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The day RDA agents call to inform him that his brother is dead, Jake is sitting in the middle of his shoebox apartment, gun held in his hands, the magazine and bullets missing, the phantom feeling of cold metal pressing against his temple. His phone rings, on and on and on. Jake waits until the noise stops, until the intercom emits a low, warbling chime, until a fist pounds against the apartment door. He places the gun on a countertop and wheels himself to the entrance.
The two men dressed in dark, pressed suits inspect the eyebags darkening under his eyes, the claw marks stretching over the left side of his face, comparing his features to a scan of his old military ID. "Are you Jake Sully?"
Jake looks at them, and starts closing the door in their face.
A polished wingtip wedges itself into the threshold. "It's about your brother."
In the municipal crematorium, an almost-half-mile-long corridor of heat and cement, a couple of incinerators ahead, an old woman and a small girl cry softly over a leftover bag of personal items; one level above, a bored worker carts away a lone carboard casket. Near him, the suits pitch about investments and possibilities.
Jake stares at the corpse with his mirror image on its face and a bullet through its heart, and signs his life away.
(Abandoned among the ruins of a Venezuelan city, hands numb and guts warm from the blood steadily pumping out of him, Jake drags himself over his daughter's body, shielding her from the sandstorm hailing down around them, one hand applying pressure over the gaping wound on her chest, the other covering her wide, unseeing eyes.
"No te preocupes mi vida, todo va a salir bien, todo va a salir bien," he promises her.
Hours later, Asha finds them in the same spot, buried deep under the sand; she carefully digs him out and hauls him over her shoulders, carrying him all the way back to camp.
She doesn't touch Melina's grave.)
The Valkyrie touches down on Pandora, Hell's Gate's resemblance to Earth familiar in a way that is out of place this far away from home. The smog from the factory curls around the chimneys and skyscrapers, the never-ending surfaces of steel and concrete unnaturally reflecting the sunlight and heating up the tarmac of the landing pads and taxiway, the unobtanium mine a deep, festering gouge inflicted upon the planet's skin.
Jake rolls onto the airstrip, the seal of his exo-mask pressing, smotheringly, over his face. A massive yellow truck drives past him, multiple human-sized arrows rightfully imbedded into its tires. He reaches the chain-link tunnel leading up into the compound, three soldiers keeping guard on the incoming personnel; one of them, pasty-white and shiny-bald, points out Jake to his buddies, snickering. "I've seen a lotta guys leave this place in a wheelchair. Never seen anybody show up in one."
Another one shakes his head. "Oh man, that is just wrong."
Jake silently passes them by as the three idiots look at each other, cackling at him--
A yellow-purple reptilian creature with four wings and a scorpion-like tail crashes into the wire mesh behind them, screeching and trashing, stinger reaching for one of the soldiers--
They turn around, raising their shotguns and rifles, ready to fire--
Jake slips Bald Head's handgun from its holster and shoots the creature down with a single, clean shot. It's body crumples to the ground. Red spatter floats inches from his face, staining the clear Perspex mask. A drop slides down to his chin, streaking his remaining vision.
The three soldiers stare at him, guns still aimed in front of them.
He slaps the handgun against Bald Head's chest, glaring at him through the patches. "What are you limpdicks starin’ at?"
Bald Head catches the gun, stumbling back, frowning; he clips the handgun back in its holster, hesitantly shooing him away. "Keep moving, hot rod. Don't make everybody wait for you."
(He writes a single, short message to Asha, mere hours before his departure.
to: Mayday, 07/28/2148 5:42 AM
> I'm going to Pandora
He disassembles his phone, throws its components into the trash, and enters the medical center.)
Tommy's avatar twitches in its artificial womb, alive and healthy, heartbeat loud and strong even through the amniotic fluid, the synapsis in its brain completely void of conscience.
(Jake wakes up on a sweat-soaked mattress, feverish and nauseous, breath laborious and wheezing even through the endotracheal tube, the dead point in his spine an excruciating realization.)
It opens its eyes one day later, under Jake's control. The masked faces of the medical technicians come slowly into focus, their voices echoing as they call his name to get his attention. They flash a light into his eyes, snap their fingers near his ear.
"Pupillary reflex is good. Pinna response normal."
("Damage to the L1 vertebra. Possible paraplegia.")
He and Norm sits up on the gurneys, touch their thumb to their fingers, close their eyes as the techs poke them with sharp and blunt objects, get tapped him with a hammer to check their reflexes, stand up and balance as they walk a straight line on the floor, twist and bend to test their his range of motion, all the while ECG leads monitor their vital signs and an EEG measures their brain activity.
(He is bed-ridden for weeks as his body stabilizes, as his muscles spasm and nerve pain flares up unexpectedly, as the nurses prevent blood clots and pressure sores from inactivity, as his physical therapist teaches him how to stretch so that his muscles don't tighten up, and then struggles through everyday life as he purchases a wheelchair and learn once again how to perform the most mundane of daily tasks.)
Outside, the air is crisp and fresh, the soil soft and rich under their feet. Norm disappears among the training structures, attempting to impress the other avatar drivers.
Jake feels the sun on his face, for the fist time in years, and breathes.
(Dirt sicks under his fingernails, lingering like sand and ash, and he doesn't wash it away.)
Colonel Miles Quaritch was an Infantry Marine fighting in the United States Marine Corps' First Reconnaissance Battalion.
(Corporal Jake Sully was a Recon Marine assigned to the United States Marine Corps' First Reconnaissance Battalion.)
It's cropped-short white hairs with dark highlights, it's ice-blue eye that lock onto their target, it's military camo pants and the statue of liberty engraved on a gun holster, it's a diving eagle with talons outstretched tattooed on a muscular bicep.
