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Spider could feel his body starting to give up, but his spirit was unrelenting. He came too far to back down now.
He’d been smart and patient, two things Jake would say he’s not famous for and collected information on Mangkwan patrol routes, biding his time until just the right moment. Tonight was a small celebration and naturally, more Na’vi than ever will be distracted with drinking and mingling: it was an opportunity Spider wouldn’t dare miss.
He should have known his ""parents"" would recognise that too.
Parents. Even saying that word in the depths of his mind with all the sarcasm layered on top made him grimace in disgust. The ruthless Tsahik and her newest "right hand" did not deserve that title from him. Not when they kept him in this village, this land, against his will. Not when Varang clearly took pleasure in disciplining him when he "went out of line".
And I thought the McKoskers were strict, Spider thought, brooding as Varang secured an armband around his left bicep. In any other situation, he’d twirl and grin at his new outfit, but considering his plans, having intricate jewelry would only slow him. He hoped none of this would jingle like bells when he ran.
If he was a tad more observant, he’d notice the knowing, predatory glint in his stepmother’s eyes and the tiny smirk she kept repressing.
“There you go.” She said, stepping away to admire her work; an intricate pattern of paint over Spider’s back and chest, braided back dreads and intricately made jewellery to top it all off. He looked befitting of a chieftess’s son…if he just stopped slouching, so Vara quickly pressed her thumbs into his shoulder blades to force the boy to straighten.
“Ow!” Socorro flinched.
“It wouldn’t hurt if you took better care of your back.” Vara stated. “Go. The village is yours tonight.”
Surprised by her willingness to let him go without a chaperone, he narrowed his eyes. “I can drink too?”
Vara appraised him. “I don’t want you embarrassing me by throwing your guts up.”
“So I can drink as long as I don’t get plastered??” The boy smiled.
Seeing him excited, the woman couldn’t not reciprocate, her strict expression growing minutely warm. “…I suppose. Go.”
I bet she wishes I was throwing up right now, the boy thought as he neared the canyons. They were a fair distance away from the camp, and the wasteland was difficult to cross, burnt trees proving little cover, but to Spider’s surprise, he encountered not a single patrol on his way. The land in these parts grew eerily silent in the night, and Socorro was more than confident in his hearing, which grew sharp and adapted to the deceitful nature of the jungle, so he knew he wasn’t being followed either. The ground was so quiet he’d hear a pin drop miles away.
Meanwhile, festives were in full swing, Na’vi dancing around the hearth and jumping over fire. Quaritch, silent and irritated, stood out like a sore thumb as he dutifully sat by Varang’s side.
“Vara.” He called out to her for what felt like the hundredth time in the past ten minutes. “He’ll get away.”
“He won’t.” The woman drank another shot of zangke.
“You’re underestimating him.” Miles pressed. “Spider is not your average jarhead. He’s a strong kid, and damn smart. Warrior material if you ask me.”
“In the forest, perhaps.” She smirked. “But this is my territory.”
“You won’t catch him if he gets to the canyons.”
The Tsahik’s fangs reflected firelight as she smiled, her tail thumping playfully, like a cat getting ready for a chase. “Oh, but I will.”
A cold ran down Socorro’s back when he heard familiar whip of ikran wings. There was no roaring or screeching characteristic of banshees, but Spider could well sense their approach, so he pushed himself off the ground where he was forced to take a quick break and made his way towards canyons. If Eywa is on Spider’s side, he’ll make it to the eastern cliffs and there, among the jagged edges, caves and water, he can get lost and perhaps find a mount to bribe into giving him a ride. He could catch some fish for bait.
Those thoughts were interrupted by war-cries however. A war-party came for him. Just my motherfucking luck, Spider cursed to himself. Not only his feet, but his entire body felt like it was on fire as he heaved, leaping into a hedge of sharp, intertwined tree-branches, once teeming with greenery and now providing him with the little cover he could get.
Don’t get scratched, don’t get cut, the boy kept repeating like a mantra, masterfully avoiding broken off and burnt branches. If he left his blood here, the pursuers would surely catch up with him by following the scent of their wounded prey. Spider would know — he trained that very same skill in himself to be able to hunt in the forest.
He could hear Na’vi chuckling and laughing at him, despite breaking away from them; as if they knew something he didn’t, but Spider didn’t wait to find out. Mangkwan warriors were lithe, they’d no doubt catch up if he dared stop now.
