Chapter Text
NOW
He didn’t want to be here. He really, really didn’t want to be here, does no one get that? Does no one see how his want and need is manifesting as a dark cloud over their heads? No?
Great.
He gets the feeling that he also shouldn’t be here. He can’t ignore it; slimy, dark and slick. Like the oil that leaks from the back of the ship. It settles on his skin and refuses to become one with the rest, simply sits and makes him feel disgusting. Makes him panic. It matches the colour of the dark cloud.
Here is the ocean village. He can’t remember its name, but he can remember someone saying that it was surrounded by deep water on all sides. It’s the second they’ve come to, the second they’re tearing to pieces, the second they’re searching. Here, is among screaming, panicking villagers.
Here is under the scrutiny of so many people, expecting so much from him.
Maybe if he was a bit more…normal. A bit more like them , what was happening around him wouldn’t seem as bad. The violence wouldn’t be as shocking.
It wouldn’t make him feel as if he’s about to be sick over his own toes.
He really doesn’t want to be here.
“Translate.”
That’s growled at him, most likely to intimidate and scare him. It’s deep and low, like the growling of the ship’s engines just outside the reef. But, like the first two times, it just makes him confused.
Translate what? No one’s spoken, how can he–
“That is a forest clan member,” the man before him says, slow and pronounced over the crackling of flames. “They do not come here. Please, tell him!”
Oh. What? No, that’s not the sound of flames it’s–
Everything he knows breaking apart.
He wants to scream. Demand how he knows what this man is saying. Two hours ago he’d only ever understood one language. But then, that’s not English, but something else entirely. But he can understand it. Even worse, a reply, an apology is forming on his tongue as easily as if it was English.
There’s a hand on his shoulder. It startles him, and he whacks it away, a snarl bursting free from his lips.
“Time to prove you’re useful, kid. Translate!”
He’s breathing too fast, it’s hitching against his ribs. If he didn’t have so much riding on his shoulders, he’d be able to curl up underneath the glare that’s pinning him to the ground. Escape from it. He needs to be useful. Needs to prove himself, needs to make sure he doesn’t get tossed aside, please.
Black spots, there’s black spots at the edge of what he can see. He’s going to pass out.
He can feel his body swaying.
He doesn’t want to be here. But he doesn’t know where else he could be. Doesn’t remember.
“Colonel!” someone shouts. “Bogeys incoming. From the South.”
“Thank the Great Mother,” the woman says, yelping when the person behind her jams something against her side.
There’s a tense moment, and he glances up to see the indecision passing through the Colonel’s gaze. It hardens.
“We’re done here, burn it down.”
His arm is grabbed, and he has no choice to follow. Stumbling in the sand he watches with wide eyes as two mounted ikran fly towards them. When they get closer, he notices the riders are pointing at him. Shouting something that he can’t make out over the destruction of the village and screaming people.
That oil-slick feeling makes him feel ill. And for once, he fights against the hand holding him back.
THEN
When she’d been told they’d captured an associate of the Sully led insurrection, General Ardmore had expected one of the science guys. The traitors who’d decided to stay planet-side when the others had been banished. The humans who, like Jake Sully, betrayed their own race.
She had a whole display arranged by the time they’d landed the ship, a monologue of every single thing they did wrong that she did right. She’d illustrate the strength of their company in the process.
As they were crossing the tarmac, she was planning how to begin her speech. Practically writing it on cue cards and storing it in a small drawer in a corner of her mind. It would sit right between what she’d imagined telling Jake Sully once he was finally captured and her speech from when she’d earned the rank of General.
But when she reached the interrogation cell, cup of coffee in hand, she shredded the speech. Burned the remains and swept the ashes into a dark corridor. Not because it was useless, in fact it was one of her better pieces of writing. But because its target audience was entirely incorrect.
Outwardly, she takes in the interrogation cell with a considering look, taking a gratifying sip of coffee. Inwardly, she growls and savours the burning hot liquid on her tongue. This is not who she wanted, and not an opportunity to play house.