(It's dark-brown hair shaved off along the sides, it's sky-blue eyes gazing at the world in wonder, it's a yellow wheelchair and a jaguar tooth hanging from a rope necklace, it's a flock of sparrows flying among the clouds depicted onto an old t-shirt.)
It's three scars given by Death herself on a planet not your own, that kills intruders with the same poisonous air that makes its creatures thrive, facing beasts stronger and faster than yourself and winning with tools made of metal and fire, mutilating the flesh of a vast organism you could never comprehend.
(It's three claw marks imprinted on your skin by the same planet that fathered you, absent and foul and poisoning with every breath, facing something as wounded and desperate as yourself and fighting to protect something far more precious than your own life, never blaming an animal for needing to survive.)
It's the difference between a couple of years, a couple of scars, and the person you are today.
(It's a warped reflection staring at you in a shattered mirror.)
Quaritch stands in an Armor Bay full of heavy-duty artillery and contemplates Jake's legs. "You got some heart kid, showing up in this neighborhood."
(Jake sits is a too-quiet apartment and tries to remember what his daughter's voice sounds like. "I figured it's just another hellhole.")
Quaritch snorts. "I pulled your record, Corporal. Venezuela, that was some mean bush. Nothing like this here though. However--" he marches up to one of the AMP suits, examining the joints and frame-- "a recon gyrene in an avatar body? That's a potent mix. Give me the goose bumps. You could provide the intel I need, right on the ground, right in the hostiles’ camp."
(Jake rolls up to the hydraulic ramp, swerving around the hubbub of giant metal feet an heavily-loaded carts prepping all around him. "Am I still with Augustine?")
Quaritch climbs into the suit, strapping into the seat, adjusting the controls, a second skin of metal and wires. "On paper. You walk like one of her science pukes, you quack like one, but you report to me. This is my war, here. I need to know how I can force the savage's cooperation, or hit ‘em hard if they don’t." He looks at Jake. "Maybe you can keep some of my boys from going home like you. Or bagged-and-tagged."
(Inside the longhouse, a blue body of meat and bones sleeps undisturbed, awaiting to wake.)
"This low gravity will make you soft, son. You get soft, Pandora will shit you out dead with zero warning."
(Inside the medical facility, Captain Paz Socorro gives birth to a child with no father and the name of a ghost.)
Quaritch fires up the AMP suit and ambles forward, mock-punching the air, flawlessly pivoting and balancing on rigid metal joints. He turns to Jake, hands resting on his hips, a triumphant smirk adorning his face. "Look, Sully, I take care of my own. You get me what I need, I'll see to it you get your legs back when you rotate home. Your real legs."
(Inside his apartment, in a cardboard box hidden under the bedframe, rests an abandoned manila folder with half-filled adoption papers inside, Melina's new legal name permanently smudged by tearstains that never really dried. "That sounds real good, sir.")
Doctor Grace Augustine looks into Tommy's face and finds an impostor instead.
"I know who you are, and I don't need you. I need your brother, the PhD who trained three years for this mission, not another trigger-happy asshole."
(The abandoned school is haunted with silence, the stingbats and vines fighting to reclaim the loss filling the space, the Lorax's orange face smiling at them from a dusty book forgotten on the ground, a wake of bullet holes scattered on a chalkboard amidst a chart of alphabet letters.)
Max leans down near his ear, whispering conspiratorially.
"Don't mind her. She likes plants far better than people."
(Melina giggles loudly, held in Jake's dirt-coated arms, swaddled into his military gear, breathing in the smell of fuel oil and gunpowder, chubby arms reaching up toward his face, tiny hands scratching playfully at his growing stubble, faithful in his defense even during a bombardment.)
She takes a drag from her cigarette, thick smoke curling around her.
"A scientist stays objective. We can't be ruled by emotion."
(Red and purple crayon unicorns with far too many feet prance along a blue field of white flowers stretching between two giant trees, lines messy with excitement, colors mixing at the edges, bound inside the edges of a crinkled paper sheet as Jake swallows down another shot.)
At night, in the seclusion of the mobile shack, Grace looks at old, faded photographs, and wears a gifted, crooked necklace.
"I poured ten years of my life into that school. They called me sa’nok. Mother. That kind of pain reaches back through the link."
(His second morning on Pandora, two weeks and two years removed from his brother and his daughter, Jake links to his avatar for the second time, tracing the glowing freckles on its face that have shifted overnight, following the phantom path of a scar it never had to endure.)
Trudy's Samson lands in a small clearing, it's downwash flattening the nearby vegetation. Jake jumps off the craft, scanning the surrounding forest, machine gun aimed in front of him, the chopping of the rotor blades and the rumble of the turbines shutting off behind him.
Grace and Norm disembark. Wainfleet follows after them; Grace reaches out a hand to stop him. "Stay with the ship. One idiot with a gun’s enough."
Wainfleet looks at her, then to Jake, and lowers his machine gun. "You the man, Doc."
The forest buzzes with silence. A network of roots and leaves shelters them as they delve deeper into the wilderness, bright stripes of sunlight shining through the gaps, plants swaying in the gentle breeze, the grass crunching underfoot. In front of him, Grace escorts them through the steep terrain, steps nimble and steady; behind him, Norm trips and stumbles through the trees, arms and legs half-covered in mud. A group of curious prolemuris swing from the branches, chittering at them.
"Keep up guys, we haven't got all day here!"
After almost one hour of walking, Grace leads them to a curtain of giant leaves, their drooping branches hanging between two trees, one hand pushing the leaves aside, the other beckoning Norm closer, resting on his shoulder to guide his gaze, whispering, "Right there."
Jake steps closer and peers through the gaps.
A new clearing opens up in the middle of the forest: the lush undergrowth gives way to dirt and sand, a small herd of titanotheres resting peacefully around a watering hole on the leftmost edge of it; opposite to them, a massive fallen trunk creates a natural barrier, new branches and plants growing on top of it, its roots arching through the air and anchoring back into the ground, naturally fencing off the right side of the clearing.