His body screamed at him now, begged him to stop. Last time Spider ate was in the afternoon, and he ran on little to no fuel. He couldn’t afford to sit down for a meal before his escape, taking only a swig of zangke for bravery, but finally, finally, he reached a crack in the cliffs, fitting right through with his small build. From there, it was a labyrinth, but all Socorro had to do is not loose sight of his direction and not take too many turns.
He breathed with relief when the walls of the canyon moved apart and space grew more open; wind battered these rocks for years and it meant he was close to the other side. He could almost hear the waves slamming against the rock, and focused on that ghost of a sound to ignore the way his legs trembled with each step. His adrenaline level went so high he barely felt pain.
And then, as soon as he reached a larger opening, he heard it. The bone-chilling screech of a nightwraith.
Varang. Tonight couldn’t possibly get worse.
Pushing his body beyond its limits, the blonde scrambled for a small opening on the other side, where a larger Na’vi body wouldn’t fit, but just as he leapt through, a red-painted arm reached in and roughly yanked him out. For a short moment, Socorro thought his hand got dislocated as he was pushed to the ground, pinned beneath the Tsahik’s claws. Her eyes glowed in the dark as she loomed over him, an enormous shadow cutting moonlight.
“Got you.” She breathed.
Spider was still catching his breath, so he opted for hissing in response.
“Had fun pulling that little stunt of yours?” She taunted, grabbing rope off of her loyal mount’s saddle. “You could have been having fun, yet here you are,” She took Spider’s wrists into her hand, wrapping the bonds around them as he attempted to pry out of her grasp with whatever strength he had left. “Writhing like an animal, denying your fate.”
“Fuck you.” The boy spat. “I’ll tear your face off.”
He didn’t like the way Varang stilled before suddenly, her face was right in front of his. “Do it.” She dared him.
It would be so easy to sink his fangs into her nose, and Spider knew that. He’d have no difficulty with it even in his weakened state, but what good would it do? She’d have no qualms punishing him if he dared to hurt her.
Varang chuckled as she pulled away, tying the final knot all too tight. “And Quaritch called you warrior material. I wish I saw what he did.” She kept going, condescending tone bleeding through her words. “Do you know what I see?”
“Your last shadow?” Spider bit back as he was pulled up and onto the mount.
“I see an insolent little cub who has yet to learn where he belongs.” Varang growled, nails digging into his bicep. “Perhaps I ought to stop being so patient with you.”
Socorro heard the threat loud and clear; yield, or I’ll make you hurt. With adrenaline disappearing by the minute, his self-preservation instinct took over, and bitterly, the boy uttered a quiet “I’m sorry.”
“What was that? I don’t think I caught it.” The woman pressed.
“…I’m sorry, mother.” Spider’s voice trembled at that last word; a title Varang has not earned, but at last, she relented, acknowledging his response with a hum, before grabbing onto her wraith’s rein. “Mothers should encourage their children. I gave you a head-start, did I not?” She stated simply, breaking Spider’s resolve as he gasped at the reveal.
She knew all along, way before he set his foot out of the village. She knew he would run, and toyed with him.
The realisation sapped away whatever determination Socorro had left, and all he felt now was despair and hopelessness. He’ll never see his family again, will he?
Quaritch placed a heavy lid over the hearth when he heard a wraith nearing, extinguishing fire from the coal, and his tall whipped aggressively when he saw his Tsahik all but drop Spider on the woven floor like he was a fresh kill, before venturing back out to supervise the celebration. Did she have to be this rough right in front of him?
Lifting the boy, Miles was surprised to see him conscious, despite his body appearing to be limp. He wasted no time grabbing a blade off his belt and cutting the bonds; Varang tied the rope too tight for it to be reliably undone.
Spider looked bad. His feet were a bloody mess, and his skin was clammy and sticky with dust and sweat, proving that the recom’s forethought was right. Spider was too out of it to question why, in the farther end of the yurt, there was a hot bath ready for him.
Quaritch sat him into the wooden tub and Socorro feebly hugged his knees as warm water poured over his head. It gradually eased the stress and pressure on his bones so before he knew it, he was out of his stupor, fully aware of his surroundings again. Miles noticed it too, by the way the boy took a deep sigh and his posture came alive, just in time for him to pull out the soap.
“Your hair looks like a rat’s nest.” He spoke. “More than usual. You gonna wash it, or me?”