“This is not an opportunity to play house, Colonel,” she says, her tone as icy as he’s ever heard it, she’s sure. She hears him tense, the heels of his boots clicking together as she places her coffee cup onto the desk. It is too hot to drink.
When she straightens, she clasps her hands behind her back, and paces so that her nose is nearly pressed against the glass. Staring at the occupant behind it.
“Tell me, what caused a reconnaissance mission to go so completely ary?” she asks. “Whilst I’m pleased we were able to finally make contact with the leader of the insurgency, were you not under orders to keep the safety of your team paramount?”
“Yes ma’am,” Colonel Quaritch replies immediately. “Unfortunately, said contact resulted in a fight we hadn’t anticipated.”
“And how many returned?”
“Six of us, General,” Quaritch answers.
Seven, if you include the kid currently spitting at the two way mirror. The glob of saliva slides down the glass, but he keeps hissing at the glass, pointing at it and the camera.
He knows they’re watching.
“And the other six were lost at the hands of the same leader of the insurgency we are trying to eliminate, correct?” she asks, her fingers tightening. She can feel a muscle in her jaw jumping. “The one that you made contact with, against orders?”
“Yes ma’am. Sully and his wife, I’m afraid.”
“Private,” she says, and the officer sitting to her right jolts in his seat, “please remind the Colonel how much it costs to create the Avatars, and how long it takes to transport them here.”
Because if she tells him, her anger will be obvious by the way her voice will shake.
“It costs at least a million to grow Avatars, and six years to transport them here to Pandora,” the Private explains. She can tell that the Colonel isn’t the least bit pleased at having a basic piece of information being spouted at him by an underling.
She could give less of a shit.
“Not to mention, Colonel,” she continues, “we’ve only made so many copies of your memories. That technology took time, effort and years of research.”
The kid snarls at the mirror again, but she only blinks.
“You’ve cost us, Colonel, six million dollars, and thirty six years worth of work with your little stunt,” she says. “What did you think you could achieve, when your men first encountered these children in the woods? That you could make Jake Sully surrender within your first mission?”
She thinks he might’ve, because he sniffs like she’s personally offended him.
“These things take time,” she says, when he keeps his trap shut. “And thankfully, it wasn’t an entire loss.”
The two way mirror shudders as the kid tosses a chair at it. The Private jolts in his chair. Quaritch whistles lowly, and she blinks as the boy cusses like a twentieth century sailor. Pointing at the glass just a little to her left; like he knows they’re watching him but not sure of their actual position. It takes away some of the intimidation.
“Buttholes!” he shouts, before aiming his next insult at the camera. She can’t understand what he says, but by the tone it must be strong enough to have a strict mother demand he wash his mouth out with soap.
“He might be able to give us information on where the Sullys could be,” she says over the shouting, picking up her coffee and taking another sip. It’s cooled, finally, but she wrinkles her nose at the bitterness. Someone must’ve added in one two many scoops into the filter.
“But, ma’am,” the Private says, and she allows him to continue only because his courage surprises her, “surely in this state we are unlikely to gain anything from the boy. It would be a waste of time to try, no?”
“Indeed,” she replies, setting down the cup again, “which is why we have options.”
The boy pounds his fist against the glass again, snarling at them. She’s the only one who doesn’t flinch.
“We shall try the…standard option first. But send a message down to the technicians that I want their newest experiment up and running should we have need of it,” she says, finally turning to the Colonel. He doesn’t meet her eyes, rather stares straight ahead as she approaches.
“Should all else fail, Colonel, then we may try the more familial approach.”
“Ma’am,” he replies, not revealing anything. Even his jaw has stopped twitching.
She allows the corner of her mouth to quirk, and then she waves to the Private to open the kid’s cell. He’s a bit spooked by the order, and scrambles to follow it when she stands at the door. It’s outside of protocol to do this. But the boy is an important asset, and she wouldn’t rely on any soldier or recom do what she does best.
When she steps up to the glass door it slides open soundlessly. The kid must have some impressive reflexes, or senses, because he stops shouting and jolts in place to face her as soon as the door meets home. The leather of her boots squeak as she steps over the threshold, and the boy tenses further.