Norm leans closer to the leaves, eyes glittering, mesmerized. "Whoa."
Grace chuckles. "Amazing, isn't it?"
A baby titanothere toddles into the empty space and Norm gasps as it drags it's soft hammerhead along the ground, the cartilaginous structure bending slightly as it digs tracks into the dirt. Grace shakes Norm's shoulders, open smile and eyebrows raised in delighted excitement. "I've never seen a juvenile this young!" She grabs her multiscreen from where it hangs around her neck and turns it on, gaze never wavering from the small creature as she stalks in long strides up to a bigger opening in the foliage. "I need to record this."
Norm follows her, crouching down to attenuate the sound of his footsteps. He takes his own multiscreen from his pack and starts snapping grainy, zoomed-in photos of the titanothere, moving the camera left and right, up and down, to see over the vegetation. He groans and shifts outside of the tree-line.
A single twig snaps under his boot with a dry, resounding crack.
Norm freezes. The head of an adult titanothere lounging near the watering hole snaps upright, its focus immediately trained on Norm's half-exposed figure.
Jake shoulders his machine gun, ears pinned back on his skull, hissing through gritted teeth, "Norm, get back here!"
Grace hurries closer. "Don't shoot. Don't shoot, you'll piss her off."
The titanothere sniffs the air.
Jake's fingers brace over the trigger. "That thing's going to turn Norm into human paste."
"Jake, that armor’s too thick. Trust me."
He doesn't stop aiming.
Norm twitches, petrified.
The baby titanothere trumpets, and the the mother relaxes, lying back on the ground with a huff, closing her eyes to sleep.
They all exhale. Muscles go lax and numb, Jake's hands loosening from their tight grip, fingers cramping from the strain. Norm takes a big, filling gulp of air, whole ribcage expanding with it, staring analytically at the dozing beast, and steps completely into the clearing.
Grace remains hidden in the foliage, shooting her own photographs in silence as Jake walks to the right side of the empty clearing, closer to the roots of the fallen trunk, getting a better view of Norm stretched out across the ground, recording the baby titanothere now rolling into the mud.
A palm-sized, cotton-white, jellyfish-like bug flutters out of the bushes, brushing over Jake's arms, its touch feather-light, reaching up toward his face, bobbing near his nose, thin appendages swimming in the air, glowing softly in the sunlight's shade. He looks at it, transfixed.
Something rustles among the trees; a prolemuris call echoes in the distance.
"Fuck-- JAKE!"
His head snaps back to the clearing. Norm is scrambling upright, staring up at the vegetation covering the fallen tree, tail lashing behind him, the startled titanothere running back to it's herd--
A shadow of Death leaps out of the forest, powerful frame landing in the middle of the clearing, ground shaking from the impact, lean muscles rippling under sleek, dark skin, claws tearing into the dirt, needle-sharp teeth bared in a snarl, primal and mean, roaring at the titanotheres as they flare crests and close ranks, an impenetrable barrier. It growls, something wrathful bleeding under the rumble, and turns toward Norm.
Jake shoots.
Bullets ricochet off the thick hide, the thanator shaking off the itch, twisting to snarl at him. Norm's hands tremble at his sides, tail wrapped tightly around his leg, legs frozen on the spot, unblinking eyes staring into the thanator's pupils, an inviting morsel ready to eat.
The thanator crouches, tenses--
Jake rushes, heartbeat in his ear and unbalanced footing as he dives for Norm, grabbing his shirt and the strap of his backpack, entire body weight knocking them over and down to the ground--
Powerful jaws snap inches from their heads--
"NO--!"
Jake stumbles upright, arm and side throbbing, smeared with mud, metal knife strapped to his hip, the thanator growling and snarling, riled-up and feral, Grace in front of it, one step out of the tree-line, eyes wide and hands clamped over her mouth, digging into her cheeks--
He lounges, leaps, grabs onto the thanator's shoulder, and stabs the knife between its joints.
"RUN!"
The thanator roars, rearing and buckling, Grace rushing at Norm's side, dragging him away--
"Go, let's go!"
The thanator tracks the movement--
Jake hoists himself up and bites into the cartilage of the head plates in front of him.
A pair of blue tail disappears into the vegetation as the thanator slams against a tree, the impact dislodging Jake from its back and sending him crashing into the ground; the thanator roars, lunging for him--
Jake screams in tandem with the sharp rat-a-tat-tat of the machine gun, the thanator skidding to a stop and rearing back, paws clawing at the air, shielding its face. He scrambles upright, body aching and smarting and red and purple and muddy and blue, dashing into the forest, leaping over roots and skidding between trees, heart drumming in his throat, branches lashing at his skin, the thanator chasing behind him, leading it away from Norm and Grace and Trudy and Wainfleet, giving them time to get away, get to safety, get back to Hell's Gate where no wild creature can reach them.
Jaws close around his backpack, lifting him and shaking him around like a rabid dog with its kill--
Jake unbuckles the straps and is sent flying, landing into the grass, wind knocked out of him.
The thanator snarls--
Jake claws his way through the bushes, a blurred, desperate frenzy, steps thundering behind him--
The rush of a waterfall, and sunlight reflecting over the edge of a cliff.
The ground drops from under him, plummeting down, wind rushing past his ears, into the river below, inhaling water, the current dragging him away, lungs and muscles burning as he breaches the surface again, gasping and flailing, reaching for the shore.
He pulls himself on dry land, taste of mud and metal on his tongue, and steps into the trees.
