at your lap where your datapad sat. A last remnant of your world—the neat, blinking lines of home, of logic, of control.

You tapped the screen. Nothing. You held the button longer. Tried again. Shook it. Pressed your forehead to the cold glass. Still nothing. Dead.

"Of course," you murmured. You weren’t sure if you wanted to laugh or cry. Maybe both.

With no tech, no map, no beacons—there was only one thing left to do. Walk east. Toward the rising light. You were past the edge of the flux field by now—probably. But without the datapad, it didn’t matter. No more maps. No more readings.

From here on, it was instinct. And the sun.

You gathered your things slowly, methodically. You folded each leaf scrap, repacked your salve-making herbs, rolled your gauze tight, and double-checked the water satchels. You moved on muscle memory, your mind quiet.

You folded every leaf and root scrap carefully into pouches. You repacked the food. You tucked away every single paper shred that hadn’t been lost to damp or time.

You rubbed the back of your neck and looked toward the cockpit, your gaze falling on the still form in the pilot’s seat. The skeleton hadn’t moved, but something about him felt… quieter today. Like the grief in the air had finally settled into dust.

You stood slowly, knees stiff, and walked over to him. Your fingers brushed the edge of the cracked suit, then dropped to your side.

“I know what you were,” you said softly. “I know what you did. You were here twenty years ago. You were one of the ones who came to kill them.” Your voice didn’t shake. “I should hate you,” you said quietly. “You were probably part of it. The war. The killing. You were probably sent here to destroy the People.”

You swallowed hard. “But I don’t.” Because for a few days, he’d been your company. Your silence. Your shadow. Your anchor. “You stayed with me,” you whispered. “And maybe that doesn’t mean anything. But it mattered to me.”

You reached out and rested your fingers against the edge of his cracked flight suit, just for a moment. A touch. A goodbye. “Sleep, soldier. It’s over now.”

Then you turned away.

You paused, then—without really thinking—you lifted two fingers and tapped them gently to your brow in a Na’vi gesture of farewell.

Time to move.

The vines creaked as you made your descent, slower this time. Your arms ached, and your ankle still protested every time you shifted weight onto it—but you were steadier now. More sure.

The paper scraps were gone. Washed away by the last rain. But you remembered the way. You could trace it in your mind. You turned your eyes east, toward the light breaking through the trees.

It was time to go. You moved quickly, retracing your trail of shreds. Some were damp, curled from the storm—but still clinging to low branches, tucked under leaves. The forest had spared your breadcrumbs. Another gift.

By the time you reached the creek, the sun had risen higher, and the air was already warming with the promise of another humid day.

You dropped to your knees at the water’s edge and drank—slow, careful sips from your bottle. Then you splashed your face. Your arms. Your neck.

The chill made you shiver, but it felt good. Clean. Alive. You scrubbed the grime from your legs. The dried blood from your fingers. You unwrapped your wound and gently cleaned it again, watching as dirt and dried sap flowed downstream in small, cloudy trails.

Then you rewrapped it—carefully, methodically. Every motion precise. A ritual now. A promise to keep going. You filled both bottles to the brim, sealed them tight, and sat back for a moment, watching the water swirl around your boots.

You were still in pain. Still exhausted. Still scared. But the worst had passed. And you were still you.

The girl who studied the roots beneath her feet. Who learned the ways of the tsahik not just to understand—but to belong. The one who loved Neteyam so fiercely that even distance, even danger, even death couldn’t shake it.

You were never going to be Na’vi. But maybe, just maybe, you were something else. Something Eywa had found use for anyway. You stood up, adjusted your satchel, and looked to the east—where the sun was rising higher, stronger. Home was that way.

And so were they.

Neteyam.

The forest opened before you like a dream half-remembered—humid and alive, breathing with every creak of the trees and call of distant birds. You moved slowly, carefully, weaving your way through twisted vines and uneven roots, the sun at your back guiding your steps east. The weight of your satchel pressed steady against your shoulder, and your makeshift walking stick—just a long, solid branch you’d trimmed into a crude spear—helped bear your limping weight as you pushed forward.

You didn’t plan on using it for hunting. Not yet, anyway. But it gave you balance. Something to lean on. Something to hold.

The forest thickened and thinned in turns—tangles of brush opening into sudden clearings, old trails overgrown but still passable. You’d stopped thinking about the pain hours ago; it had become part of you, like the steady beat of your heart or the weight of Neteyam’s bracelet on your wrist. It throbbed in time with your breath, a reminder—but not a limit.

Then, just past a bend in the slope, the ground shivered. It wasn’t an earthquake. It was… heavier. Slower. Rhythmic. You froze. Then heard it.

The steady thoom-thoom-thoom of enormous feet moving through soft earth. The low rumble of breath. The crunch of ferns.

You stepped carefully through the next line of trees, brushed aside a wall of fronds, and found yourself on the edge of a clearing. And there they were.

Titanothere.

A whole herd of them. You sucked in a sharp breath and crouched low, ducking behind the nearest root for cover, heart pounding.

They were massive—even larger than you remembered from the RDA data archives. At least twice the size of Earth’s elephants, their thick, barrel-like bodies covered in patterned armor-plates of grey and olive green. They moved slowly, methodically, great snouts sweeping through tall grasses like lazy vacuum hoses.

You counted five… no, six. Two juveniles nestled in between the adults, their movements more playful, less cautious. One of them sneezed. You stared, wide-eyed. They were beautiful. And terrifying.

Your training rushed back like instinct—these creatures were generally peaceful. Herbivores. But they were also easily startled. If they felt threatened or confused, even the most docile of them could become a stampede of thunder and bone.

And right now, you were just a tiny little dot at the edge of their world. One of the adults turned its massive head toward you. Its nostrils flared once. And then it looked at you. Not aggressively. Just… curious. Like it was trying to figure out what you were.

You held still. So still. Even your breath froze in your lungs. Your heart beat in your throat. “Just passing through,” you whispered under your breath, barely moving your lips. “I promise.”

The titanothere blinked slowly, tilted its enormous head slightly, and—miraculously—returned to grazing. You let out the breath you’d been holding in one slow, silent exhale.

The rest of the herd ignored you entirely. To them, you were no threat. No predator. Just another warm-blooded thing in the underbrush. You pressed your back tighter to the tree and slowly began to inch away, one soft step at a time. Every movement deliberate. Every breath measured.

Once you were a safe distance into the trees again, you allowed yourself to slump slightly against your walking spear, your knees weak. “Okay,” you muttered with a faint breathless laugh. “So that happened.”

You took a few minutes to calm your nerves, then pressed on. The jungle grew denser, thicker with vines and heavy leaves. In some places, you had to cut your way through, your sharpened spear now doubling as a machete. You hacked and pushed and shoved your way through the underbrush, ducking low-hanging branches, hopping shallow roots, wincing with every step on your sore foot.

Your hands shook from exhaustion. Sweat clung to your spine. But you kept going. Because the light was starting to fade. The first hints of dusk began to stretch across the canopy. The warm gold had shifted to a softer, deeper amber—casting long shadows over the jungle floor.

You knew what that meant. Eclipse would come soon.

One of the several moons would rise, and the forest would change. Glow. Pulse with life. But also become dangerous. Nocturnal predators. Bioluminescent ambush-hunters. Things that saw better than you, moved quieter than you, and didn’t care that you were just trying to survive.

You needed shelter. Now. You picked up your pace, ignoring the pain as your body protested.

The forest whispered around you—twilight setting in, the sounds of daybirds fading into the hum of nocturnal life—but your eyes were elsewhere. Not on the path. Not on shelter. They kept wandering, catching every bright glint of color, every strange curl of petal, every vine that twisted like it had a secret.

You knew better. You really did. You should’ve been scanning for somewhere to sleep, a safe place to curl up and hide until the moons had passed and the predators moved on.

But the xenobotanist in you couldn’t help it.

Even now, even exhausted and hurting and half-starved, your mind cataloged the flora around you like a living archive. There—a bloom of deep orange with cyan-tipped filaments: kawma’tel. Pollinated only by nocturnal drummers. You had notes on it, but seeing it open was rare.

And there—just under a ridge of glowing moss—lor’aksil spores, drifting like powdered starlight in the dimming air. You stopped, just for a second, and watched the way they shimmered in the low light, heart fluttering with quiet awe.

It was stupid. You knew that.

You’d already gathered more samples than you could reasonably carry. Roots, moss, petals—all from the day you got separated, before the crash, before the infection. The ones you’d refused to leave behind, even when you had to crawl. And now your satchel was already too heavy, your shoulders aching from its pull.

You didn’t need more. Still, you found yourself pausing every few steps to admire something. Just look. That’s all. You whispered names to yourself like old songs, brushing your fingers across bark you’d only seen in scans, leaves you’d only studied under microscopes.

This forest—it never stopped surprising you. And then you saw it.

High above, nestled on the branch of an ancient tangle-tree, swaying lazily in the humid breeze, hung a cluster of heavy golden fruit—round and glistening, with thick skin and a crown of curling pink stems.

Tumpasuk.

Your heart skipped. You stopped in your tracks, blinking up at it. You knew that fruit. Of course you did. It was Neteyam’s favorite.