His lips pull back further.
She stops just in front of the metal table bolted down to the floor, putting it between herself and her prisoner. “I am General Frances Ardmore,” she says simply, slicing through the silence.
The boy hisses, spits something in Na’vi, then says, “Why should I care who you are?”
“You don’t have to,” she replies, tucking her hands behind her back again. “But seeing as you might be remaining here for the long term, I thought you’d appreciate knowing who was in charge.”
“I won’t be staying here,” the boy growls, shoulders rising towards his ears. “And you can’t keep me here!”
“Oh?” she says, fighting to keep her expression neutral. “Then I suppose this will be short, if you’re going to attempt an escape.”
His distrusting gaze watches as she takes up the chair he threw, and places it back upright. She doesn’t sit, just leans against its back and considers him. He’s as human as she is, and yet as inhuman as he can get.
His skin is browned from the Pandoran sun, whereas hers is still as milk white as it always has been. Blue stripes criss cross over his whole body, with no pattern or reason other than to make him blend in with the clan folk.
When he twitches his head between the mirror and herself, she spies the wooden beads threaded through his locks. They clack together when he snaps his gaze back to her at the shuffle of her boots.
She smiles, although it’s only a small twitch of the corner of her lips, and it does nothing to lessen the wariness of his gaze.
“What do you want?” he asks, when the silence starts to become uncomfortable. He leaves his hands loose at his sides, gaze tracking every movement.
“What I want,” she replies, the chair creaking beneath her hands, “is quite simple. I want you to answer a question. I’ll even make it easy for you.”
She pushes off the back of the chair so quickly the boy flinches, hands coming up to his chest as he takes a quick step back. But she only ducks into the observation room for a moment, and returns with a datapad in her hands.
She places it in the middle of the table, not glancing up when the boy lowers his hands, and then inches forward in curiosity as she flicks past emails and applications too quickly for him to see. Slyly, she looks at him through her eyelashes once.
The corner of her mouth twitches again at the disappointed scowl on his face. “You won’t find anything of use, kid,” she murmurs, and the boy startles again. “But you’re welcome to try.”
She leans back once the map of the Pandoran forest around them spreads across the table. It’s a miniature version of the large scale hologram they have in the war room, but portable. It’s extremely useful for board meetings and the like.
“Point out where the insurgents main camp of operations is on this map,” she says simply. “Even a general area will do, that’s all we need. We could then see about negotiating a way to get you where you want. Might even be able to commission a cryo pod home.”
She knows at least thirty men who would jump on the offer immediately. Soldiers who’ve well extended their tours here, but are too valuable to send back to Earth. The kid’s silence is kind of confusing her, if she’s honest.
He’s staring at the hologram map. From behind the two way mirror, she can feel two more stares burrowing into the side of her head. She doesn’t move, just watches as the kid finally leans forward.
When he reaches out a hand, she thinks he’s actually going to give her what she wants. What she’s been yearning after for a year. Twelve months too long, in her professional opinion.
Hope squeezes the breath from her lungs, and holds her completely still.
But then, his finger strays too far to the edge of the datapad, pressing against its side and sliding it across the metal table. The map goes with it, and hope remains until it’s tipping over the edge. Landing on the ground with an ominous clattering. If she has to get it fixed, during the same week as the board meeting with key shareholders, she might just end the kid.
“Oops,” he mutters, crossing his arms.
She raises an eyebrow, and says, “None of them are coming to rescue you kid. Why keep them safe? Why go against what’s best for your own kind?”
The kid huffs a laugh, like he knows something she doesn’t. It’s infuriating.
“If you do not tell us where they are now, things will become much, much more painful for you later down the line,” she tells him, deadly serious. It’s the voice that has soldiers with balls a lot bigger than his shaking in their boots. But the kid just leans forward until he’s so close she can make out the flecks of dirt on his cheeks.
“Do your worst, General Butthole,” he spits.
This is a child. He’s a child, barely of age. She’s heard worse come from men working the communications, and yet the insult falling from this boy’s lips is more jarring than an f-bomb being dropped over a local channel.
