Chapter Text
Foliage clouds my vision from every direction. Normally I'd be at peace, running my fingertips along the greenery as I'd admire it. However, with the burning of an unknown pair of eyes locked on my back, it's hard to pretend to be unaffected.
My tail flicks. It brushes over a leaf and I hear something. The leaf, I hope.
I hear it again.
Careful, measured steps, too clunky and heavy to be familiar with the breath of the earth and unnaturally stiff as they brush over roots. It's close, too close for my comfort.
I'm facing the forest now, back to the cliffside while peering desperately through what is now starting to become a glowing sea of freckles. Wind brushes my bangs forth, making me break the search to tuck the hair aside. Turning sideways, I keep fussing over my face as something shifts behind me.
Metal. I hear it before I see it, unnatural square edges glinting between large ferns that cradle a...man?
Na'vi, but not quite. He's disproportionate, shoulders too bulky, eyes too small and gait too tense. He's donned on a green thing, maybe a very thin shawl, to wrap on his forehead, and his clothes look too tight to be comfortable.
His eyes....those bright, amber marbles, staring right at me with shrunken pupils. A twitch of his tail and I can tell he's contemplating.
At first, apprehension strikes. He has metal. He defies Eywa. He wants to harm me. My foot glides forth, regardless, and I watch his ears twitch back. He's bracing, shuffling from knee to knee with lightly bared teeth.
I cock my head. There's something written in his metal string head. Am equally harsh shape, with unintelligible scratches on it. If I could read it, I'd voice it aloud.
I'm three steps closer than I recall. I must've not realized. His scent has changed, radiating an acrid odor from fear. Never realized my appearance could be so startling.
I poke his metal thing. It's smooth and cold, the scratches of the surface purposeful. Maybe they wear paintings? I never knew family totems were common among sky people.
Dreamwalker, not sky person. I see five fingers and naturally follow my curiosity. He's completely frozen in fear, tail stiffened only up to the tip that tweaks occasionally. He must not be familiar with the examinations.
"Ngaru fko pefya syaw?" my tone is soft and measured. Maybe he likes firm words? He doesn't answer. He has many stiff things on, most of which I can't understand. Something orange is on his leather waist, that's topped with metal itself at the front. So much metal. Do they like shiny things?
I have shiny things. Mine are prettier, though. Maybe he'd like them.
The orange thing glints in the light of aynrrsyal, dancing stripes passing forth before running away just as fast. They look like small spears running under its skin—if it's even alive and not yet another meaningless decoration.
Without thinking, my hand has taken it off his waist, twirling it in my grasp just as he grabs my wrist. His eyes, only a moment ago afraid, squint, and he straightens his posture. A head taller than me and burly, I can see why the sky people chose him as a warrior. He's frowning, pursed lips and puffed cheeks of irritation telling me he's displeased.
I check his tail again. He's not showing aggression, not from what I can tell, at least. Tipping it forth, I let his hand graze my fingers for the orange strip.
He's warm, so warm that I didn't realize my hand reached for his to feel again. Pretending it was for the orange bit, I scoff in practiced mimicry at the stern glare he throws. Seizing my chance, I walk around him, inspecting his form.
His ears have been clipped, and his nose is a bit crooked to the side, a bump that's probably not rock-to-face born bulging it. He has sharp cheeks and a rounded jaw, fit for the slim face that frames a pair of thin lips. Soft, fluffy hair dusts his head, unfairly cut short on all sides but the top. My hands itch to touch it, but it'd be rude.
Protruding back muscles keep him locked straight, sharp shoulder blades peeking through as his torso thins at the waist. While typical of forest Na'vi to be nimble, it's unnatural to see one so...heavily built. It's like he's been blown bigger through a yavul. His flesh, while toned, gives me the idea he hasn't eaten enough. The tail makes me think that he's been put through harsher training than any Tipani.
"Ngari yom srak?" pressing a finger to a ridge, I realise his ribs are sticking out, making my worry grow tenfold. Is he being starved by the sky people?
He stares at me in a way I'd call dumb had I not known better. For the ruthless, calculated reputation dreamwalkers have, this one is really slow.
He clears his throat and binds his metal to a waistwrap loop, hesitant to be left bare in a forest. To be fair, I don't have much besides my dagger, so I can understand.