(The low rumble of the fighter drones seeps through the narrow alleyways, the crackle of gunfire echoing over the buildings, the ground shuddering from the blast of distant detonations; Jake creeps along the walls of the ravaged buildings, empty assault rifle trained in front of him, dust and sweat mixing together, smearing onto his skin, the radio's static increasing the closer he gets to base.
Metal clangs overhead. Jake's aim snap to the edge of a second-story apartment on the opposite side of the street, the facade of the building torn apart, exposing its interiors: a lone jaguar stalks the abandoned space, the movement of its bones visible under the dust-white, maculated pelt as it paws at the wreckage, looking for meat. Jake shuts off his radio and strides under the shop awnings, pressing into the shadows, hiding from view. He shuffles along the perimeter, head tilted upward, tracking the jaguar's position until he reaches the intersection and slips into the side street, slowly traversing it until he emerges into a small square.
A barricade of apartment complexes stretches all around him. The one in front of him is half-collapsed, the rubble sloping down, spreading into the plaza. At the edge of the destruction, covered in grime and blood and dust, sits a sobbing toddler. Her arms and face are scratched-up, gashes visible on her hands and knees, as if she had fallen and rolled along the rough, stony ground.
A pair of hands extend from under the rubble, palms down, reaching for her.
The toddler hiccups. "Mamá? Mamá despierta-- despierta, por favor..."
Jake curses under his breath and swims back into his rifle's sling, letting it sit in front of his chest as he slowly moves closer, crouching down as to not tower over her. "Hey, hey little one--"
A growl resonates through the empty square. Jake spins back toward the building he came from, watching as the jaguar exits from an open doorway on the opposite edge as him. He stands up and yanks the assault rife off his shoulders, banging the stock on a nearby metal pipe. "Back off! Go look for food elsewhere!"
The jaguar jumps, startled by the sharp, loud noise.
The girl shrieks too, the jaguar immediately focusing back on her.
Jake hits the pipe once again, shouting even louder, "I said back off!"
The jaguar snarls--
Another hit. "Back. Off!"
But the jaguar is hungry, and Jake has no bullets to stop it.
The little girl screams as the jaguar sprints toward her, Jake rushing right behind it, bolting straight in its path, holding his assault rifle like a club as he slams it down on the jaguar's head, stunning it. It shakes its head, roaring at him, red speckles flying in the air.
Jake strikes forward--
Powerful jaws bite down on the stock, teeth sinking in the synthetic polymer, not letting go, shaking its head as if playing tug-of-war; Jake braces himself, grip tightening around the barrel, swinging in wide, desperate arcs, the momentum sending the jaguar careening to the side, head smacking against the sharp rubble, yelping in pain, painting the debris red, a single fang tearing from its gums, still embedded into the rigid plastic.
Jake raises his arms, brings the stock down--
The jaguar darts to the side, lunging at him, claws spread wide, slashing the left side of his face. Jake cries out, stumbling back, footing unstable, boot catching on a protruding metal rod, sending him colliding with the rocky ground, pulling in a sharp breath as he squints through the blood and the pain--
The jaguar takes another leap--
Jake thrusts his rifle across its chest, arms extended as he blocks its landing, muscles shaking from the strain of keeping the jaguar's weight off the ground, claws scratching at his chest, bearing down on top of him, snapping at the air, threads of saliva falling from its lips. He curls one of his feet up to his chest, boot pushing against the jaguar's ribs as he reaches down with one hand to the knife strapped to his hip, unsheathing it and plunging it into its chest, down to the hilt, over and over again.
The jaguar falls limp. Jake pants, right eye fixed on its corpse; his left eye is glued shut, burning from the blood caught under the eyelid, the side of his face throbbing around the laceration, back aching where sharp stones dig into his skin. He lets the body drop to the side, vision blurring as he stands up, body threatening to collapse.
The little girl is still sitting near her mother's arms, huddled on herself, legs pulled up to her chest and arms covering her head, peeking at him from under a curtain of curly black hair. He limps forward, reaching for her. She scoots away, pale skin and wide eyes, trembling.
Jake steps back. He looks around, his eye falling back to the building where the jaguar came from. The broken door, dethatched from its hinges, opens into a small toy store; inside, the shelves are piled on top of each other, a domino of splintered wood and caved-in plastic. He rummages among the piles, excavating a single, still-intact toy: a small, cat-shaped stuffed animal, its fabric black under the dust, with crooked beady yellow eyes and a tiny tongue lolling out of its snout and the front right arm missing, the remaining threads fraying at the edges.
He hobbles back out, crouching near the girl. He holds up the little stuffed cat, joggling it so that its remaining paw waves floppily at her. "Hola, yo soy Jellybean," he intones with a nasal, squeaky voice.
The little girl raises her head. She looks at the stuffed toy, at the dirt under his fingernails, his military vest, the blood dripping down his chin, tear tracks staining her cheeks, eyes dull with grief and green like Old Earth's leaves. "Mama no despierta."
Jake stills, swallows. He lowers the toy, fiddling with it.
She sniffs, wiping her snot on her coat's sleeve. "Porque mama no despierta?"
He adverts his eyes, and exhales, "I don't know what you want from me."
She reaches for her mother's hand, pale and limp and lifeless, and curls her small fingers around her bigger, stiller ones.
They sit there, gore and dust and tears mixing together. Silence rings around them, sand choking up the airways, thick dark smoke taking over the sky.
He shuffles toward her. "Me llamo Jake. Jake Sully. Y tú?"
"Melina," she mumbles.
He smiles at her, something small and tired and painful, pricking blood from fresh wounds. "Come here."
He reaches for her, picking her up, cradling her over his chest; she grabs onto his vest, fiddling with the straps, hiding her face into his shoulder. He kisses the crown of her hair, whispering into her curls, "Don't worry little one, everything's gonna be okay, everything's gonna be okay."
He hand her the stuffed cat. She clings to it, nuzzling into its fabric.