Lesser men would’ve cuffed the boy around the ear. But she’s not one to lose her temper so quickly.
“You won’t cooperate?” she asks.
“You want me to give up my family,” he says. “I wouldn’t betray them if you were going to kill me.”
“Funny,” she says, “I wonder if they’d think the same of you. Family is meant to protect each other after all.”
She lets that hang between them, watching for any sign of him wavering. He’s stubborn, she’ll give him that; clenching his jaw and glaring at her. But stubbornness has a tendency to crumble under the weight of fear. And stress.
“Fine,” she replies, pushing off the back of the chair and swiping her datapad from the floor. The screen isn’t cracked, thank Christ, but one corner is dented. She digs the pad of her thumb into it as she says, “You have until this afternoon to rethink your decision. If you’re still adamant then I’m afraid we’ll have to take the information by force.”
He scowls at her, but stays silent. Watching as she takes her leave.
“General,” Quaritch asks a few minutes later as they make their way down the corridor, “do you believe this will actually get the boy to talk?”
She’s messaging the head of R&D, to enquire about the functionality of their new toy. She has to pause to answer him, and a pair of guards swerve around their abrupt stop.
“Honestly I don’t know,” she says. “It could be that he’s able to resist our methods, at which point we’ll have to try your approach, Colonel.”
He shuffles, puffs out his chest and lifts his chin a little. “Of course, General.”
She considers him, for a moment. “It’s a method I would rather not have to use,” she tells him, a wrinkle appearing between his eyebrows. “I find that relationships, both of a romantic and platonic nature, can do a lot of damage to a platoon and a squad.”
The breath he’d been expelling gets sucked into his lungs. She refrains from raising a knowing eyebrow, and simply leaves it at that.
They’re halfway to the science labs when she remembers she’d left her coffee in the observation room.
When she’d first joined the marines, it was under her own assumption that she’d either slip through the cracks and remain largely out of sight or, she’d have to work up the ranks herself. Step by agonising step, placing hand over hand until she became what she wanted to be.
She never thought that someone would recognise her potential, and place her exactly where she needed to be. Negotiation was her forte, and interrogation turned into her greatest asset to her squad. To the point that her captain wrote up her letter of transfer within a matter of months.
She doesn’t remember the entirety of the contents, only that she was labelled as shrewd, cold, and a valuable candidate for the Special Ops Corp. Informally known as the T & I squad.
It was there she flourished, both within her speciality, and her capability to lead. It’s where she formed the bedrock of her own policies and protocols. It’s what she’s good at, and what some people think she was born to do.
So, she stares at the research and development’s brand new shiny toy with more than a wrinkle in her brow. She allows one displeased twitch of her mouth as she circles around it.
“We only finished the blueprints just before getting into our cryo chambers,” the head of R & D tells her, practically vibrating on the spot. “Getting the materials made whilst in flight was a genius piece of thinking on my part. And the engineering was all done by Don for the first few weeks we were here.”
It’s smooth and sleek, like nearly everything within the laboratory. Bright white too, to match the floors, ceiling and the coats they wear. She could nearly check her reflection to make sure none of her lunch got stuck in her teeth.
“How much power does it use?” she asks, taking another circle around the machine. She kicks an errant cable at the back, ignoring the small injured noise behind her.
“Oh, this baby is so efficient it doesn’t even need half of what the tech does up in the observation tower,” they reply. They’re fidgeting with their clipboard, but she knows it's not out of nervousness. “We could have it running for hours, and not cause any problems.”
She comes face to face with them again, and they nearly drop their clipboard. “Of course, we’d never actually do that, General. Ma’am. We know how important and limited our resources are at the moment.”
“What does it do?” Quaritch suddenly asks. He’s staring at the machine with a distant sort of interest, one that they don’t quite catch onto. She would laugh, but she’s more professional than to laugh at her subordinate’s misfortune.
Whilst the scientist is distracted, she takes a moment to finally let her expression fall into the scowl that’s been tugging against her cheeks for five minutes. Her displeasure plain on her face, which isn’t seen by anyone but the machine. Which doesn’t have any feelings to be offended.