"Fìlì'fyari tslam nga srak?" I press further, two dilating pupils staring back at me without thought. I sigh and crouch.
No matter, there are other ways to speak.
Gesturing for him to approach, we sit facing one another, his hesitance forcing an awkward, unnecessary space that makes it hard to speak without stretching to reach him.
'You' comes through my flat palm, centered in his chest that he misunderstands as a knife, leaning away from my fingers as if they were a stinger.
So he's afraid of knives. Noted.
With parted fingers, I tap on his forehead. 'Understand', I try to beckon, tapping my mouth next to show what I'm referring to.
He's holding onto my gestures with furrowed brows, nodding faintly.
Good, he can understand gestures. But what do I even do with this?
I can take him to my clan as a prisoner. In theory, I should, but the Resistance has warned me of the dangers it supposes. That he could be a spy. That he might turn and bring the sky people inside. Still, a Sarentu's diplomatic spirit beats all.
So, in my typical fashion, I hold onto hope and keep tugging on the strings that work. I can tell there's only so much time before he decides to turn on me, but from how disheveled he is and the amount of nantang scratches he has, I doubt he'll survive for long in the wild.
I press my hand to the center of my chest, dipping my head.
"Haway."
He stares, tugging his lips together before mimicking the name in a thick, somehow smooth accent, foreign to my ears but pleasantly new.
It's a risk, giving him my name, but I trust the feeling in my gut. Nodding, I smile, ushering the wrinkles of his forehead as doubt plagues his face.
"Srane, oeru fko syaw Haway," and as I open my palm, I show the upside his way. "Ngari pefya?"
The vines of his mind finally untangle, and he, too, puts his hand in the center of his chest. "Prager."
Am odd name. Preykxìr. I'll struggle to pronounce it, so I stick to "Smon nìprrte."
"Smon....knee..." and he stops, smiling through a frown as if caught in a riddle. "Nice to meet you, too."
I pretend not to understand. The dumber I play, the more I achieve. Tapping his chest string again, his glances down at the metal plate.
"Nametag," he voices, patting the surface with his pointer as her offers it to inspect. "It has my name on it. I'm assuming you don't know any English..."
The scratches come with a series of numbers. Teylan taught me how to read those. Said they were good for counting and "math". Preykxìr watches me in thought, retracting the 'name tag'. "It's not that interesting, really. Just has my name on it, I guess."
102446...Tamtey will appreciate this. My ears tip forth, and for a moment it feels as if he's caught on that I'm gathering intel. Then, without thought, he glances to the ground. "Um...I don't assume you know of who I worked for. Or maybe you do. You seem smart like that."
He thinks I'm smart?
"Truth be told, I defected in hopes of escaping the RDA. My buddy, Mansk, was with me, too. As fate would have it, I'm all alone...."
His voice dies at the end, and I put on my best innocent, clueless face. He smiles and fusses over his hands. "You don't understand a thing I'm saying, huh."
I let my fingers trail over his headband. Normally, such proximity would offend regular Na'vi, but this dreamwalker is open enough to not mind it. If I am to play into his illusion, I have to do it well.
My thigh pouch vibrates, and I can already tell it's Teylan sending me a message. He tends to worry when I disappear at dark hours. So, seizing my opportunity and Prager's confession to defecting, I grasp the man's wrist and pull him to stand. He follows obediently, the clanking of his gun alerting me. It'd be a great addition to the Resistance's armory, but until we get there, the noise will draw predators.
Besides, he can't grieve an empty weapon.
I tap the casing and gesture loosely for him to throw it. His fingers twitch on the loop, but eventually it hits the ground. Now free of it, I break into a light trot, holding his arm all the way to another cliff.
He eyes the layered stones with a locked jaw, bouncing on his heels before lunging forth. With a hooked arm and now bruised stomach, Prager drags himself over moss and blunt ridges, lying on his chest for a bit before staring up. Crouched on the edge, I cock my brow, smirking at his disgruntled Huff and offering a hand.
He's surprisingly light, another warning of being unfed, so I dig in my pouch and bring some berries to his palm. Finally on firm ground, he sniffs them, tentatively popping one in his mouth. It's sweet, as I was sure to gather them, and his eyes twinkle with the pleasant warmth it spreads.