He used to bring it back to the village like it was treasure, biting into it with juice dripping down his chin, grinning wide, always trying to get you to take a bite even when you complained about the sticky texture. Sweet as syrup, he’d say. Better than Earth fruit. You remembered how he once dropped one into your hands with a proud, smug “I picked this one for you,” and you’d rolled your eyes even as your cheeks went warm.

He always climbed for them. Always.

You could still picture it clearly: one Na’vi scaling the towering trunk with effortless grace, cutting the fruit free with a curved knife, while another stood waiting below with a net woven from dried vines to catch it before it hit the ground.

It was a team effort. A dance. And right now, you were very much alone. Your wounded hand ached as if to remind you exactly how alone.

You looked up at the fruit again. It swayed gently, back and forth, golden and perfect against the deepening sky. You didn’t need it. It wasn’t worth the risk.

And yet… you stood there, staring for a long moment. Something in your chest tugged. A sharp, quiet ache. God, you missed him.

You missed the way he’d laugh when he ate it, missed the soft click of his tongue against his teeth when he was trying to impress you with knowledge he didn’t think you already had. You missed the warmth in his eyes when he leaned close, voice low, telling you which trees held the best ones.

You missed him in the shape of the damn fruit. But you weren’t stupid. You couldn’t climb like a Na’vi. You couldn’t catch the fruit if you somehow did knock it loose. One misstep, one fall from that height, and you’d break something worse than your hand.

No.

You couldn’t do it. Even if it hurt to leave it behind. Even if it felt like walking away from a memory. So you exhaled slowly and let the moment pass. Let it drift like the fruit’s scent on the breeze—sweet and faint and impossible to reach.

The eclipse was near total now—sunlight dwindling to a dusky blue glow as the great moon slid between the sky and the sun. Shadows stretched long and strange across the jungle floor, stretching over the roots and ferns like reaching hands. The forest itself seemed to hold its breath.

You should’ve stopped earlier. Found shelter before the world turned to bioluminescent velvet and every predator crawled out from the dark to roam.

But you’d lingered—on flowers, on memory, on that stupid fruit. And now you were paying for it. The underbrush grew thicker the farther you went, the path twisting into a knot of vines and uneven ground. Your walking spear pressed into the soil with every step, helping you limp forward.

And then—crack. The earth gave beneath you. Not with a warning, not with time to brace. Just a sudden, snapping collapse as the root system under your foot gave way.

You gasped—but the sound never finished. You dropped like a stone. The world spun—leaves, sky, branches blurring—then vanished in black.

You hit the ground hard, the impact knocking the wind from your lungs. You didn’t even scream. There was no time to scream. The darkness swallowed you whole.

And then… warmth.

Light.

A couch under your back. A soft, familiar weight across your legs—a blanket you hadn’t seen in years.

You blinked.

The ceiling above you wasn’t rusted metal or tangled vine—it was white plaster. Painted sky blue. A string of old LED stars flickered above, half-burned out. The faint smell of laundry detergent and warm toast drifted through the air.

You knew this place. You were home.

On Earth.

You sat up slowly, heart pounding, confusion swirling like fog. You looked down at your clothes. Not the field gear. Not the woven band with the blue beads. Just an oversized T-shirt, your old high school logo peeling on the front.

“Sweetheart?”

You turned your head toward the voice and nearly forgot how to breathe. Your mother stood in the doorway. Smiling. Alive.

Her eyes were soft, her sweater sleeves pushed up like she’d just finished washing dishes. Behind her, the kitchen light glowed. And there—next to her, arms crossed and already smirking—your father.

And your little brother. He looked just like the photo in your satchel. The one you’d kept on Pandora, folded and re-folded so many times the edges had started to fray.

“I told you she was still napping,” your dad chuckled. “You were always the queen of Sunday snoozes.”

“I—” Your voice cracked. “What…”

“You’re home,” your mom said gently, stepping closer. She sat beside you on the couch, brushing a bit of hair from your face. “You must’ve been having some dream. You were talking in your sleep again.”

“But—” You swallowed hard, shaking your head. “No, I… I’m not—this can’t—”

Your brother dropped onto the armrest next to you, leaning over. “Don’t tell me you were dreaming about those glowing forests again.”

Your breath caught. “I was on Pandora,” you said slowly, blinking at them all.

“Aw, sweetheart,” your dad cut in, grinning. “You’ve been watching too many holovids again.”

“Charles,” your mom scolded lightly, but she was smiling too. “Let her be.”

“No, really,” he laughed, nudging her. “She’s so obsessed with that moon, it’s bleeding into her dreams now. You better hope RDA takes you when you graduate—otherwise you’re gonna be one very heartbroken little science nerd.”

“I did go,” you said again, quieter now. “I studied for years. I was in cryo. I’ve been there. I know I’ve been there.”

Your mom just gave you that look—warm and endlessly patient. “You’ve got a vivid imagination, sweetheart. Always have. I love that about you.”

“But it wasn’t a dream,” you insisted.

But behind them, on the holoTV mounted to the wall, the familiar RDA news stream began. A logo flashed—crisp white on a field of sterile blue. Earth-Forward Coalition: Pandora Initiatives.

Video played on loop. Footage of Avatar units. Researchers. A new generation of Na’vi-human relations. Drones flying above thick jungles. RDA-built compounds rebuilt after the war. A voiceover: “…as human efforts return to Pandora following fifteen years of conflict…”

You stared. Because it was all there. The place you swore you’d been.

The Na’vi.

The labs.

“You’ve always had an active imagination,” your father added, chuckling. “You keep watching those Na’vi documentaries and reading RDA manuals like they’re gospel. I swear, if you studied medicine half as much as you studied glowing alien plants…”

“Dad—” you started, but your voice cracked.

He laughed. “What? I’m just saying. You’d make a damn good doctor. And less likely to have dreams about blue space elves.”

“She can study whatever she wants,” your mother cut in gently. “If she wants to dream about Pandora, let her. She’s still in high school. She has time.”

You froze.

High school?

No.

You weren’t in high school.

You’d left Earth ten years ago. Six of them in cryo. Four in the fields. You remembered the launch. The endless sleeping. The first sunrise on Pandora. The first time you touched the soil and felt the hum of Eywa under your boots.

“I’m not in high school,” you whispered. “I left. I left a long time ago…”

You looked at your hands.

No bandages.

No bruises.

No scars.

Your fingers were clean. Soft. Like you’d never held a blade. Never dug through jungle soil. Never clung to the edge of survival by the skin of your teeth. Maybe none of it was real.

Maybe… you were just a girl with a dream too vivid for her own good.

You swallowed hard, staring blankly at the screen, watching as footage of a Direhorse galloped across the wetlands. You could hear your mother’s voice, soft and humming. Your father’s chuckle. The TV. The rain.

But your mind kept returning to one thing:

What if he was never real?

What if there was no Neteyam?

No Pandora?

What if you’d never left home?

And everything you remembered—everything you loved—was just… a dream?

Just you, on a couch, with your parents still alive, the world still broken and gray and full of news reports about a distant moon you’d never touched.

Just a fantasy.

A story.

A girl with her head in the stars.

Part 23: To break

[mortimerc]

𝔄 𝔩𝔬𝔫𝔤𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔴𝔞𝔯𝔪𝔱𝔥 𝔬𝔣 𝔞 𝔠𝔬𝔩𝔡 𝔟𝔩𝔬𝔬𝔡𝔢𝔡 𝔪𝔞𝔫.

𝔉𝔦𝔫𝔞𝔩 ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯

Male - GN Reader x Sebastian Solace

TW : blo0d, t0rture, g0re, obsessive behaviour,

Warning: this is a smut, if you are uncomfortable with it, please don’t read nor interact with the said post. Thank you.

(Readers gender is unspecified but is with specific male organs.)

Note: I am also inexperienced with writing smut so bear with me

* ‧̍ ˙· 𓆝.° ｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞 ·˙‧̍ * 𓆝.° ｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞 ·˙‧̍

It was all perfect again.

For the first time in years, you are back with your 𝔡𝔞𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔫𝔤. Your Sebastian. It’s a moment you both were waiting for. To be together again, never separated from each other once more.

You both were roaming the halls of the abandoned building, the Hadal Blacksite, scavenging for items to sell to prisoners for data and DNA. You both landed on an office building, chairs scattered across the room, indicating the sheer terror of the workers who were trying so desperately to escape while the lockdown was called.

“Hey look what I’ve found” Sebastian broke the silence and showed you a gummy light he had found.

“How many do you even charge people for that? Isn’t it a shit item anyways?” You questioned

“People will buy anything from me, even a wall dweller chuck. Heh.. stupid bitches.”

As you both were scavenging, Sebastian suddenly had the random existential crisis while lost in thoughts and thought of what they will do when the prisoners retrieve the crystal.

“Hey [Name],, I’ve been thinking, what if we would’ve escaped from this hellhole. I mean it’s not even living anymore. It’s just surviving.” Sebastian questions

“You know we can’t, I mean look at us, we look the we’re from hell itself. Once we step out of here, we’ll be gunned down and plus, we’re both declared dead to the people.” You hit him the hard reality.

“I know- but.-“ you suddenly hug Sebastian, him shoving his face in your chest, and you trying to stop him from continuing on with his conversation.

“I know,, i know you want to be out of here, seeing your family again. But it’s simply not possible.”

You felt warm tears staining your clothes, Sebastian lifts his head. It’s the first time you’ve seen Sebastian cry. It’s heartbreaking to see the man you always seen trying to act tough for your own sake. It angers you how you weren’t fast enough to save him from all the pain from the experiments. Nothing about this place is comforting.