It’s essentially taken her one asset. By placing a subject within its grasp and clamping them down so they don’t escape, it takes what it needs using some sort of technology that she doesn’t quite understand and displays it as a literal image.
Any question answered in a moment. Any deepest, darkest secret immediately brought to light with just a question and a few moments of patience. Information only gained through years of trust and familiarity recorded and placed in a databank to be analysed over and over at will.
It’s a cheat code to what she’s been learning to do all her life. And, in her opinion, it takes away the best part of her job.
Although she’d never tell anyone that she loves making people scream…
“How long until it’s functional?” she suddenly says, cutting them off at just the right time, if the Colonel’s uncomfortable look is anything to go by.
“Oh, it’s absolutely ready to go. There’s just…possibly a couple more calibrations to work through,” they reply. She’s a bit unnerved by the way their eyes sparkle, but she doesn’t comment. “Do you have a candidate to try it out on?”
“Let’s just say I have a particularly stubborn character who I think would benefit from another method,” she says, although even that is giving too much away.
“I’ll have those calibrations finished just after lunch then, General,” they say, and although they don’t quite salute her, they try their best without dropping their clipboard again.
“You think this’ll work?” the Colonel asks once they’ve left, and although she doesn’t actually give him an answer, the small noise she makes makes him tense.
She doesn’t know if it will, but it’s the only other option they have apart from one she’s not entirely set on trying.
By the time they gather the boy from his cell - with the help of two guards, one at each arm - and take him back to the laboratory, the machine is ready for them. At least, the head scientist says it’s ready. They say it through a few doubtful excuses but they’re allowed to approach it anyway.
The kid pales dramatically at the first sighting, and for a moment he nearly sways against the guard on his left. She, slyly, takes another glance at the technology and has to agree that yes, it does look quite intimidating. He doesn’t fight when he’s pushed towards it, and only wriggles a little when the support clamps down against his chest.
According to the R&D head scientist, they changed it from cuffs because too many test subjects were resisting the machine if they thought they were tied down. Restricted to be tortured. Although, she doesn’t think this setup will be any better; it seems to clamp the person down like a cat holding a tiny mouse in place.
Once he’s settled, watching the soldiers warily as they step back, the head scientist approaches her. They’ve switched out their clipboard for a datapad, fingers moving so fast over the screen she thinks it must be second nature. No one’s that good at multitasking.
“So,” they say, pitching their voice low, “all you need to do is ask him a couple of leading questions while the machine is running. Anything he thinks we’ll be able to catch and turn into visible data. You’ll have everything you need to know within a matter of seconds!”
They’re beaming like it’s the most amazing thing in the world. She keeps the displeasure off her face, but can’t quite stop her fingers from clenching.
“Just a few questions?”
“Yep!” they chirp. “Should be fairly painless for him, provided he doesn’t resist.”
“Have others resisted?” she asks, their eyes flickering with a curiosity that makes her stomach roll.
“Not yet,” they reply. “But, there’s a first time for everything!”
She’s left alone then with the kid and the machine. He’s staring at her, his jaw clenched.
“I don’t like this anymore than you do, kid,” she says as she steps up to the platform. “But you were the one to refuse a very simple request.
From the top of the platform, she and the kid are at eye level. Strapped down as he is, the dynamic changes. No longer is she the interrogator and he the subject of her ire. She’s the cat, and he’s the mouse that’s not getting away unless he squeaks.
With a loud hum, the machine starts up, the circular structure above his head beginning to spin lazily. She’s not underneath the green lights it produces, and yet it’s irritating even from where she stands.
“Where has Jake Sully gone?” she starts, as the machinery reaches optimal speed. The kid begins to squirm as she asks, “Where would he take his family?”
“I don’t know,” the kid says defiantly. “Even if I did I wouldn’t tell you you–”
He spits out something in Na’vi, something rude and abrasive. She doesn’t react to it.
“Would he remain in the forest?” she asks, and he snarls like she’s an idiot for not listening the first time. “Where would he run to?”