Spider gave no verbal response, and Quaritch took it as permission to begin. Gently, the man rubbed in a natural concoction into his son’s now unbraided matts, and as it bubbled, Socorro slowly leaned into the touch.
“For what it’s worth,” Miles began, pouring water over Spider again. “It was a good attempt. You almost made it.”
“She knew.” The blonde rasped. “I had no chance.”
Quaritch washed the soap out of his hair. “Still. Few can say they went up against Varang of the Mangkwan. It’s commendable.” He continued.
“Even if I—” The boy coughed, “Fell flat on my ass?”
“Yep.” Miles rubbed dirt and smeared paint off tanned arms. “You wouldn’t be Spider without that fire, and I’m damn proud of you for it.”
After what Varang put him through, the praise felt like balm over Spider’s wounded soul. He was thankful for having Quaritch here, and thankful that Quaritch remained loyal, picking his son’s side. His tired mind chose to ignore the fact that if Quaritch truly were in his corner, he would have helped him escape.
Giving Spider privacy to dry himself off and change into fresh clothes, Miles exited the yurt to observe ongoing celebration, the Mangkwan seemingly unaware Varang even left camp tonight. The power of good zangke right there. “You done?” He called, and hearing a weak “Mhm”, came back in.
Socorro leaned on the edge of the tub, clean as new and with a towel over his shoulders, but clearly unable to fully place his weight on his feet. Some cuts and scratches were already oozing new blood, and Quaritch could even see blooming bruises.
“Damn, kid…” He winced ever so slightly. “You really pushed yourself tonight, didn’t you?”
“I’m not sorry.”
“I’m not asking you to be.” The recom reassured, taking a healing balm off of the hanging shelf, and making quick work of covering Spider’s injuries with it. The cooling effect quickly dulled the pain and at last, Spider felt like he could almost stand upright, though his shaking legs protested. “Don’t push yourself now, boy.”
“Mhm.” Socorro nodded, now sat before the fire for the final step of the routine; repainting. This pattern was much simpler than its earlier celebratory variant, which, in hindsight, made him stand out from the deserted environment much more than usual. Must have been part of Varang’s plan, the boy thought, clenching his jaw. Not even her seemingly kind act of painting him was out of pure intentions. She did it all on purpose; mocked him from the very start.
“She painted me like a target…didn’t she?” He croaked.
“What?” It took the man a second to realise what he meant. “Spider…no.”
“She did.”
“She didn’t. I saw it with my own eyes. It was a pattern just like everyone else’s.”
“…you sure?” Socorro looked up, his eyes glassy.
“Yes. Promise.”
“On your rotting corpse?”
“On my rotting, arrow-screwered corpse.”
That, finally, brought a tiny smile to the boy’s face, and Quaritch was more than happy to return it. He could get used to this. To being the good guy.
***
As the night turned to early morning, Varang finally allowed herself to leave her remaining people without supervision and retreat to her abode. There, the atmosphere was as serene as ever, and the woman found herself liking the strange warmth that now engulfed her yurt. It felt…good, to have someone here, waiting for her.
She neared a large hammock, catching a precious sight; her lover sleeping well for once, and Spider, cradled in his embrace, looking peaceful.
She never saw him like this during the day. As soon as the boy caught her scent or saw her silhouette approach, his entire demeanour changed, every muscle tensing, as if ready for a fight.
Warrior material.
Perhaps it is so. After all, a good warrior always prepares for the worst…but that thought didn’t soothe the cut of rejection Vara felt when she tried to place a hand on Spider’s shoulder and he instinctively flinched away as soon as her fingers ghosted over his skin, deeper into Miles’s embrace. She stood there for a long moment, unsure of what to do or how to react.
Varang was no innocent woman. She liked hunting.She liked chasing Spider down and crushing his resolve; the boy presented a challenge for her to overcome, but Miles’s words ran through her head. “It’s not that Spider has fire, he IS the fire. You snuff that out, and you snuff out the boy.”
Varang disliked disobedience and despised brashness even more.
And yet…she longed for the smiles. Longed for the laughter she heard so clearly within Quaritch’s memories, and she longed for this wild boy, whom she knew for months at this point, to melt into her touch like he did into his father’s. Perhaps she didn’t wish to be feared at all times. Perhaps she’d like it if Socorro didn’t expect her to slit his throat while he was asleep, at his most vulnerable.
So, carefully, she placed a firm hand against Spider’s cheek. The same one she struck when they first met and whispered, “See? No pain. No harm. I can be gentle too.”