He looks back at the lifeless hands buried over the ground, and whispers a promise into the wind. "I'll take care of her."
The base's imposing metal gate stands out against the dark concrete of the tower blocks connected to it, the high-rise buildings integrated into its very defense, manned turrets visible in every window, the harsh glare of the searchlights glinting off the rusted razor wires unspooled all over the double perimeter walls. Jake hobbles up to the entrance, rifle turned into a cane, Melina fast asleep in his arms, vision darkening at the edges; loaded muzzles swivel in his direction, blaring megaphones commanding him to identify himself. He raises his hand in salute, fingers splayed and rifle held precariously with his thumb. "Private Jacob Everett Sully, reporting for duty!"
An armed squad exits the compound. One of the members detaches from the group, Private Asha Mayes hurrying toward him, a sly smirk plastered on her face. "You do remember you gotta have a buddy with you every time you go on libbo, don't you Jake? You can't just go incommunicado like that and not invite me."
He shrugs, grinning back, body swaying on the spot. "How could I ever forget?"
She chackles, and then she stops, only steps away from him, the rest of the team right behind her, eyes wide as they finally clock the child resting on his shoulder, the gore caked over the side of his face, the dark dirt smudged all over the rest of his body.
"Jake, what the fuck?!"
He chuckles at them, mind dizzy and legs unsteady, voice slurring as he quips, "Speaking of, do any of you guys have ibuprofen? I got a headache."
His vision tunnels out--
Asha dives for him as he collapses, catching him in her arms, holding him in the threshold of the base, screaming for a medic as Jake's eyes finally slip shut, passing out for the rest of the night.)
Na'vi warriors frog-march him through the luminescent forest, grips tight and pace hurried, shoving him forward, ululating. Jake's neck bends uncomfortably backward, trying to alleviate the tension on his queue. The dense crown of a gargantuan tree fans out into the sky, blotting out Polyphemus; trunk-sized roots keep it suspended, a massive chamber opening into its trunk, a cathedral of sturdy columns and gloopy lanterns, the imposing, solemn space glowing with gentle blue light. People crowd around him, yipping at him, brows furrowed and teeth bared, slapping at his arms as if trying to touch a burning stove.
Jake is escorted to the center of the structure. A natural wooden spiral unfurls from the ground to the top of the tree, a fire bowl flickering warmly near it, under the imposing totem of a great leonopteryx's skull. A regal man stands in front of the spiral, an open vest of reddish leaves draped onto his shoulders, a simple bone-disk headpiece placed over his forehead. He glances at Jake, scrutinizing him. His voice carries as he argues with the Na'vi that brought him there, admonishing them; the Na'vi huntress attempts to justify herself, head bowed and tail lashing, one hand placed over her chest.
The clan leader sniffs the air, nose wrinkling in disgust.
Jake's skin still prickles from where the atokirina landed on him, itching under a sticky layer of mud and sweat, bruises throbbing and scratches aching. He reaches over, tapping on the huntress' shoulder. Hands immediately yank him back, knives pointed at his throat as the huntress pushes him with her bow, yelling at him.
He steps back, hands raised, looking at her. "Listen, your friends don't seem very happy to have me here. Just let me go back to the other humans and you won't have to see me ever again."
She hisses at him, leaning closer, casting her shadow over him. "It is not yours to decide."
He scoffs. "You're the one who got me here, just get me out."
"There has been a sign. This is a matter for the tsahìk."
Dried mud stiffens his scowl. He grabs the hem of his tattered shirt, pulling it up, scrubbing it harshly over his face, cursing under his breath. When he lowers it again, the huntress' eyes widen, gasping as she stares at the left side of his face. One of the warriors exclaims something, marching up to Jake, seizing his face, nails digging into his cheeks, forcefully twisting his head to the side to better look at it; another Na'vi approaches the central fire, stone water bowl in hand, dousing the flames.
Low, blue-glowing darkness washes over the space. The warrior snarls, baring his teeth. His hold tightens around Jake's face as he twists him around toward the rest of the clan, screaming a full-throated declaration at his peers, showing Jake off like an endangered animal in a zoo. Disbelieving yips echo all over the chamber.
"TSU'TEY!"
The huntress shoves the warrior away from Jake, screaming at him, bow held in her fist, raised in warning; the clan leader steps between the two, hands placed on their chests, holding them back, barking at them to stop; Jake's face stings, pinpricks of blood sliding down his cheeks.
A voice rings out in the cacophony, silencing everyone.
An older woman descends from the spiral, dressed in an intricate red-beaded shawl, pace assured and voice commanding; people part to make way, the clan leader and the two squabbling Na'vi turning to look at her, ears raised and attentive. She circles around Jake, eyes sharp and severe as she examines his braid, his tail, his skin, composing her judgment.
The huntress steps closer, whispering, "That is mother. She is tsahik, the one who interprets the will of Eywa."
The shaman stops in front of him, holding his gaze. "Why did you come to us?"
He scowls. "I didn't came here to do anything, she bought me here."
"No Skyperson comes to Eywa'eveng without a reason."
"Well, I don't have any, trust me. Just ask Doctor Augustine. I'm not supposed to be here."
She pauses. "You didn't come here to study our world?"
"I'm not a scientist. I was a Marine. A warrior."
The Na'vi warrior sneers, gesturing at him with his bow, stepping forward. The clan leader halts him with an arm across his chest; he debates something with the huntress and the shaman, the two of them stepping closer in respectful attention.
The Na'vi warrior pins back his ears, looking at his leader.
The shaman approaches Jake once again, unsheathes a thin, sharp thorn from her draping headdress, and pricks him with a quick, precise movement; she then brings the thorn to her mouth, carefully sliding it across her tongue, collecting his blood. Her eyes widen. She glances at the glowing dots on his face. "What are you called?"