“I. Don’t. Know!” he shouts, his arms and legs twitching.
“What clans would harbour them? What villages would give them refuge?”
“I don’t know you butthole! You’ll have to kill me before I tell you anything!”
“Would they be able to hide outside of the forest? Were there plans created in case of discovery?”
“Why do you think I know?” the kid shouts, wiggling against the restraints. “They don’t tell me anything!”
“I think they tell you plenty,” she argues, because this is better than continuous denial. “They would have contingencies, yes? So would they escape to the clans in the west? Or the Ash Na’vi up north?”
“General, careful,” someone says behind her. She tilts a little so that the kid’s yelps aren’t so loud. “You’re peaking all over the prefrontal.”
She purses her lips and allows a short, sharp sigh to escape her nose before turning back again.
“Where are the rest of the Omatikaya?” she asks, and the boy’s eyes widen.
“I’m not telling!”
“Where is their main base of operations? Where have they been hiding?”
He can’t deny that he knows, can’t dance away from the question with denials. And he knows it. He struggles more, fights the paw clamping him down and snarls when he can’t do more than press against it. Her mouth curls a little, and she leans her hands against the metal bar separating the platform from the machinery.
“Tell me, where the clan is,” she says, locking eyes with the kid.
He’s wide eyed, properly afraid, his breaths coming out in uneven hitches and gasps. For a wild, nearly jubilant moment, she thinks he’s going to crack into two. And give her what she’s been yearning for. The glory and reward she’s deserved for every god awful thing the company has made her do.
He opens his mouth, she leans further forward, and the answer she gets is a pain filled scream.
His eyes squeeze shut, and his attempts to escape get more desperate and insistent. Until he’s rocking the machinery with a strength that hadn’t been there before.
Behind her, she hears shouting, cries for the machine to be turned off, that he’s peaking all over the place he needs to be dragged out now–
She steps down from the platform as the machine slows to a stop. The kid’s not screaming any more, but he’s still gasping. Keening every few moments as a couple soldiers and lab coats dart forward.
She’s smug, victorious, triumphant, until she sees the head scientist throwing down her datapad like a child. Only then does her heart sink.
Quaritch comes down to join her with a dark look.
“Well, Colonel,” she says as the kid flops bonelessly into the arms of the soldiers, “looks like we’ll be trying the familial tactic after all.”
He opens his eyes to a white ceiling above him, and a cold surface below. It’s actually cold everywhere, like the room hasn’t been heated at all, but it’s pressing into his body and making him shiver. His teeth clattering together is the loudest thing he’s ever heard; it sounds like they’re rattling in his skull.
Around him is silence, on all sides. It’s like a really heavy blanket, and he pushes against it until he’s upright. It’s a struggle, but he manages it. Just.
He can only hear the clacking of his teeth and his breathing, where there would be ambient noises of– something. He’s not sure what, maybe other living, breathing people. The quiet puts him on edge.
Even the sounds from outside usually make their way through thick metal walls; there’s not a bit of his home that’s silent. He should know, he’s explored every inch of it. How he knows that, though, he’s not sure. It’s just a definite.
So then, what if he’s not at home?
His breath catches on something in his chest, and fear burns behind his ribs. If he’s not home, then where is he? There’s nothing identifiable around him, the white walls and ceiling not giving anything away. The mirror on the other side makes him pause.
His nose is bleeding. He hadn’t felt it, but when he brings his hand up to his lip, red stains his fingers, and copper falls on his tongue. He’s not wearing his mask, and he can breathe, but the metal table underneath him is clinical. It’s probably why he’s so cold.
“Where am I?” he whispers, the fear turning to a sick sort of uncertainty, coiling around his stomach. There’s something else about his reflection that’s causing his heart to pick up the pace.
He’s older than he remembers. That last bit of baby fat that had been clinging to his jawline is gone, he’s gotten better at his stripes, and there are a couple more beads in his hair that he definitely didn’t put in.