You lift Sebastian’s face, making him look at you with a tear stained face. “I’m tired [Name]…”

“Im sorry,,”

As you both looked into each other’s eyes, you both soon closed the gap. As time went on, the kiss was getting heated and soon Sebastian finds himself laying on one of the office tables, papers thrown of it.

You both found yourself half naked and stripped of your clothes, your hands trailed down to a part of Sebastian’s tail and soon came across his urogenital opening and slowly rubbing your fingers against it. (ᴵ ᵃᵐ ˢᵒ ˢᵒʳʳʸ)

Sebastian mewls in reaction of the action, and starts to pant.

“F-fuck-“

You forcefully grabbed his chin

“You with your filthy mouth.” You said, kissing him

You starts to insert you finger in his hole, adding more digits in the meantime.

“Go-god! Fuck!”

Sebastian lets himself to indulge in the pleasure that he is receiving, no more thinking of the past thoughts.

You put your other hand in front of Sebastian’s mouth and said “spit on it.” And he complies. You start to lube yourself.

You lined up to his hole and slowly started to push in.

“A-ah f-fuc-k! I’ve n-never felt t-this before!”

“Good to be your first”

You thrust yourself in and out of Sebastian, feeling closer to your high. You kiss Sebastian as you both finish together

“Fuck,, that was.. something.” You said while panting

Sebastian who was also panting “yeah,, no shit,,”

You soon brought him to his shop, cleaned him up and dressed him in freshly washed clothes, and you both cuddled into the night until you both fall asleep., tails curling around each other’s body.

If you need to spend your whole life here just to be with him then so be it.

𝒴𝑜𝓊 𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓃 𝓀𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝒶𝑔𝒶𝒾𝓃 𝒿𝓊𝓈𝓉 𝓉𝑜 𝓀𝑒𝑒𝓅 𝒽𝒾𝓂 𝓈𝒶𝒻𝑒.

꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦

The end. (Thank fucking god)

Note:

Had to keep it short because I can feel myself cringing and fuckin dying inside. Imma do an exorcism real quick-

[sketchp-aiges]

PRESSURE OC MEGA POST

TW: Slight body horror

Heya!! I wanted to do a big post dump of my Pressure OC! I've drawn (She/her) a bunch but only really shared her with my friends and since my Pressure are gets received fairly well on Tumblr I thought I'd post

-DESIGN-

Firstly here are some references for her. Her name is Leah Kaiwi (Z-471) and she was also experimented on in the program to alter humans to grow gills. Her experiments were specifically to help humans survive in intense-pressure climates. I designed her in mind to have been injected with Peacock Mantis Shrimp, Snail Fish, Spider Crab, and Dinoflagellates DNA. In her mutation Leah lost her arms, leading her to rely on the use of her very powerful Mantis Shrimp arms to hunt for food and sate her instincts.

-

She is written to have fully mutated after the events of the containment breach and she was assigned by Urbanshade to retrieve the crystal from the inside during the lockdown. Throughout her mission she eventually felt the full side effects of the experiments and transformed into her monster form, undergoing irreversible amounts of brain damage, and gaining monstrous instincts before abandoning her original task. This transformation led Urbanshade to deem Leah as useless to the mission, marking her for death.

-

I like to think that game mechanics-wise, Z-471 (or Mantis), acts similar to a node entity with a unique ability like Pandemonium. Expendables can hide in lockers to avoid her but she would use her powerful dactyls to damage the locker. Players can escape from the locker but it would be deemed as unusable for future usage.

AFFILIATIONS

I'm guilty of having a soft spot for Sebastian but this is NOT a self ship! Leah's relationship with Sebastian is a begrudgingly accepted mutual alliance and slight friendship. She's more of an idiot dog than a friend to Sebastian. Leah isn't very smart due to the disfiguring of her body from Urbanshade's experimentations so her job is to wander the Blacksite and help Sebastian find items to trade to expendables for data.

-

Sebastian promised to her that she and pAInter will be able to escape with him if they help but he isn't even 100% sure if it'll be possible for them to join in the long run. Sebastian views Leah as extremely stupid and gullible which helps him convince her to aid in his escape. He often times makes fun of her and insults her but sometimes he is reminded of how strong Leah is so Sebastian makes sure not to be TOO mean. Above is some interaction doodles that I have done between the two of them and an unfinished GIF of Sebastian realizing that he shouldn't mess with Leah too much.

-

Various doodles of Leah having 2 brain cells featuring my friend @lynn-katt 's Squiddle OC

-

Illustration

An illustration I did featuring Leah that I snuck in for a class assignment!

-

Okay that's all BYE! ❤️

[itsappleexpert]

Expert Data Recovery for Your Devices

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[typewritingyip]

Arcturus Three

Part One - Introductions

———

In 1975, nine years before the Quintesson invasion, it was the waning years of the space race between the United States and the USSR. Not long after the end of the Vietnam war came the Apollo-Soyuz Test Project, where both major space programs attempted to dock together for the first time. After it’s success came further joint missions and projects to be had in what was dubbed space stations. 

It wouldn’t be until after the end of the Cold War and war against the Quintisons had started that the then American Vice-President and Russian Prime Ministers would make plans for a new space station after the previous failed attempts, this would come to be known as the International Space Station. 

The ISS sits in a low Earth orbit, intending to be a laboratory, observatory and factory along with roles that were added in 2010. 

It’s initial intentions would be adjusted to fill the need of the different mech based organizations on Earth attempting to retrieve data from the alien invaders, to decipher where they were coming from or at the very least what they are. These attempts have so far been limited in success. 

Six mecha pilots have attempted to follow the stream of data received by the ISS from the unknown invaders to potentially end this decades long conflict. All six pilots have lost contact with Earth. Another ten pilots are scheduled to follow the same data in the next five years. 

Pilot(s): 3141, 6986, 17741 for Arcturus Three, plus medical officer RH.

Pilot(s): 12437 for Arcturus Four, solo mission.

Pilot(s): 555, 1060, 4341, 17740, and 3113 in suit eleven for Arturus Five, the last projected mission.

—

Two Years Post Arcturus One - One Year Post Arcturus Two

The pilots were sitting backstage, leaning around a small table talking quietly, “I mean, there has to be something they aren’t telling us.” Sitting back, the pilot lightly scratches at his implants, it was a habit most pilots who’d nearly faced rejection picked up after a while, “I mean no offense, but I thought we were all told that our seniority would be the judge of these missions.” Nodding some, another one of the pilots sighs, “We were initially told that, yes, but certain things must be accounted for.” The other pilot threw his hands up lightly.

They all were staring at each other, they couldn’t help it, “Alright, I’m not the only one who thinks it’s weird that this mission has me, one of the designers of our suits, the best female pilot on the planet, and supposedly a medical officer.” He kicked his feet up on the table, sending the tablets and papers on it flying.

He winced, “Uh, sorry, but seriously. This can’t be a normal mission, not like Arcturus one or two. I still don’t think we know all the details for those either.” Finally, one of the other pilots leaned forward, “No one is making you do this Roddy.” The other pilot grins before shrugging slightly, “Think of this as an adventure.” Then another pilot then spoke up as well, “A mission where it is likely you’ll be able to catch fire as often as you desire.” He chuckled at his own joke.

“Now that sounds like fun.” ‘Roddy’ had a killer smile and was unafraid to display it. 

—

The media room was packed with reporters, as it always was for any mecha announcement but another packed room because it was combined with a NASA announcement. As per-usual, Swindle was wearing his overly charming smile while some government schmuck was talking the ears off the reporters. 

It was almost easy to zone out, to remember the past and how the fight felt in those earlier years that these government geeks loved to reminisce on. Like the one next to him was currently doing, hemming and hawing over details that 99.9% of people didn’t care about. 

Sighing deeply, Swindle shifts forward in his seat, “I am sorry to interrupt you Rick, but uh, we do in fact have a time frame to fit into, so if we could wrap up the science and make way for the pilots that would be great.” The NASA expert, Richard something, quickly shut up.

Scratching lightly at his jaw, Swindle smiles his award winning smile and stands, adjusting the microphone, “Well, it’s good to see all your familiar faces again. Welcome back to the Kennedy Space Center, we’ve got some exciting news for today.” Several hands were already in the air, but he elected to ignore them, “We have the absolute pleasure of introducing the crew of Arcturus Three and their spacecraft the Iliad, which yes, I know that was supposed to come before the Odyssey but we didn’t think we’d go with the mythology aspect till after the first shuttle was painted.” A few reporters chuckle and others keep their hands up.

It took a moment for him to take a breath and gesture to one of the reporters with their hand up, “You,” she smiles and stands, “Lillian Carmichael, The Wall Street Journal, are you going to talk about the loss of pilot 2672?” Nodding slowly, Swindle takes a breath, “His call sign was Cliffjumper, that was his name, not his number Lillian. They are people who are giving their lives for our planet, there is no greater sacrifice. So, no, we aren’t going to talk about Cliff cause his family will be watching this broadcast and it’s hard enough to miss him then to hear us talk about his sacrifice as if it meant nothing.” Clearing his throat a bit, he nods.