His head aches. "Jake. Jake Sully."
She re-sheathes the thorn. "Very well, Jakesully. My daughter will teach you our ways. We will see if your insanity can be cured."
(There is an indent in the center of the thin, beer-stained mattress carelessly thrown over the rusty bedframe, bare and stale, the springs long worn down, the perfect shape for Jake's body to lie in, motionless and mindless, in days-old clothes and greasy hair, counting the familiar mold spots expanding on the ceiling. He studies their shape, they way toxic green takes over concrete black, the pungent odor stabbing deep into his nostrils.
Asha comes by in the late evening, long past the empty rumbling of his stomach, intruding into his space with wild energy and a stolen key, grabbing him under his armpits and dumping him onto the ground, standing over him, smiling wide, arms akimbo. "Wakey wakey, sleepyhead!"
He groans, pushing himself up. A drying puddle of vomit sticks to his shirt and pants.
She laughs, loud enough to compensate, forced enough to to make her cringe, and she hands him a new pair of clean, freshly-laundered clothes. "C'mon, we're getting outta here."
Neon lights and flickering holograms flash over his vision, techno music warping in his ears, the familiar noises of the bar, raising chants and clapping hands and stomping feet, the fizz of liquor blends burning down his throat, the press of sweaty bodies all around him, floor titling as he sways, the repetitive motions of a never-ending bender carrying him throughout the night, bottoms up and joyous cheers.
"Jake! Jake! Jake! Jake! Jake! Jake!"
Out of the corner of his vision, a man towering over a woman, the sharp impact of a slap, a smarting bruise on a covered cheek.
Jake slams down his glass. The cacophony swells.
He reaches for the bar stool and yanks it away, the guy crashing into the ground, and Jake lunges on him, holding him down, clinging to him, raining down blows, on and on and on, knuckles stinging, blood gushing from the man's nose, multiple pair of hands trying to disengage them.
"Jake! Jake stop! Stop it!"
Heavyset, bull-necked bouncers lift him up and hurl him out the door, into the alleyway, sending him sprawling on the pavement, his wheelchair coming to meet him seconds later, bouncing off his back and banging across the street, landing in the trash.
Asha storms out behind them, their coats and wallets gripped tightly in her hands.
Jake pull himself up on an elbow. "I hope you realize you’ve just lost yourself a customer!"
The door bangs shut in front of them.
He collapses back onto the pavement. "Candy ass bitch."
Asha looks down at him, one eyebrow raised.
Jake pants, looking up at the mag-lev trains roaring overhead, and then twists back and crawls to his upturned wheelchair. "Let's find another bar, this one sucked."
They find a rave party just a few blocks away. Asha tops off his drink, hours washing down the drain, trickling into a bucket full of bile.
He blinks. His TV screen lights-up in front of him, '3:00 PM' stamped in big capital letters all over the wall, crushed empty beer cans trailing all over the floor. On the other side of the apartment, Asha snores, hugging his toilet bowl.
Tommy shuffles close the mess, bends down, picks something up, and tops a garbage bag, twisting it close; his jacket is draped over Asha's shoulders, one sleeve covered in drool.
Jake scrubs the crust out of his eyes, the ache in his bones pushing him down into the mattress. Unseen and unheard, Melina babbles on, sat down on the floor, surrounded by half-dried markers and clumps of Scotch tape, brandishing a pair of rounded scissors, building a wonky tree house out of old carboard boxes; she adds another branch to the constructions and holds it up for inspection.
"Papá mira, mira!"
He watches the mold grow on the ceiling instead.)
(A father protects.
It's what gives him meaning.)
Selfridge is ecstatic.
"This is great, this is exactly what we needed."
Quaritch tips his chin, smirking, self-satisfied. "That's what's called taking the initiative." He turns to Jake, reaching for him, clapping a hand on his shoulder, squeezing once before letting go. "I wish I had ten more like you, son."
Jake looks at the creases left on his shirt and smooths them out with a harsh motion.
"Look, Sully, Sully." Selfridge rounds the halo station, coming to stand right in front of him. "Just, figure out what these blue monkeys want. You know, we try to give them medicine, education, roads, but no, they like mud. And normally I wouldn't care--"
He pauses, meaningfully, smile bright and earnest and full of corporate lies.
"--I really wouldn't, it's just that their damn village is sitting right over the richest unobtanium deposit for a hundred klicks in any direction. Which sucks, for them, because they need to move. I mean," he chuckles, gesturing vaguely at Hometree's projection, at the neon mass of greens and purples and yellows glowing right under it, "look at all that cheddar."
Jake stares at the projection, fingers tightening around the hand rims of his wheelchair. "Does Augustine know about this?"
"Yeah, she does, and she’s on the next ship back if she tries to cock-block me on it."
He hums. "Well, who gets them to move?"
Quaritch chimes in. "Guess."
Jake turns to him. "What if they won’t go?"
"Oh." Quaritch's eyes narrow as he walks up to him, one hand resting comfortably on the holster of his WASP revolver. "I’m betting that they will."
"Okay, okay, hey, listen." Selfridge steps between the two of them, inserting himself back into Jake's line of sight. "You’re supposed to be winning the hearts and minds of the natives. Isn’t that the whole point of your little puppet show? You look like them, you talk like them, and they’ll start trusting us? And yet relations with the indigenous are only getting worse." He leans in close, hands on his hips, the stench of his coffee breath seeping deep into Jake's nose. "Those savages are threatening our whole operation. We’re on the brink of war and you’re supposed to be finding a diplomatic solution. So use what you’ve got and get me some results."
Radio chatter echoes off reinforced concrete walls, digital pings ringing in the air, drilling into the eardrums. Scientists and soldiers and supervisors fret in and out of the room, pressed shirts and camo gear and lab coats, uniforms standardized and homogenized in perfect, commercial symbiosis. Hometree's pixelated figure lingers in the center of it all, dwarfed by flickering data and empty digital plains.