"Lu prrte' srak?" it's more of a rhetorical question as he eats them by the mouthful, so I offer him a second helping and move through the arches of the mountain. Grass litters the ground with soft soil, sprouting ekxanwll coming together at the center in a pink-green, tendon-like seashell. Grazing the surface of the younger bulbs, it shrinks in a plume of pink smoke and spores, coating my hair and Prager's face. He sneezed, pawing at his nose with stuffy eyes. Grazing his shoulder, I check for any remaining scatter, brushing out the spores in his hair. He looks dazed, probably from the bloom of smoke, and I smile in sympathy.
Worst case scenario, he falls asleep and I talk to Teylan over the radio.
A gaping hole points to a puddle we must jump over, tangled branches overhead as they peek past the "tunnel" of greenery. Three steps back and I'm leaping over the space, landing cleanly on my soles just shy of the edge. Prager doesn't seem confident enough to jump, but he steers himself regardless. Sprinting, he pounces on the nearest rock, hooking a leg over the edge. I offer a hand, and he gratefully takes it for a second time.
A worn desire path that bravely peaks through blades of grass, leading us to my personal haven that guards the lakeside, beckons us in silence. Life purrs over the edges as ayyerik spring through pebbles, rippling the water in their play.
With the little wood and dry grass I had left, the fire grows as tall as my shins, two pieces of meat roasting on a rock I regularly check. Prager sits as still as a tree, scoping the open tent with squinted eyes.
"Heyn," a bundle of what was once a top forms a nest for him to sit on, a few of my prizes posesion—a dagger, a bundle of shiny stones, a loreyu segment—glinting in the light to keep him entertained. With the meat ready, I wrap it in leaves for the platter, placing two teylu and some hiupwopx seed mush for flavor. With the leftover tsmi I had, I sweeten the teylu, offering him the first place.
Prager is grateful, though I can see he's unfamiliar with true Na'vi food. He turns the dish around in his palms, glancing my way to see how it's eaten. So, like any true toddler, he follows into my steps and dips a teylu into the mush. I hum in delight at the flavor, the sweetness spreading for the mush as teylu flesh crunches in my gums, adding a certain zest to it that I can't get tired of.
"So," I wipe my hand on a cloth, startling Prager mid-bite, "you're a defector now, yes?"
Barely holding his mouth shut, he stares at me agape, ears flicking all the way to the front. "You could speak English this entire time?"
"I've been speaking it since they took us."
He pauses, perplexed, eyes taking over my face before landing on the mark. Ah, the mark, a diplomatic gift from Eywa that became an omen of death. "You're from TAP?"
"Born and raised. We'll, not really. I was sent down a chute at five years old because they thought I'd died from a disease. Just my luck, I somehow escaped and was raised by a friendly old Aranahe man that kept me safe." Why I'm telling him this isn't exactly clicking for me, but seeing his shoulders sag eases my prior nerves and his awkward tension. "I'm taking you to my friends, but it'll take a day of walking. So, now that we know our names, shared food and tales, I get to ask you questions in return. Sound good?"
Prager states at his plate, almost untouched and growing cold. "You can keep eating, they're not death sentence worthy. Unless you give me a reason to kill you."
He jumps in his spot, ears pinned to his temples. "I... suppose it's fair."
"Good. Let's begin, then. Do you have a bomb inside your brain?"
"No," a pause, but I can tell it's an honest answer.
"Do you have a chip that track you on you or inside you?"
"No?" he seems to rack his brain for an answer, so I punch him in the stomach for good measure. The delicious food he enjoyed headed back through his throat, landing on my woven floor with a blinking square. He stares, frightened, by the implications of it, and I grasp the metal with my fingers.
Yuck. Amay will love throwing this away.
Yipping, I beckon my ikran and wrap the chip in a stack of leaves, handing it to her as a ball before bonding to her. Through our link, I wordlessly urge her to ride of it in a secluded creek, far from Resistance base and the Aranahe Kelutral.
Back in our tent, I gather the food on the floor with a rag and empty bowl, throwing it in the ferns outside before washing both with water. Prager, who's been clutching his stomach and mouth, stares at the woven pattern in disbelief.
"Your food is growing cold," I point to the remaining mush, frowning at his lack of attention. And manners, though, sky people lack those regardless.