“Now, we’re here today to introduce the crew of Arcturus Three and their spacecraft.” He smiles and steps to the side, a projection lighting up behind him, “Meet the Iliad, the newest version of NASA’s space shuttle.” It looked nothing like the space shuttle and looked much more like something that would attach to the international space station, “Richard, you know more details on this.” Sitting back down, Swindle adjusted his hat. 

This state of the art spacecraft was designed specifically for the transportation of mech suits and the study of the foreign enemy, from space of course. Swindle would not let another good pilot die cause they sent them up there with little to nothing. 

The Iliad would be sent up initially in pieces, which would come together to reform the outer structure of the ship. Those pieces would remain in orbit where the rocket would be able to connect it and the suits necessary for the mission, while propelling the entire structure out into space. The pilots wouldn’t go up with the pieces, just their suits and the initial shuttle, it would give them more maneuverability in the long run and something for Mecha to maintain contact with when all the pilots kicked the bucket, again. 

It was a horrible thought, Swindle knew this but what other choice did any of them have at this point? These things were getting bigger and badder, and in the two years since Arcturus One the number had gone up by another thousand pilots. Most of them died in compatibility testing in other countries, but that didn’t take away from the fact that there were another thousand dead pilots and nearly another million civilians. 

The man from NASA lightly cleared his throat,  “Sir?” “Hmm?” Glancing back up, Swindle smiles, “Oh, my turn again? Great.” He stands back up, smiling brightly and adjusting his suit jacket.

”Ladies and gentlemen, now I have the absolute pleasure of introducing you to our pilots for Arcturus Three!” The door to the side of the stage opens and he extends an arm, grinning as each pilot comes out to their name. “Pilot 3141, callsign Perceptor. Pilot 6986, callsign Hot Rod. Pilot 17741, callsign Arcee. Along with their medical officer, code name Ratchet.” The four people come up to the stage and take their seats, dressed in NASA gear. 

—

Swindle was talking on and on, about the differences for this mission and how nothing like Arcturus Two would happen to this group and blah blah blah. 

Currently, Jesse was twirling a pen through his fingers, running his tongue along his teeth and very clearly bored. A few reports snapped pictures, which he was almost smiling for without even trying. His look was very reminiscent of IceMan from Top Gun in that moment, bored and full of potential.

The female pilot to his right was quick to snatch the pen from his hands, whispering harshly, “Would you stop that? This is a press conference.” Cecilia put the pen back on the table, just out of his reach with a scowl, “We’re meant to look professional.” Jesse tried not to smirk, whispering back, “Yeah, I don’t think you reprimanding me is helping that case much Arcee.” She went to open her mouth again before just scowled and shifted her attention back to the speaker from NASA.

Now there was a pilot who knew what she was doing, Arcee had come to the program more recently than most. At least more than those still alive. She had made waves protecting Washington DC and the Chesapeake area in the last four years, for a lot of people it was like she had come out of nowhere. 

Those in the program had known her and her mentor for longer, though she was young, too young to get the implants up until a few years ago. Now, she was leading in this year's kill count, even as others were falling and the survival rate of pilots was dropping. Originally, she wasn’t scheduled for an Arcturus Mission till the fifth one, but certain securities must be taken.

Afterall, you needed someone who knew how to fly that was mentally stable enough to do it. 

Preceptor was the only other pilot on the stage and he was taking notes of everything that the engineer from NASA was saying, biting the end of the pen every time the speaker took a breath. He’d worked on this project from both sides and was keeping track of what was being said, compared to what was actually happening. The man from NASA wasn’t entirely accurate. 

It still dragged on before questions were finally allowed to be asked, at which point Swindle stood, “Let’s stick to the guidelines people, you know what you can ask the pilots and what you can’t. Keep it PG if you can.” Most of the reporters laughed, not realizing the last bit was for the pilots on the stage. 

Several hands went in the air and questions were being shouted in every direction, “Hot Rod, why did you sign up for Arcturus?” “Preceptor, Sir, why have you decided to become a full time pilot?” “Arcee, what do you think the commander will think of this change of schedule?” “Hot Rod, are you sad your other group mate Springer is not on the register for these missions?” “Arcee, are you prepared to fly such an experimental spacecraft?” “Preceptor, why do you think you’re going on this specific mission?” And they went on. 

—

The workshop was dark except for an area in the corner, where an older man was working by the light of a desk lamp, a large wrench was leaned against his chair and his hair was tinted with grey.

Swindle closes the door with a bang, hands in his pockets as he starts over, “You were missed at the press conference.” The older man grunted in response, rolling his chair back while lifting the obscenely large wrench, moving over to another workbench and turning on a small lamp there. 

It left a soft glow on his scowling face, sighing, he looked up, “What do you want, Swindle?” Smiling, Swindle heads over slowly. The whole space was generally kept tidy but lately it looked like a bull had been let loose in the china shop, “Just to talk about Arcturus Three.” Ratchet groaned.

”I don’t know why you keep pestering me about the project, and honestly I don’t appreciate you interrupting my work.” Swindle lightly kicked something out his way, humming, “Because you’re a part of the crew for this mission Ratchet. You know that.” Ratchet set the wrench on the table, likely so he didn’t swing it at Swindle’s head. 

Moving over, Swindle leans against the edge of the desk, “You know why you have to go Doc.” Ratchet scowls and glares at Swindle, “Shouldn’t it have been my choice?” Smiling sadly, Swindle shrugs a bit, “It would have been, had you not taken that thing into your little workshop here.” There was an angry rev from the dark corner of the shop, Swindle loosely waves his hand, “Oh shut up you overgrown pile of bolts. Look, the only safe place for that thing—““His name is Deadlock.” Standing, Ratchet jabbed a finger at his chest. 

With a nod, Swindle removes his hand and scratches at his old implants, they’d been capped years ago but still would itch with scaring, “The only safe place for him is as far from Shockwave as he can be, we both know this.” Slowly, he lowers himself onto a nearby stool.

Ratchet stared and shook his head, “He’s been plenty safe here.” Swindles laughs, “Has been and will be are two entirely different statements and you down well know it. If Shockwave gets so much as a whiff of him, he’ll do worse than dissect him, he’ll dissect you for protecting him. And we both know I can’t stop him.” He adjusts his blazer slightly, shaking his head.

Swindle had tried to fire the psychopath more than once, on a number of grounds, even his own torture but the congressman was far to popular and the government footed to much of the bill. His constituents footed most of the bill. Sure, not having to worry about putting his own money into the company made him a bit more at ease but that didn’t take away whatever the hell Shockwave was. 

“Shockwave wants to move into a bigger lab space and we’ve bought the plot next door, there is no way your friend there would be safe and I think it’s best if we stuck with human technology torturing us all. Not whatever the hell he is.” There was another angry rev, though it sounded much more like a growl. Swindle nodded slightly and put his hat back on, “Plus, Roddy is going on this mission. It’s starting to get around that you and him have grown close because of experimental tech.” Ratchet’s eyes widened and he glanced towards Deadlock, hidden in alt mode in the dark. 

Taking a breath, Ratchet looks back, “So, you’re launching me into space to face certain doom then?” Swindle shakes his head, “I’m sending you after who we’ve lost.” With a scoff, Ratchet stands and heads back to his other work space, “I can’t believe this.” Swindle followed, “Neither of you are safe if you stay.” The growling started back up, accompanied by a voice, “I can keep us safe.” Swindle glared at the car, “Like hell you can! Not against a man who has been working on the mecha program longer than most pilots have been alive!” He turns back to Ratchet. 

A loud bang drew Swindle’s eyes back to Ratchet, who had slammed his project against the table, “We can handle that threat.” Swindle laughed, pulling at his hair peeking out from under his hat, “You can’t. This is the man that convinced Blurr back into a suit, the reason why Vortex is the way he is, and a monster unafraid to do whatever it takes to reach his fucking monsterous goals!” He jabs a finger into Ratchet’s chest, “He wants all of us dead Ratchet! He doesn’t even see it that way, but he is willing to kill every living thing to end this war!” He grabs Ratchet’s shoulders and starts shaking him.

The sound of grinding metal and shifting gears was loud, but Swindle didn’t let go of Ratchet, “He will kill you and that thing that is your friend if you don’t go! And I won’t let him kill the one person who tried to save us!” Trying to catch his breath, Swindle stared at Ratchet’s wide eyes, “Rusty, I can’t let him kill you. I owe you my life and I will fulfill my debts.” Ratchet rolled his eyes slightly before resting a hand on Swindle’s shoulder, “Alright, alright.” He sighed slowly, letting go of Ratchet and taking a step back, adjusting his blazer.

Turning, he could have shit his pants as something almost as big as a modern mech glared down at him.

Ratchet’s hand came down and rested on Swindle’s shoulder, “Relax kid, he’s just trying to protect us in his typical asshole kinda way.” The thing growled again, “Like I said, in his asshole kinda way. Breathe and go back to recharge.” It grumbled before turning back into a, well, it looked like an EMT chase vehicle. 

Nodding slowly, Swindle sighed, “We both know Shockwave would want his hands on that kind of—“”You say technology and he will shoot you.” Nodding again, Swindle adjusted his hat before looking back to Ratchet, “You fly in a year’s time. I can get him up on part of the Iliad as soon as next month, but it does need to happen.” Ratchet sighed and nodded, “We’ll talk about it later.” Swindle nodded before starting back towards the door, touching his implants briefly, “I meant it Ratchet, I owe you a debt and this is how it’s going to be paid.” Then he left. 