Jake drags his tongue over his teeth. Four canines missing.
He leans back on his wheelchair, and stares down Selfridge. "No."
Selfridge blinks. "I'm sorry, 'no?' "
Quaritch straightens.
"You heard me."
Selfridge nods, once, twice, before his shoulders start shaking with laughter, mocking and disbelieving, "Oh, this is great. This is perfect." He pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers, abating an incoming headache. "Just another tree-hugging bastard coming here to waste everybody's time! And here I thought we'd gotten lucky with you."
"Oh I am so sorry I am inconveniencing you all--"
Quaritch steps closer. "You're crossing the line, Sully."
Jake scoffs. "This is such bullshit-- Those are people you're trying to--!"
Selfridge rounds back on him, the veins of his neck bulging with increasing pressure, index finger brandished in front of him like a knife-sharp accusation. "No, no, those are fly-bitten savages who live in a tree! Look around! I don’t know about you but I see a lot of trees! They can move!" He rubs a hand over his mouth, exhaling, forcefully slow, through his nose, rocking slightly on his heels to disperse the nervous energy, the red tint of his face decreasing a little bit; he rounds back on Jake, arms crossed, looming over him. "Look, killing the indigenous looks bad, but there’s one thing shareholders hate more than bad press, and that’s a bad quarterly statement. So just find me a carrot to get them to move, or--"
"Or what, Ranger Rick?" He nods toward Quaritch. "You gonna shoot me?"
Selfridge stills. Glances at Quaritch, standing right beside him. At Jake.
He reaches over and unlatches the WASP from Quaritch's leg, swinging it over to point straight at Jake's forehead, shrugging his shoulders with an air of nonchalance. "I could do that."
Startled interjections scatter around the room, techs deserting their stations and scientists slowly backing out of the room, soldiers on high alert. Quaritch stalks closer, hands held up placatingly toward them. "Calm down, Parker."
"Shut your fucking mouth! These people have to learn that we don't stop." He fixes his stance, raises his chin, pulls himself straighter. "So? What's it going to be, Sully?"
The khaki muzzle of the revolver glints under the cold fluorescent lights, its center dark and endless and inevitable, shaking slightly in the inexperienced grip of arrogance and greed.
Jake grins.
“You ever shoot a gun before, Mr. Corporate? Ever kill someone where you can see it?”
Selfridge blinks; he clears his throat, shuffling, chuckling nervously, lowering the gun a little bit--
Jake seizes his wrist with one hand, the other wrapping around his fingers, holding Selfridge's index in the trigger guard, and wheels himself up close and personal, placing the gun directly in the center of his forehead. “First rule of gun safety: never point it at someone else unless you’re ready to shoot them."
Selfridge tenses, swallows.
Quaritch hovers, hand overing over his empty holster, fingers twitching. Moot point, holding at gunpoint someone willingly keeping a gun to their forehead. "Okay boys, let's just take this down a couple notches--"
Jake's grin pulls at his scars, stretching the skin, teeth bared and hungry, feral with rage. "That’s how it’s done. When people are sitting on shit you want, you make them your enemy. Then you’re justified in taking it."
Sweat trickles down Selfridge's pristine collar, the revolver shakes in his hand--
Jake pulls him closer. "So are you going to shoot me? Are you going to have the balls to look someone in the eyes when you kill them?”
Selfridge struggles, flinching away, trying to escape from his grip; Jake tightens his hold, pressing with his fingers, engages the trigger--
A hollow, metal click echoes inside the room, the WASP's safety still switched in place.
Selfridge gasps, shoulders heaving. Jake lets go and he stumbles back, catching himself on the frame of the halo station; Quaritch marches up to him, ripping the WASP out of his lax grip, snapping it back into its holster.
Jake sneers. "Pathetic." He turns to Quaritch. "You say you want to keep your people alive? You start by listening to Grace."
He turns the wheels of his chair and rolls back out into the garden of the avatar compound.
They move to Site 26.
The forest teems with hidden life and chattering voices, curious creatures wandering into the bushes, Na'vi families venturing into their home, the repetitiveness of daily life drumming out a familiar rhythm, gathering fruits and carving arrowheads and weaving tapestries, a gentle whisper falling just out of reach, strength returning to his body with every step.
It takes one month before things change.
Flanked by Neytiri and Tsu'tey and three other warriors, Jake rides out into the forest, answering to Mo'at's summon, heading straight for the Tree of Souls.
It's night when they reach their destination. The glow of darkness spreads over the horizon, neon shades of greens and blues and purples; giant stone arcs crisscross over the sky, covered in trees and moss, reaching for the constellations; a natural crater opens into the earth, walls lined with stones and roots, edges guarded by a ring of sturdy trees; in the center is a single, ghostly willow, drooping and ethereal, a friendly apparition radiating in white-pink light.
They dismount, leaving the pa'li to graze in a nearby clearing. As they near the edge of the crater, wood sprites descend from the surrounding canopy; Jake watches as they flit around them, advancing and retreating like a pack of curious critters.
Tsu'tey swats him with his bow. "Keep walking."
Neytiri is already climbing down the cliff-face, ears pinned back and tail lashing behind her, one of the other hunters instinctively notching an arrow into her bow, eyes wide.
<Mother!>
<Tsahìk! Stand back!>
Jake hurries forward, stepping outside the line of the trees: a cacophony of screams erupts from beyond the barrier, shrill and desperate, warbled with fear.