"I'm not hungry..." he murmurs, dipping his head as he eyes the food. His lie is cut short when I hear his stomach growl, craving the nutrition. I place the dish by his spot and rise to fetch him some water.
"You've been truthful so far, so I think this is going well," he stares at me like I've sprouted new arms, furrowing his brows.
"Going well?" he parrots, almost mocking, and I choose to ignore him.
"I might not even kill you, after all. It'd be a true waste."
"A was- I had a chip inside me!" his volume rises, palms clutching the air. I gesture to the floor, only a stark splotch lying by him.
"What chip?" and he goes silent, annoyance clutching his eyes as he pouts with crossed arms. "Don't act like I put it there."
"For a diplomat you sure are cryptic," he puffs and it makes me smile. Oh, how stupid dreamwalkers could be.
"For a war-trained dreamwalker you sure believe a lot of lies," he falls back into thought, glancing to the side again. He flexes his hand, five-fingered and calloused, the corners of his mouth tipping down.
"I'm not an Avatar."
I'm immediately intrigued, turning to face him fully. "No?"
"No. I'm what's called a recombinant. They...clone your soul—not soul..uh, memories? They put them in the brain of a new body that's supposed to be the ultimate fighting weapon. 'Blue mimesis', the scientists call it," Prager finally looks my way, all sad eyes and pulled-thin lips. "We're basically clones on steroids."
"What's steroids?" Prager stares at me for a moment before waving his hand, grimacing from something I'm not picking up.
"Ignore that, just—I'm a living hybrid, is what I'm trying to say."
"A half-blood..." I murmur, staring at his fingers. I've always wondered what it's like to have five. Do they feel clunky? Is that why they like firmness so much? Do things slip so often that they need a sturdy grasp? "Can I see?"
The soldier offers his hand, watching me grasp it with both of my own. Mine aren't small, by any means, but the sky people grew these 'recombatans' to a ridiculous degree. I think those 'setroids' need to be banished from their labs.
"To your liking?" he quips, watching intently as I keep inspecting the flesh. For such a starved man, he had very elegant fingers.
"Mm. Strong hands. They'll do good work with us."
"Who said I'm going to work with you?" Prager teases, and I shoot him a look.
"Who else do you have to turn to?"
His smile falls, turning into a sheepish line as his gaze falls back to the ground. "Touché."
"What?"
"I- uh- figure of speech, nevermind."
I hum and let go of his hand, gathering up some more of my food and digging into the roasted meat. "I still have questions to ask you."
"Amazing," he snarks, rolling his eyes as his plate miraculously becomes interesting again. "Shoot."
"I already— figure of speech?" he nods, and I sigh. "What was that thing you did?"
"What thing?" I point to my eye. Maybe he still understands gestures.
"That...spin. With your eyes."
"Oh,,, it's,, a way of indirectly saying you're annoyed by something. Kinda. It's hard to explain—human things, y'know," I furrow my brows. I don't know, but I can try. Looking into my forehead, I slip my vision to the side. "Not like that. You look possessed."
"You're full of strange words," I move some of my teylu to his plate. He seems to enjoy them greatly. "So, new questions...how many in your clan?"
"Like, members?" Prager happily munches on his teylu, bunching up the yellow goop as his tail flicks happily.
"Yes. Leaders, warriors, how many, base locations, and where."
"Woah, woah, that's a lot of questions," he raises his hand and sets the dish down, swallowing whatever was left in his mouth before downing some water. "I'm not sure how many we are. Maybe seven hundred? Hell's Gate is still only a prototype city so we don't have that many troupes."
"Hell's.....isn't that on the Eastern Front?" he stares at me for a moment, scrunching his brain to recall.
"It...is. Why?"
"Did you not think that maybe they sent people after you? That chip was still active, they—" I pause. Yelling at him is for another time. "Who's leading?"
"General Ardmore. She coordinates the cargo shipments, alongside this Frontier's activity. From what I know John Mercer and Angela Harding work here."
Familiar names. So they've heard of what goes here, then.
"How much do you know of TAP and the resistance?"
"To be honest?" he scratches at his nape, tugging on the strands of his bandana. The knot tightens, and I can tell the cloth is sweat-ridden. "Not that much. I've only heard rumors and seized my chance. The eastern frontier is hell. Nothing I can't blame my workplace for..."