—

It was late and the warehouse was empty except for a few pilots and their mechs being fitted with new gear, but that would start in the morning. At the moment, Hot Rod, Arcee, and Preceptor were sitting around a small table eating take out. 

Jesse was once again twirling around what he was holding, though this time it was a chopstick, “I want to know why they have sent five people on this mission and with one missing our mission isn’t potential recovery.” Cecilia sighs before shaking her head, “Cliff is gone Roddy and I don’t think anything is going to bring him back.” Percy hummed, setting down his food for a moment. 

It took a moment for him to figure out how to phrase what he was going to say kindly, “Cliffjumper was a strong pilot but not one built for solo missions, I think sending him on Arcturus Two was their easiest way of getting rid of the problem child.” Jesse snorted and Cecilia hit his shoulder, he deserved that.

”I’m being serious Percy, Cliff is either dead or wishing he was, and I don’t wish that on anyone.” They fell quiet for a moment, Percy picking his food back up and Roddy stabbing his chopsticks into the sushi on the table.

A door across the hanger from them banged open and a familiar face came strolling in, white coat a stark contrast to the dark space as always, Jesse looked up and grinned, “Ratchet, come on, we got your favorite.” He moved over slowly and grabbed one of the chairs, turning it before sitting in it with the back of it against his chest and grabbing his takeout container, “Thanks kid.” Percy smiled a bit, “It was Jesse’s idea for us to do this tonight.” Rusty hummed.

It had been two years to the day since the launch of Arcturus One, one year since Arcturus Two and a year from this day would be their own launch. 

Jesse popped a piece of sushi in his mouth and started talking, “So, why the four of us? I mean, I know Springer wasn’t found compatible for this specific mission but I know some of Breakdown’s brothers wanted to go. We all know Aid’ was supposed to be on this mission, but uh,” They all shifted a bit uncomfortably, “And Jazz’s brother wanted on but he got stuck with like, Arcturus Five, right?” Cecilia nodded, sighing. 

Clearing her throat, Cecilia sat forward, “We know why suit eleven isn’t going,” “It’s too heavy for the Iliad to carry it up.” Percy nodded slightly and Arcee rolled her eyes, “As for everyone else, I don’t think we’re going to know. I think we’re just going to be kept in the dark on that front.” Jesse rolled his eyes and Rusty nodded.

The older man sat forward, “I think dwelling on who could have been on this mission is the wrong move, we can see who is going to be on it and now we’ve got to figure out not only how to work together but how to understand each other.” Percy nodded and Cecilia shifted a bit in her seat.

Pilots were not team players typically, not since, well, regardless they weren’t team players anymore. 

“I still think it needs to be said and asked, why us?” Roddy gestured around with his chopstick, which he went back to twirling through his fingers. They all glanced at each other and honestly, none of them knew why this group was paired together.

Cecilia shifted again, “Well, I’m the only one who knows how to fly, so that’s a bit of a given. Ratchet is medical as well as he can work with Preceptor, the Iliad is an experimental spacecraft.” Percy nodded, “Very experimental.” She smiled a bit and looked back to Jesse, “So the only one in question is you Roddy.” He was quick to throw a potsticker at her, “Can it Arcee, who asked you?” Ratchet chuckled, “You did.” “Oh shut up.” He was pouting now. 

Rain started to hit the metal roof, leaving a soft ringing sound throughout the hanger space. Three suits against the wall with tool boxes around them and supplies across the way; new seals, paint, and upgraded tech were all called for. Soon, three of the four of them would have to go through the next steps for their suit upgrades with the upgrades to their integrated tech, even before the NASA training would even start. 

It was daunting and scary, but in the moment of the four of them sitting around a commandeered workbench covered in takeout, talking like tomorrow would be the same as any other day gave them all some bit of relief. 

They would take off three years to the day from Arcturus One.

One year, counting down to July 10th 2016. 

———

A/N

So here is the something different! Now, this series is going to be 5 parts, compared to Arcturus Two’s single part which was logs from MECHA databases.

To clarify, Jesse is Hot Rod, Cecilia is Arcee, Percy is well Percy, and Rusty is Ratchet. The old man of the group.

This also confirms the timeline! Which originally before I fucked up the way space time works, I wanted this series to take place in 2004. I messed up and the current point in Arcturus One is them in 2014. They took off in mid 2013.

We will go back to our regularly scheduled programming, in which I continue to just try and keep writing and not lose inspiration.

Tags!

@lunarlei68 @whirlywhirlygig @loop-hole-319 @pixillandjester @alek-the-witch @not-a-moose-in-disguise @goddessofwind8water @neurologicalglitch @dersereblogger @pixel-transformers @mrcrayonofdoom @wireplaces @twilightfreefaller @original-blog-name-2 @devilangel657 @robbin-u @childofprimus @miniartistme @starwold @tea-enthusiasm @valeexpris606 @celticdoggo @bird599 @agentsquirrelsgotrobots @aquaioart @dimencreasatlas @thatwandercat @artdagz @seisha974 @starscreamloverfr @halenhusky309 @leethepiper @cat-cassette @blue-wrens @sirassban @astridkolch @cosmique-oddity @garbageenthusiast @osqindaxend @xervias @azulabutterfly @fryseem @spring-mc @echo-circuit @aghostsnail @wooblewooble @ask-glory-haddock-and-others @nonsscarpheap @magichats @iminahole247 @omgflyingderpywhale @pour1tin @thetrexartist @naaaafam

As always, I want to thank @keferon for this amazing AU and just giving us generally free rein.

[dovesdreaming]

Chasing the calm

Summary: Boone and reader are complete opposites yet they compliment each other in every way

Request

Masterlist

Warnings: none

-

Boone was a force of nature. Not in the way that a tornado was but in the way he approached life. Every day was an adventure, every moment an opportunity for excitement, and every challenge a chance to prove that nothing could bring him down. His energy was infectious, his grin a permanent fixture on his face, and his voice carried through the storm chasing headquarters with a vibrancy that rivaled the wind itself. And then there was you. You were the calm in the eye of the storm. While Boone thrived on adrenaline, you found solace in the numbers, the data, the intricate patterns that made sense of the chaos. You could sit for hours, pouring over weather models, programming algorithms that predicted the unpredictable, all without a word. You needed the quiet, the solitude, the focus. Boone was a wildfire; you were the gentle, steady rain. It was a wonder to anyone who knew you both how the two of you had ended up together.

“Hey, babe! You gotta see this!” Boone’s voice boomed across the room as he burst through the door, clutching a tablet with the latest storm report. You didn’t look up. “Boone, I’m working” you replied, your tone measured, not unkind but firm. Your eyes remained fixed on your screen, numbers and graphs reflecting in your glasses. Boone bounded over anyway, dropping into the chair beside you with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever. He leaned in close, too close, his breath warm against your ear. “C’mon, just take a look! This supercell’s got the potential to be the biggest one of the season! We gotta get out there and see it in action!”. You sighed, finally turning to meet his sparkling eyes. “And by ‘we,’ you mean you want to drag me out of my perfectly quiet, controlled environment to chase another storm with you?”. He grinned, completely unbothered by your lack of enthusiasm. “Exactly! It’s gonna be awesome!”.

You stared at him for a moment, then shook your head with a small, affectionate smile. Boone was relentless, but it was part of what you loved about him. His energy, his passion. It was everything you weren’t, but maybe that was why it worked. He was the spark that kept you from getting too lost in your world of data. And you, in turn, were the anchor that kept him grounded when his excitement threatened to send him spiraling. “I’ll think about it” you said, knowing full well that Boone would be back to ask again in five minutes if you didn’t give him a definitive answer. He beamed, leaning in to press a quick, soft kiss to your cheek. “You’re the best, you know that?”. You hummed in response, trying to suppress the warmth that bloomed in your chest at his touch. “Just let me finish this analysis first, okay? We’ll talk after”. Boone hopped up from his seat, still buzzing with energy. “Deal! But don’t take too long, we’ve got storms to catch!”. As he bounced out of the room, you couldn’t help but chuckle softly to yourself. Boone was a lot, and sometimes it was exhausting just trying to keep up with him. But as you turned back to your work, you realized that your heart felt lighter, your thoughts a little less heavy. His excitement was contagious, even when you tried to resist it.

The hours passed, and before you knew it, Boone was back. He was quieter this time, almost tentative as he approached. “Hey” he said, softer now. “You ready?”. You looked up at him, at the boyish excitement still lingering in his eyes, and felt the corners of your mouth lift into a smile. “Yeah, I’m ready”. The two of you headed out to the van, Boone practically bouncing as he drove, his fingers tapping on the steering wheel in time with the music blasting from the speakers. You let your head rest against the window, the rhythmic thrum of the engine a comfort as you watched the landscape blur by. It wasn’t long before the sky darkened, the telltale signs of a storm brewing on the horizon. Boone’s energy shifted, his excitement now laced with focus as he started navigating the roads with practiced precision.

“See that?” Boone pointed out the windshield, his voice hushed with awe. “That’s gonna be one hell of a storm”. You nodded, your analytical mind already processing the data. But even as you did, you couldn’t help but steal glances at Boone. The way his eyes lit up, the sheer joy he got from the chase, it was a sight to behold. “You really love this, don’t you?” you murmured, more to yourself than to him. Boone caught your words and smiled, reaching out to take your hand. “Yeah, I do. But you know what I love more?”. You raised an eyebrow, waiting for the inevitable cheesy line. “You” he said simply, squeezing your hand. “I love that you’re here with me, even though I know you’d rather be back in the lab. I love that you’re willing to put up with all this crazy because you know how much it means to me”.