“The hell,” he says, daring to make his voice a little louder as he swings his legs over the edge of the metal table. His toes are numb from the cold already, but it’s the starkness of the differences in his face that make him shudder harder anyway.
He stares, wide eyed, at the dark bags sitting underneath his lashes, and plucks at a dreadlock to expose a bright blue bead.
Somehow, over the thumping of his heart in his ears, the sound of heavy boots outside reaches him. He freezes, eyes locking onto the glass door and the shadow growing taller on the wall outside. Someone’s coming, friend or foe, he’s no idea.
He should hide.
He does hide, scrambling under the metal table and tucking himself into a tight ball. Arms wrapped around his knees, shoulders drawn up to make himself smaller. Eyes peeking over his wrists as the boots stop at the door, and wait for it to slide open. It’s soundless, and creepy as anything.
The leather boots creak with the first step over the threshold. His eyes widen at the edge of camouflage pants he spies, his heart thrashing a little bit harder against his ribcage. He still doesn’t know why.
In the seconds between the boots stepping away from the door, and it sliding shut, he makes a lunge for freedom. Scrambling out from under the table and going for the corridor.
“Hey, woah easy!” the person snaps.
He’s grabbed from behind, lifted boldly from the floor even as he kicks and flails. The person holding onto him grunts when he digs an elbow into their gut, before throwing him back onto the metal table and holding him down. He could get away from it, digging his nails into the wrist and wriggling, but he just sees the door sliding shut again.
He wouldn’t get out even if he tried to kick it down.
The man holding him is also much, much bigger than he is. He doesn’t doubt his own skills at evasion, but two steps and he’d be right back where he started. The guy is also a Na’vi, but he’s wearing clothes, so he must be an Avatar then…
Or something else?
He’s only ever seen a few Avatar’s in his life, and one of them is N–
A sharp, quick pain makes him hiss. His hand slips from its wrenching hold, and the man takes that as a sign that he’s finished fighting, stepping back from the table with his arms out. Like any resistance wouldn’t be futile.
“We cool?” the man asks, his whole body still tense. Wary of him lunging for the door.
He stays right where he is, pushing back up so that he’s not hanging half off the table. The cold metal bites into his fingers. He nods, watching as the man takes a knee, placing them at eye level.
“Kid, you got heart,” the man says, and he frowns at him. That’s not what he was expecting. Although, he’s not sure what he was expecting anyway. Maybe some kind of hostility, seeing as it’s looking like he’s a prisoner.
“The science pukes leaned on you pretty hard,” the man continues, “but you gave them nothin’. Shows you got guts. I like that.”
Why would the scientists lean on him? That’s not really gonna do anything other than make him uncomfortable. He’s starting to think this guy might be a bit cracked in the head. Everything about him also just screams alpha male, which makes it even more uncomfortable.
He just manages to keep the sneer off his face, although he does let himself cross his arms. And stare, mulishly.
The man shuffles at his silence, just a small twitch of the hand resting on his knee, but it’s enough of a tell. He makes an aborted noise before reaching into a pocket of his vest.
“I want you to have something,” he says, snatching his hand before he can shuffle away, turning it upright so that when he drops the chains and metal pieces, they don’t immediately slide to the floor. They’re cold, but at this point his fingers are numb enough that he doesn’t really notice.
The man points at the chain and metal, and says, “That’s Colonel Miles Quaritch. Deceased.”
He looks at the metal pieces, inspecting the writing that’s illegible with only a tiny bit of curiosity. When he’s turned them over at least twice, he raises his head and says, “Who?”
He’s taken the man by surprise. If he wasn’t kneeling right next to him, he’s sure the guy would’ve flinched so hard he’d need to take a step back.
“Very funny, kid,” he mutters, before saying again, “Colonel Miles Quaritch.”
“You already said that,” he throws back, jiggling the pieces of metal in his hand, considering whether it would be an idea to chuck them into the corner. “Who is that? Am I meant to know him?”
The man’s eyes go wide, flickering towards the mirror and back again. He gapes for a few seconds, before clenching his jaw and leaning forward a bit more. “What’s your name, kid?”