I nod. He seems genuinely disgusted by the whole thing, even if his mask of disinterest doesn't break too obviously. Pointing to his bandana, I let him touch the cloth.
"Lemme wash it. You'll need to look presentable. And more Na'vi. I'll get some spare clothes to use."
His face darkens a bit, though the cover of nighttime and dancing embers mask it as exertion. Na'vi clothes. He's seen how revealing they look, though the natives fit them flawlessly. They always carry a sense of pride and personality for the entire world to see. He's not too sure if they'd suit his frame.
"Don't worry. I'll do the talking," and with that, I raise to my feet, heading for the exit. "There's a hammock in the corner. If you don't like it, there's a softer floor spot by it. Get some rest. I've interrogated you enough."
Prager watches me leave as I turn a corner, ruminating over the entire encounter.
A dreamwalker, with his soul permanently in the body, that has the memories of his human but still decided to defect. Now that he has no chip, I know it wouldn't pose as much of a hassle to kill him.
I'm more worried about Amay. I know she can handle herself, but if the troupes were to find her...
A shiver runs down my spine. No. My Ikran is strong and will survive. I just need to be patient.
____________★★___________★★____________
The sun breaks through my barrier of beads, clicking them together with the wind. Prager is still skittish about showing skin, so he's asked me to leave the tent and not face him while he changes.
I don't mind it. The smell of herbs and the butter I've conditioned my new braids with smells divine. Due to being so curly, the locs get in my way more often than not, so I either have to tie it back or form an elegant assortment of bonds between them to keep it still.
My top has been replaced with a leisurely shawl I've made not too long ago, a bright orange that turns to white and blue. The Tlalim had traded this weaving pattern to the Aranahe not too long ago, leaving behind some dyes, too. It's soft, and it reminds me of my home.
My parents...
"Um...is this the right way to wear it?"
Prager stands slumped into himself. He wears one of my tewng—obciously washed—and a beaded top I've incorporated teeth and claws into. The colors suit him well, especially the red of the headscarf he's decided to tie around his forehead.
He'd look better with longer hair, but I can keep those thoughts inside until he grows familiar with the Na'vi way.
"Yes. It suits you."
His cheeks flush, and I pretend not to notice. It's probably from the shyness.
"Let's go. We'll get there by evening if we walk easily."
"We can walk fast," he trots up to me, and I bite the inside of my cheek to not smirk. He's beaming with excitement, all apprehension forgotten since yesterday.
"I'd rather you learn things on the way," he's staring again, similar to a child following the tails of elders.
"What's there to learn?" an honest question, one I'm not entirely sure how to answer. There's everything to learn. Herbs, fruits, animals, Eywa, the land, harmony, peace, the Na'vi way, the spirit world, the people, the clans, the stories.... I'm not even sure if I'm the greatest fit to learn from. I'm still figuring everything out, myself.
Still, it is worth a shot, as he seems hungry for knowledge.
"We'll learn some plants on the road. The ones you'll encounter most often, specifically, so you know what's edible, what kills you, and what heals."
"You're an herbalist?" Prager's fingers are only a nail away from a lortsyawll's spawn, beaded stems bulging at the top with flared, pale sides, pink leaves distracting the untrained eye from its side—an orange, spiked fruit, of both great flavor and use to cooks from all around but hard to obtain. The leaves roar, sending Prager back in fear as they send seeds like bullets with a shriek.
"No, but I know my home," pointing to the plant, I turn to him. "That's lortsyawll. They shoot seeds when you scare them. We eat their fruits, but they're best gathered when you're patient."
I'm recalling every bit of information the elders taught me—young children are often taught how to gather the fruits discreetly while they'd tell a tale. If only I could recall it...
____________★★___________★★____________
"They lortsyawl doesn't hate the land when it shoots," Mo'ara starts, crouching a handful of steps away from the plant as he speaks. "It does what has been given to it by its ancestors—protect your young or watch them be eaten. It has grown harsh to survive, but appearances can be misleading."
"So why do I take its fruit of the plant needs them more?" I ask. Now I feel bad for the hunger that's gnawing at me.
"It's important you leave for the forest, yes, but this one has two. Take the grown fruit while the other keeps growing.