Your heart skipped a beat, the sincerity in his voice catching you off guard. You squeezed his hand back, feeling that familiar warmth spread through you. “You’re worth it” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. Boone’s grin was as bright as the lightning flashing in the distance. “You know, I think we balance each other out pretty well”. You nodded, leaning over to rest your head on his shoulder as he drove. “Yeah, I think so too”.

As the storm raged outside, you found a strange sort of peace in the chaos. Boone was your storm, wild and unpredictable, and you were his calm, steady and unwavering. Together, you made sense of the madness. And in that moment, as the thunder roared and the rain poured down, you knew there was nowhere else you’d rather be.

-

Thank you for reading!!

[afeelgoodblog]

Best News of Last Week - July 3, 2023

🐕 - This dog is 'disc'-overing hidden treasures! Get ready for the 'paws'-itively successful fundraiser, Daisy's Discs!

1. Most unionized US rail workers now have new sick leave

More than 60% of U.S. unionized railroad workers at major railroads are now covered by new sick leave agreements, a trade group said Monday.

Last year railroads came under fire for not agreeing to paid sick leave during labor negotiations.

2. Missing teen found after being lost in the wilderness for 50 hours

Esther Wang, 16, had been hiking with three other people through the Maple Ridge park on Tuesday.

The group made it to Steve’s lookout around 2:45 p.m. that day.However, when they headed back down to the campsite, after about 15 minutes of hiking, the group leader realized Wang was missing. They returned to the lookout to look for Wang but couldn’t find her. The leader headed to the trail entrance to notify a park ranger and police.

“Esther Wang has been located. She’s healthy, she is happy and she’s with family.”

3. A dog has retrieved 155 discs from woods. They’ll be on sale soon, with proceeds going to the park in West Virginia where they were found

Meet Daisy, the yellow Labrador retriever with a unique talent for finding lost Frisbee golf discs at Grand Vue Park in West Virginia. Four years ago, while on a walk with her owner Kelly Mason, Daisy discovered a disc in the woods and proudly brought it back. Since then, Daisy's obsession with finding stray discs has grown, and she has collected an impressive cache of 155 discs.

Mason and park officials have now come up with a plan to return the discs to their owners if they are labeled, and any unclaimed discs will be sold as a fundraiser to support the park's disc golf courses. Daisy's Discs is expected to be a success, with many excited about the possibility of recovering their lost discs thanks to Daisy's remarkable skills.

4. Australian earless dragon last seen in 1969 rediscovered in secret location

A tiny earless dragon feared to be extinct in the wild has been sighted for the first time in more than 50 years – at a location that is being kept secret to help preservation efforts.

The Victorian grassland earless dragon, Tympanocryptis pinguicolla, has now been rediscovered in the state, according to a joint statement issued by the Victorian and federal Labor governments on Sunday.

5. Detroit is going to power 100% of its municipal buildings with solar

All of Detroit’s municipal buildings are going to be powered by neighborhood solar as part of the city’s efforts to combat climate change – check out the city’s cool grassroots plan. Meet Detroit Rock Solar City.

The city has determined that it’s going to need around 250 acres of solar panels in order to achieve 100% solar power for its municipal buildings.

6. Canada Officially Bans Cosmetic Testing on Animals

The fight for cruelty-free beauty in Canada has seen a significant breakthrough as the Canadian government legislates a full ban on cosmetic animal testing and trade, marking a victory for Animal rights advocates and eco-conscious consumers.

This landmark decision is part of the Budget Implementation Act (Bill C-47), not only prohibiting cosmetic animal testing but also putting an end to the sale of cosmetics that use new animal testing data for safety substantiation.

7. Belize certified malaria-free by WHO

The World Health Organization (WHO) has certified Belize as malaria-free, following the country’s over 70 years of continued efforts to stamp out the disease.

“WHO congratulates the people and government of Belize and their network of global and local partners for this achievement”, said Dr Tedros Adhanom Ghebreyesus, WHO Director-General. “Belize is another example of how, with the right tools and the right approach, we can dream of a malaria-free future.”

----

That's it for this week :)

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[nowimjustastranger]

Fic request...lets see...

How about stcmo!ford experience meeting the eldest Stanley and/or the youngest Stanley he had saved?

Ford had just drifted off into a light and restless slumber when the notification came in, his helmet beeping urgently from where it sat on his makeshift workbench, the surface cluttered with electronic scraps and soldering tools. Ford heaved himself up with a grunt of effort, striding over to the helmet to pull it on and access the data to pinpoint where the emergency was and the severity of the situation.

D – G/727 | 12 yo | COD: Self-Inflicted Injury

Ford’s hands fumbled to clip the helmet underneath his chin, blindly reaching for his trenchcoat and dimension hopping gun from the backrest of his desk chair and nightstand respectively. The coordinates were already pulled up on the screen, having been uploaded from his helmet, so all he had to do was pull the trigger and step through the swirling gateway to reach his destination.

Even with the upgrades and adjustments, his radar still struggled to get an exact location, but the multiverse was a big place and wormholes were notoriously complex so Ford couldn’t fault the technology for not quite being up to par. After all, Ford could deal with a bit of searching. He was always dropped within a certain radius of the event, so he simply had to travel toward the epicenter to find what he was looking for.

His boots crunched as he stepped on glass and he snapped out of his single-minded focus to look down, his ribcage tightening at the sight of a distant memory brought into startling clarity. Glass Shard Beach. At least now he had an idea of where he was going, there was really only one spot that Stan would be drawn to, and Ford found his feet briskly carrying him toward a familiar silhouette in the distance.

There was a soft light emanating from the ship’s interior, the hole that Stan had made in the hull upon discovering the wreck not yet repaired. Ford had to crouch in order to carefully crawl inside, not wanting to alert the child to his presence before he was able to properly assess the situation, each movement slow and calculated as he prowled into the cramped space.

Ford saw Stan almost immediately, his stomach swooping in a nauseating fashion as the golden glow illuminated the alarmingly large red puddle around Stan’s left arm. He lunged forward with a wounded sound, scrabbling toward the boy in an entirely undignified manner, his black pants soaking up the still warm blood when he kneeled beside Stan. Ford checked his pulse the old fashioned way, the sensors in his gloves easily picking up the boy’s slightly weakened heartbeat.

He hasn’t lost too much blood then. Good.

Ford took Stan’s left arm in a gentle grip and turned it to examine the gash, his narrowed eyes cataloging every mark that marred the boy’s scrawny arms. Some were fresher than others, layers upon layers of wounds healed only to be carved open again. This was what hatred looked like. This was the kind of self-loathing that burrowed into you with harsh words and even harsher fists, wearing you down until death looked like the better option.

Ford’s throat clicked dryly when he swallowed, retrieving his collapsible med kit from his utility belt. He gave the boy a mild numbing agent before reattaching the vein that Stan had accidentally severed, sealing the wound with a small red penlight that increased the rate of repair. He didn’t heal it all the way, leaving it a tender pink scar to hopefully deter Stan from carving himself up in the future.

Ford sat back on his haunches with a full-body shudder when he was finished, dragging his helmet up and off his head to gasp for air, his bloodied hands shaking. He sloppily set the helmet down beside his soaked knees, gaze honed in on the steady rise of Stan’s chest until his vision began to blur; hot tears spilled down his face, dripping off his trembling chin as he silently wept.

Stan was so young. Too young to be out this late by himself, slicing himself open with a jagged piece of glass. Where the fuck was his brother? Where was Stanford when Stan was punishing himself for simply existing? Ford had to take a deep, shuddering breath and remind himself that his counterpart here was a child and he couldn’t use his usual methods to make Stanford see the error of his ways.

The most he could do was point Stanford in the right direction and hope that the workaholic brat didn’t just ignore the signs until it was far too late. This was undoubtedly the youngest and most self-destructive Stan that Ford had come into contact with up to date, so the chances of him making it to highschool were slim to none unless his brother noticed Stan’s desperate cry for help.

Ford wiped his face with the sleeve of his trench coat, grimacing at the mess that he left on the dark fabric. Honestly, he would probably end up burning this outfit, he had a sneaking suspicion that the smell of blood would linger no matter how many times he washed the articles of clothing. It was suffocating even now, filling the small space with the nauseating stench of copper.

Ford swiped the bloodied shard of glass from the sand and tucked it away before he gathered the unconscious boy into his arms, cradling the small body close to his chest. Ford pulled the pin on a sanitation grenade and tossed it into the blood before grabbing his helmet and swiftly ducking out of the hole, greedily inhaling fresh air until the fog of panic and despair lifted from his mind.

He only got a few steps away before the grenade went off with a loud hiss, white smoke rolling out of the hole in the hull, cleansing the boat’s interior of blood as well as a laundry list of other harmful substances on a microscopic level. Ford adjusted his grip on Stan as he plucked a syringe from the small black case on his utility belt, injecting Stan in the upper arm with a serum that would eliminate any illness that he could’ve given himself.