He chuffs a laugh, rolling his eyes. “Shouldn’t you already know that? You’re the one keeping me hostage,” he says, but the man is immovable. Staring at him expectantly.
“Fine,” he grumbles. “My name is–”
He knows it. He swears he does, every person knows their own goddamn name. But his tongue practically freezes behind his teeth, his voice dying out as his brain trips over an empty space. Like he’d misjudged how many stairs were in front of him and missed just one.
“My name is S–” he tries again, but it’s like trying to drag the words out of the snarling maul of a bloodthirsty animal; nearly impossible.
“Okay, kid, it’s alright–” the man tries to say, but he flinches away from his hands, nearly tipping himself onto the floor in a desperate attempt to get away. To get out of his own skin.
“What’s my name?” he says, and although his voice is quiet, it could’ve been a scream for how devastating it feels.
Behind the mirror, General Ardmore clutches onto her coffee cup so hard it creaks. When she lifts it to take another sip, she notices her fingers trembling. She places it down so no one else sees, and tucks her hands behind her back.
Next to her, the mumblings of the head of R & D get more frantic, their datapad flicking through so many programs at once that it’s a wonder they can keep up. They’re lost in their own little world, completely obnoxious to the tension rising within the observation room.
“You said,” she murmurs, keeping her gaze locked on the kid as he crawls back underneath the table, “that this would be a quick, painless, easy method to getting what I want.”
The scientist doesn’t stop tapping against the screen of their datapad. The Private beside her hunches his shoulders, and Quaritch stands like a menacing sentinel right next to the door.
She’s surprised he has taken this so well, considering the other shit that’s been piled on top of him these last few days. Complete body change notwithstanding.
“It usually is,” the scientist replies, “and this time would’ve been no different. But with our previous test subjects, they gave us what we wanted. Easily, and quickly, once they realised there was no way to keep the information from us. This boy fought back until the last second, and we got nothing.”
They sound too happy about that, she thinks.
“What does this mean, exactly?” she asks, refraining from giving into her banal instinctive want to punch them.
“We’ve got a gnarly case of amnesia on our hands! Seems the machine focused a little too much on the kids prefrontal cortex,” they reply.
“We can see that,” she says, finally swivelling on her heel to pin them with an unimpressed look. “I’m asking what this means about my operation. Will you be able to fix this?”
They suck air through their teeth, gaze still locked on their datapad screen and completely oblivious to her ire. “Well,” they say, dragging the word out, “possibly! I would need to take scans, maybe perform a couple of tests. Amnesia often doesn’t last for very long.”
“That’s in the usual sense?” she asks, and they nod with a bright (stupid) grin on their face. She takes a deep breath, then says, “Very well. I expect you to have these tests completed within the next few days. The longer we wait, the further Sully gets from us.”
“Yes Ma’am,” they chirp, before hurrying out of the observation room, the tail of their lab coat flapping at their ankles.
“General,” Quaritch says after a few moments of silence. He goes to say something else, but she cuts him off.
“I’m not expecting the tests to work,” she says, and the tension lays itself on even thicker. “In fact, I’d be surprised if they yield any results at all. The best way to trigger his memory is to have him be in places he knows.”
She knows this for a fact, having years of experience with her father, and grandparents before. It’s a wonder what modern day medicine does now, but it’s a shame humanity has yet to come up with a way to cure alzheimers.
“Ma’am?” Quaritch asks, and she internally yanks herself away from memories best left untouched.
“If, and when, this doesn’t produce anything, I want you and your squad to take the kid out,” she tells him. “See if connecting with his tree hugger roots will jog his memory some. Climb trees, connect with the flora and fauna and such. Teach him some self defence if he’s forgotten how to fight.”
She’s seen the footage from the body cams. It looked like the kid knew how to handle a bow, and it’ll be interesting to see if the muscle memory is still there.
“And if that doesn’t work?”
She considers for a moment, swaying to the inside of one foot and then the other. An unnoticeable habit.
“Then I suppose he’ll make for a good piece of bait,” she says, swivelling so that Quaritch can see the slight quirk to her lips. “Don’t you?”