“-- ALÉJATE DE MÍ! VETE, VETE!--"
Down into the well, Mo'at crouches among the roots of the Tree of Souls, movements steady and voice soothing as she inches closer to a small palulukan. The young predator hisses and spits, roars short and squeaky, quills pinned to the side of its neck, stepping back, pressing against the trunk of the tree; a Na'vi child holds onto one of its queues, knuckles white and body trembling, eyes wide and filled with tears, looking all around them--
"QUIERO A MI PAPÁ! DONDE ESTA MI PAPÁ?!--”
An arrow lands inches away from the palulukan's paw. They flinch back, screaming in unison.
Mo'at raises one hand against the attacking warriors, halting their approach. <Do not shoot, my children, do not shoot them!>
The hunter lets out a short, furious snarl.
The child scans the new faces, ears pinned back, inching away, tears blurring up her eyes--
Big, leaf-green eyes. Fuzzy hair over her brow. Five fingers clenched tightly into a fist.
There's a ringing in Jake's ears, a thudding in his chest, a temporary balm applied over an echo of grief and fear. He slides down the walls of the circular ravine, thin sticks scratching at his back and rough rocks scraping at his shins, a prayer stuck on a sob in his throat.
"Melina..."
Her ear twitches, gaze snapping straight to his, a familiar face swathed in blue stripes and gentle light. He's rooted to the spot, legs taut and aching, body swaying in the breeze.
She runs, reaching for him. "PAPÁ!"
He drops down to his knees, arms open, welcoming her back; she slots into his embrace, a missing puzzle piece. She clings to his neck, crying into his shoulder, shaking in his grip. [Daddy! Daddy I found you, I found you!]
He stares at the foot prints stretching out in front of him, pressing her against his chest. "How...?"
She pulls back from him, away from his warmth, and his hands seize on her shoulders, unable to let go; she slaps tears out of her face, speaking through hiccupping sobs. [It was so dark, and I was so scared, and then there was there was this light and a kind and pretty lady, and she held me so I told her that I needed to find you, but she said we had to wait, that it was important that we waited, and then she sung me a lullaby and Jellybean kept me safe--]
He blinks. "Jellybean?"
At the call of its name, the pualulukan stalks closer, among panicked yips and pulled bowstrings, head held low, gait slightly wobbly, tilted partially to the side--
It has a missing arm, on the right side of it's torso, the first one of them. No wound, just smooth, leathery skin. Something it was born with.
Or made with.
(A child's corpse lies under the sand, a black cat plushie with a missing arm buried just beside it.)
Jake looks at her as she stands right in front of him, chuffing at him, her warm breath washing over his face. He reaches one hand up toward her, carefully resting it on her forehead. She purrs, nuzzling into his palm. He gasps, painful and quavering, blinking the sting out of his eyes.
Melina watches him, brow furrowed. She sniffles. [Are you alright, dad?]
He turns back to her. Her eyes glimmer in the mellow light, tanhì pulsating in time with her heartbeat. He closes his arms around her, holding her close, carding his fingers through her hair, kissing the top of her head, something sticky and wet sliding down his numb, burning cheeks. [More than alright, babygirl.]
(They camp out for the night, still deep into the well of the Tree of Souls, sleeping over a woven mattress of glowing roots, Na'vi and pa'li huddled together, waiting for the night to pass.
Jake sits at the edge of the group, leaning against Jellybean, still-active link thrumming under his skin.
His brain hurts.
Melina shifts, cradled into his arms, exhaling soft snores that make his ears twitch.
He raises one hand, pinky slowly caressing down her face, mapping the slope of her nose, the rise of her cheeks, the curve of her brow, the shape of her ears, the flutter of her lashes.
Freckled stars swirl under the hollow of her collarbone, where a gaping, bleeding wound should be.
Jellybean stretches at his side, blinking up at him.
Everyone else sleeps.
Jake stands up, wraps Melina tighter around his chest, and creeps over to the tree.
The thick, rounded trunk sits in the center of the well, a massive bonsai curved over him, draping him in a pink curtain of iridescent beads, its fronds swaying in a non-existent breeze, willow-like tendrils brushing over his skin. He kneels at the edge of a root, face turned to the light, reaching for a handful of threads.
"I’ve never done this in my life," he whispers, letting his queue bond with the glowing vines, "and I’m probably just talking to a tree right now."
His voice carries in the silence.
"But, if you’re listening..."
Melina breathes, alive and well and impossibly there.
"... Thank you."
The vines shudder, as if in acknowledgement.
"The others say that you chose me for something. I don't know if that's true."
Jellybean noses at him, licking Melina's hand on his shoulder.
"...But I'd do anything for her. And I'll do everything for you. I've been a soldier all of my life, I’ll stand and fight, you know I will. You just need to ask me."
Atokirina bob over his head, playing with strands of his hair.
Pandora sleeps. Tonight is not a time for sorrow.
He lies at the base of the silent tree, curling around Melina, and closes his eyes, resting, lingering there, soul stretching over miles and miles of distance, letting them both be lulled in the warmth of Eywa's embrace.)
The day the RDA disappears forever from Pandora, Jake is sitting in the lower chamber of Hometree, under the old toruk totem, his own loyal companion lounging lazily outside in the warm morning light. Laughter echoes, sheltered, among the sturdy roots. White paint chips and flakes imperceptibly with his every breath, its swirls loyally tracing blue stripes and glowing freckles, a newly-acquired leather cummerbund fastened, perfectly tailored, under the slope of his chest.
Melina shouts in delight, teeth bared wide, eyes scrunched from her grin. Jellybean tilts her head, quills rattling. Neytiri gently taps a nearby plant, startling a kenten into spinning through the air, giggling along with them.
Jake looks at them and smiles.
(The Na'vi say that every person is born twice. Woven between his hands, clumsy and new and so very dear, the beads of Melina's songcord clatter together in cheeky resonance, the worn-down, polished jaguar tooth marking the start of both of their new, never-ending symphonies.)