Stan began to stir as Ford put the emptied syringe away, reluctantly depositing the boy onto the sand beside the hull’s opening so he could pull his helmet back on, buckling the strap beneath his jaw just as Stan’s eyes cracked open. The boy sluggishly scanned his surroundings, his brows furrowing in blatant confusion before his squinted gaze came to a shrieking halt on Ford.

Stan’s eyes widened as he sat up straight, his owlish stare briefly darting to his arm, face blanching of color when he saw the pink scar. Ford was careful to keep his body language relaxed and open, arms limply hanging at his sides. Still, the boy was visibly distressed, scooting back an inch or two before the hull of the ship prevented him from putting any more distance between them.

“Please don’t tell my parents!” Stan blurted, his shoulders hunching as he drew his legs up, his left arm tucked between his thighs and his stomach to hide the evidence of his dangerous and unhealthy coping mechanism from view. The boy couldn’t seem to maintain eye contact anymore either, his gaze dropping to stare at his knees with alarmingly wet eyes. Ford’s heart lurched in his chest, aching to draw the boy into his arms and just hold him.

It suddenly struck Ford that the boy was ashamed. But not of what he had done, just of getting caught.

“I won’t.” Ford assured as he raised his hands in a placating manner, relieved when Stan’s defensive posture relaxed some. Ford would rather volunteer to be Bill’s plaything for eternity than set Stan up for the backlash that he would receive from his useless brute of a father. So it was safe to say that Filbrick Pines wouldn’t be involved in this delicate matter.

“Really?” Stan timidly asked, his narrowed eyes briefly flicking to Ford, most likely looking for some sign of deceit. Ford had nothing to offer other than truth though, and it seemed that Stan had reached the same conclusion because the tightness that his body held melted away as he slumped back against the hull with an explosive breath of relief.

“So long as you promise me something.” Ford hedged, keeping his hands raised when Stan’ gaze cut to him, the beginnings of suspicion and something uncomfortably close to fear brewing in his eyes. Ford slowly lowered himself to sit, legs crossing as he gracefully settled on the sand approximately four and a half feet from Stan.

“Right… uh, what is it?” Stan grumbled, lazily draping his unmarred arm onto his knees before propping his chin on it. Ford’s back ached from simply watching the boy practically fold himself in half, bewildered as to how such a compact position could possibly be comfortable to maintain for any length of time. Ah, the joys of youth, a time long past for Ford.

“Whenever you want to hurt yourself, go to someone you trust.” Ford said firmly, pointedly dipping his head in a pointed nod at Stan’s hidden arm. The boy made a sound that was somewhere between an incredulous bark of laughter and an annoyed scoff, mulishly turning his head away to stare at the ocean. Ford let Stan silently stare at the waves for a moment, the boy clearly collecting his thoughts.

“Can’t. He’s always busy with school stuff.” Stan said at last, his tone flat and matter-of-fact as that bottomless well of sadness returned to his eyes. How such a small body could hold so much pain was beyond Ford. However, it wasn’t exactly out of the ordinary for a Stan, it just wasn’t usually seen in one so young. “He doesn't have time for me or my stupid feelings.”

“How you feel isn’t stupid, Stanley.” Ford objected, and the vehemence in which he spoke startled the poor boy, who flinched as if he were expecting a physical blow to accompany the outburst. Ford felt something molten stir in his chest even as he made a conscious effort to soften his voice, his hands primly folded in his lap to keep them out of sight. “Just tell him that you need him.”

“Why bother? He won’t care.” Stan retorted hotly, anger overtaking the sorrow as he fixed Ford with a fierce glare. It was quite impressive, how someone so little could manage to look so intimidating. It’s no wonder that the bullies stuck to name-calling when Stan took to looking at them like this when they harassed his brother.

“He will. Stanley please, he will.” Ford was very nearly begging, body instinctively leaning forward, straining toward the boy like a flower seeking sunlight. Nevertheless, Stan’s lips pressed into a thin line of uncertainty; yet there was an undeniable flicker of hope in his gaze that Ford immediately latched onto. “Just give him a chance to prove it.”

“Guess it can’t hurt to try…” Stan haltingly conceded, his contemplative stare drifting down to his left arm. Ford could see the boy’s thoughts written all over his face as clear as day, though it was hardly a secret that Stan wore his heart on his sleeve. The boy desperately wanted to believe him, to let what appeared to be a random stranger convince him that someone cared.

The knowledge that Stan thought himself so insignificant broke Ford’s heart.

[queen-of-the-avengers]

Explosion of Love

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~1.6k

Warnings: stepping on a mine, thinking you're gonna die, thinking the love of your life is gonna die, angst, fluff at the end

Summary: Fury has you and the team going through a minefield to look for lost data the Soviets left behind. Your scanners pick up most of the mines, but luck has it that you step on the most dangerous one of all.

Squares Filled: explosion (2020) for @star-spangled-bingo

Author’s Note: I realize that landmines explode as soon as someone makes contact with them, HOWEVER, this is my story and it's fiction so I get to make the rules and I say only when the pressure is relieved do they explode like in the movies.

x

Miles of wasteland stand before you, acres of land that are charred from the explosions that happened between the Soviets and US Intelligence. The Soviets stole data with the intention of selling it to assassins and killers, so Fury tasked your team to go collect that stolen data. When the Soviets knew the Us was closing in on them, they scattered the data across acres knowing it would take them forever to try and retrieve it.

You’re about to step foot onto the charred land when Bucky stops you.

“Look at this.” He points to a sign a few yards away. “This is a minefield. Be careful. I don’t really wanna clean bits and pieces of the team.”

“Should we turn back?” you ask. “We only have technology scanners for the area. We can grab mine scanners.”

“No, we’re already here. Just be careful. Our scanners should be able to detect them.”

“Easy for you to say. You can fly,” you joke with Tony.

The land is so large that you have to split up on your own. Tony’s right, the scanners you have are able to detect most of the mines. Some of them are hidden so you’re not going to touch those areas if you don’t know if there is a landmine or not. Everyone is connected with earpieces so you can communicate if something is wrong, so you’re just listening to the casual conversation some are having as if you’re taking a walk in the park instead of through a deadly minefield.

“Are you and Laura finally taking that vacation you’ve been talking about?” Natasha asks.

“Yeah. Cooper is old enough to watch the other two. I was thinking of taking her up north.”

“I think she’d like that.”

You scan the ground as you walk slowly and find one of the boxes buried containing data. You kneel and dig the box up before plugging your flash drive into the data box. Once it’s done downloading, you take it out and continue to search for other data boxes. Your scanner is picking up most of the landmines but there is one patch of land that is coming up blank.

Stupid you walks right over it thinking it’s safe. You step onto fresh soil and hear something click from below you. You pause and look down to see what you stepped on. It’s buried underneath the ground but you can definitely feel something under your foot. Since this place is so big, there is no one around you to help you. No one knows you’ve stepped on one. No one knows you need help.

Your first instinct is to run like hell and hope you can survive, but you’ll only have a second before the mine goes off. Tears start rolling down your cheeks at the thought of dying. You’re still young, you still want to see the world, get married to the love of your life, and live life to the fullest with him by your side.

“Hey, guys?” you sniffle and wipe your tears even though more fall. “I’m in trouble here.”

“What’s going on?” Bucky asks in concern.

“I stepped on a mine.” Everyone becomes alert. Your body shakes in fear and your voice cracks under the pressure. “What do I do?”

“I’m on my way. Don’t move,” Bucky says. Only Bucky comes to your aid because he doesn’t want to put anyone else at risk of stepping on a mine. Bucky can see just how terrified you are when he gets to you. “Doll, you’re gonna be okay. Don’t worry, I got you.”

“I don’t want to die,” you cry.

“You’re not gonna die. I promise I won’t let that happen. Take some deep breaths for me, Doll.” The first and second ones are shaky but the third and fourth ones are much smoother. “Good girl. You’re doing great. Keep doing that. I’m gonna dig the mine out so I can see what we’re dealing with. This won’t explode. I’m just digging around it.”

“Okay,” you sigh shakily.

Bucky gets on his knees and uses his knife to dig out the soil around the mine. Tony, Rhodey, and Sam fly over to see how bad the situation is while the rest of the Avengers make their way back to the start of the minefield.

“What’s going on here? What do you see?” Sam asks Bucky.

Bucky digs out enough soil to see exactly the kind of mind you stepped on.

“It’s a bounding mine.”

“Shit,” Sam sighs.

“What does that mean?” you panic.

“Nothing--”

“Don’t bullshit me, Bucky. What does that mean?”

“It’s a more deadly mine than the others. It shoots the main propeller about four feet into the air, and metal shards fly out of it over the span of six hundred feet. It’s very deadly.”

“Can you disable it?” Steve asks over comm.

“No.”

“Oh, God,” you cry and cover your mouth. You take two deep breaths to calm yourself down. “Bucky, get the hell out of here.”

“Like hell, I’m leaving you.”

“Bucky, please,” you whimper and take his hand. He stands to his full height in front of you. “I don’t want to die but I don’t want you to die more. You need to get out of here. There’s no use for this mine to take both of us out. Tony, get him the hell out of here.”

Tony is about to take Bucky when your boyfriend holds up a hand to stop him.

“Wait. Can I at least get a kiss goodbye?”

Instead of giving him a verbal answer, you pull him close and kiss him like it’s gonna be your last. He slides his hand into your hair and grips it gently so he can control the kiss. He kisses you in a way that makes your head dizzy. The kind of kiss that makes you forget about everything but the feel of his lips.

If he’s gonna kiss you one more time, may as well make it memorable. You pull away from him and open your eyes to study the shade of blue in his. You expect him to pull away and leave your side but you frown when he doesn’t. You look down to see him standing on top of the mine and you are free. He must have switched positions with you while kissing you.

“No, what did you do?” you gasp.

“I promised you I wouldn’t let you die.”

“No, I’m not letting you do this!”

“Tony, get her out of here.”

As soon as Tony’s hands are on you, you’re fighting him.

“No! Bucky!” Tony grips you tightly and flies off with you in his arms. The image of Bucky gets smaller and smaller until you can’t see him anymore. As soon as Tony sets you down, you’re running toward Bucky. Steve jumps into action and practically tackles you to the ground. “No! Let me go! Please! Bucky!!!”

“Y/N, stop fighting.”

“No! You gotta let me go. I have to be with him!” Suddenly, an explosion happens and you sob loudly. “NO! Bucky!!”

You fall to the ground in a fit of sobs at the loss of your boyfriend. Steve’s arms are still wrapped around your body to prevent you from going after him. As soon as one explosion happened, another one followed suit, and another one, and another one. The air is covered with thick smoke that is very hard to see through so you’re not sure if Bucky is even alive.

Everyone is silent for their fallen friend. The only thing that can be heard is your heartbreaking sobs.

“Look, I see something,” Clint points out something in the smoke.

You look up and see something emerging from the smoke. Once the smoke clears, you can see Bucky walking toward the group with his vibranium arm in his flesh hand.

“Did you really think I was gonna let a mine take me from my girl?” he coughs.

The spikes on his body open to welcome his arm and he locks it into place. He whips his arm around to make sure it’s on properly, and you scramble out of Steve’s arms. You run into Bucky’s arms and cry against his chest. You’re too overwhelmed to say anything but hug, kiss, and embrace him. When you’ve calmed down, you pull away from him and slap him in the chest.

“Never do that again!”

“I had no choice. I knew I could have survived but you wouldn’t have.”

“You could have at least told me that!”

“I didn’t know if it was gonna work or not,” he says quietly.

Everyone got what they needed from the minefield, so you head back to the Compound. You haven’t said one word to Bucky after leaving the minefield, and he hates when you give him the silent treatment.

“Doll, please talk to me,” he begs. He follows you into your shared bedroom, and you quickly head into the bathroom. Before he can join you, you close the door and lock it so he can’t get in. Of course, he can get in with his metal arm but he’s respecting your privacy. “I’m sorry, but I had to save your life.” He rests his forehead on the door and he can hear you crying softly inside. “Y/N, please come out.”

You don’t. He sits on the floor right outside the bathroom door and waits for you to come out. He sits there for hours waiting patiently for you to come out of the bathroom. When you do, you take a seat next to him on the floor.

“What we have is a partnership, Bucky.” You look into his eyes. “Your life isn’t fully yours anymore. You have my heart in your hand so if you die, then so will I.”

“The same thing goes for you, Doll.”

“If you would have told me what you wanted to do, I would have been more likely to go along with it. You have to be better at communicating. I will do the same.”

“Okay, you got it. Do you want to watch movies for the rest of the night?”

“Yes,” you smile.

x

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[in1-nutshell]

Hello! I was wondering if you could do a TFP version of NightLight?

I wonder who's going to be the next TFP Version?

Hope you enjoy!

TFP Version of Nightlight

SFW, Platonic, Hinted romance, Cybertronian reader

TFP

Nightlight, before the war worked as a guard for the Senate.

Nothing too big, more of a glorified bouncer.

She didn’t like most of the Senators, but the shanix was good and had a bit more energon than the average bot.

She met Orion Pax and Megatronus on the day of their speeches.

Nightlight was moved by both their speeches of wanted change for Cybertron.

Even when she does choose a side, she isn’t afraid to admit that Megatronus had some points that made her consider her choose in becoming an Autobot.

But in the end, she did choose to become an Autobot.

Soon enough, Nightlight found herself being a bodyguard once again, but this time for someone she actually cared for.

Optimus Prime himself.

Nightlight took her job seriously, practically becoming Prime’s second shadow.

She was never too far from the Prime and refused to leave him, even in the heat of battle she fought fiercely for the Prime to escape.

Because of this, Nightlight had become a bit of a regular patient in the med bay.

She knew Ratchet when they both were in medical school, something she dropped after getting her new job.

Ratchet muttering under his breath as he patches up Nightlight. Ratchet: “Any more injuries I should know about?” Nightlight: “No, that’ll be all.” Nightlight goes to stand up, but Ratchet grabs her servo and pulls her back down. Ratchet: “I didn’t say stand up. You’re not done.” Nightlight: “Ratchet I’m fine. I need to get back to Optimus.” Ratchet: “I’m sure Optimus can stand without you for a bit longer.” Nightlight smirking: “Aww, I knew you liked me Ratchet.” Ratchet: “I know what your doing Nightlight. That might have worked in med school, but I’m a different mech now.” Nightlight huffing letting Ratchet do more scans. Nightlight: “Don’t I know.” Both look at each other and share a small smile before going back to work.

As more and more bots started dwindling, Nightlight soon became a detective in finding lost bots.

Most of the time, she was successful in retrieving them back to base.

Other times… let’s just say she always had a data pad ready to put the bots’ names in the KIA list.

She was the one they sent out when Arcee, Tailgate and Bumblebee were captured.

Nightlight ended up making many friends this way.

She originally didn’t want to make friends in this specific line of work, but after a while it became her reason to find them.

You never know when they would… disappear.

Ironically, it would be Nightlight who would end up going missing.

It happened during one of her outings and was never reported back.

Timeskip to Earth…

Optimus and Bumblebee were scouting around a canyon when they saw a pod stuck in between some rocks.

And someone inside was trying to break open the glass.

Optimus and Bumblebee quickly went over and started shifting the pod around so they could open it.

Which wouldn’t be necessary because the bot inside had successfully kicked the pods glass and jumped out.

Nightlight venting a bit before realizing who had just helped her. Nightlight salutes Optimus. Nightlight: “Nightlight reporting for—” Bumblebee: “BBEEEPP! (NIGHTLIGHT!)” The young scout immediately went in for a hug. Nightlight was caught a bit off guard by the sudden affection but gave him a pat on the back. Optimus places a servo on her shoulder. Optimus: “It is good to see you, old friend.” Bee finally let’s go as Nightlight looks around. Nightlight: “Sir, where are we?” Optimus: “It is a long story Nightlight. Best we get to base before the Decepticons find us.”

It was a shock to all the bots on base when Optimus and Bumblebee came back with an extra bot.

Nightlight of all bots as well.

There was a small celebration for the return of the bot.

Speaking of which was paused temporary for the pickup of the kids.

Each guardian gave a bit of a run down on what to expect from Nightlight, the greatest detective the Autobots ever had.

The kids get off of their guardian’s alt modes. Nightlight was talking to Ratchet when she noticed the small organics walking up to her. She kneeled to get a better look at them. Miko was the first one to speak. Miko: “So you’re the ‘greatest detective’ Bulkhead’s been talking about? Nightlight, right?” Nightlight: “Yes, that is my designation. And you are…” Jack: “She’s Miko, I’m Jack, and this is Raf.” Raf waved at her. Nightlight slowly waved back making the boy smile back. Nightlight notices Miko staring a bit at her. Nightlight: “Do you have a question?” Miko: “Why do you look like Batman?” Nightlight: “Who?”

There was actually a good explanation to that.

While the others were out, Nightlight had briefly escaped the base and was looking around until she spotted a decent alt mode.

How was she supposed to know that the model of the Batmobile wasn’t something people on Earth drove?

She thought it looked nice and scanned.

Nightlight has no idea at first why the kids are enamored by her alt mode… nor does she say anything about it.

She is ready to defend these kids to the bitter end like the rest of her team.

It takes Nightlight a while to get used to the new situation on earth.

Mainly her recharging schedule.

Ratchet and Optimus have lost count the number of times they have spotted Nightlight making rounds around the base or simply guarding her teammates habsuites.

Ratchet working late again. Nightlight behind him. Nightlight: “You need to recharge Ratchet.” Ratchet jumps and lets out a small yelp before realizing who it was. Ratchet: “Why are you awake!” Nightlight: “I could ask you the same question.” Ratchet huffs. Ratchet: “I have work to do.” Nightlight smirks a bit. Nightlight: “Same workaholic Ratchet.” Ratchet: “Same stubborn Nightlight—Hey!” Nightlight picks up Ratchet bridal style and walks to his habsuite. Nightlight: “Hush.” Ratchet: “I have work—” Nightlight glares at him, daring to say another word. Ratchet: “That doesn’t work on me.” Nightlight: “But it’s a good distraction, we’re here.” Nightlight opens ratchet’s habsuite and plops him on the berth. Ratchet is a bit surprised to see her sit down next to him. Nightlight: “I’m staying here until I know you get enough hours of sleep.” Ratchet already feeling sleepy. Ratchet: “Hypocrite. How much sleep have you been getting?” Nightlight: “I’ll get some when you do Ratchet.” Ratchet’s optics get heavier. Ratchet: “Stubborn Nightlight…” Nightlight chuckles softly seeing Ratchet already knocked out cold. Nightlight: “Workaholic Ratchet… night.”