There's a tale my mother used to say, that the virtue of patience was practiced young by gatherers of the clans through gathering its fruit. The orchids would let out a shrill sound and send seeds in their fear, flaring their petals to appear bigger. For almost a day, the gatherers didn't know what to do.
So, as the Na'vi way requires, they learned to work around peacefully. By taking careful steps, they'd wait for the plant to curl in on itself, and they'd be careful to take the fruit."
"I still feel selfish for taking it," the plant, almost on instinct, turns its head to us, listening in.
"Fwäkì ke fwewi. You can't change that you're hungry."
____________★★___________★★____________
Prager has managed to catch seeds in his face twice by now. He forgets the lesson he's so graciously been taught and snarls in frustration, flexing his fingers as if readying to brawl.
"You're not fighting the plant," I call out, frowning. He's stupidly stubborn for such an avid learner. "You are taking its fruit. Treat it with respect."
"You make it sound easy," he shoots in return, and I sigh. It must be hard to feel like a child in a grown body. A beat passes, and I can see the sweat running down his temple. "Let me."
He straightens and steps back, already panting from the exertion. Sitting on the floor, he watches me crouch, listening to the plant as it curls its petals together. The fruit is ripe, just good for gathering, and as thanks for its help, I gather some of the seeds left in Prager's hair.
"Plant these. To show your thanks, at least."
"My thanks?" he crouches, seeking out the fertile soil with the pads of his fingers.
"Each time you gather fruit, herbs, or animal resources, you must show you're thankful. All are connected, and thus all feel like you feel. In this case, you should plant seeds to show our sibling—the lortsyawll—that you meant no harm," Prager rolls his eyes, an unimpressed Flint ridding them.
"Right, 'cause the plant will know," I hear him murmur, digging into the ground as he places a large, pale sprout.
"Not when you don't show it," I stare at him for a moment longer, catching his gaze before turning slowly. "Come. We have fruit to share."
He huffs, rising to his feet and bounding my way. "Do I have to sing it a song before I eat it?"
"No. Though, you can, if it eases your mind," I smirk. He's still so stupid.
Unimpressed, Prager stares forward, all annoyance washing away as we reach a heavily green area. He's seen the forest up until now only in fragments, with trees kept away on either side of him by rocks and odd flowers, but being able to stare at every moving thing that crawled on the bark, under roots and above his head was truly torn out of a fairytale.
"Teylu leslukx," his head snaps to where my gaze lands, a ball of turquoise fuzz and bright red antennae—butt antennae?—crawling along a branch to munch on a leaf. "Their fur tickles you. We eat their meat and use their fur to make clothes. They are loved by forest people."
"Aren't they poisonous? Or, err– venomous?" despite his questions, Prager reaches for a leaf to offer the teylu, watching it steer its head to his fingers.
"No. These are friendly," he's practically glowing with awe, mouth subtly parting into a fascinated smile. "You like them too?"
"They're so fluffy," Prager whispers, placing the leaf on the branch so he can walk to my side. "I see why the Na'vi love them."
He's already learning. My cheeks crease with a smile before I realize it.
"Let's keep moving."
Tangled branches and vines leave crooked shadows on the ground, warm light hitting out faces as we duck beneath overgrown roots. The grass whispers with our steps, and a herd of talioang grazes lazily. Young calves run around and low to one another as their parents huff. Prager crouches on instinct, almost using me as a shield from their view.
"Talioang. They eat grass, not Na'vi," his ears flick back in embarrassment, and I can't help the snort I let out. "Mawey. We are not hunting today."
"You'll teach me how to hunt?" he asks, hopeful, scratching his shoulder after brushing by a leaf's edge.
"I'll teach you how to make a bow. You'll learn to hold it after."
The treetops flood our vision as thick, blue long stretch together, forming a bridge to lead us down. I can see a sliver of the familiar waterfall we must arrive at, and so we follow the tree bark. Eanfwopx carry our steps like the wind, and I come to remember Amay is still busy with the chip.
I just hope she knows where to find me...
Our steps find another resting spot travelling Na'vi use on occasion, the fire's embers only freshly put out by the looks of the wood. We could rest, but we're already too close to stop.
My thoughts are cut short by Prager sitting down with a grunt, rubbing at his feet before rolling his shoulders. "God, we've been walking for so long."
"We can rest," I assure, offering him the last berries I had. He smiles and takes a few gratefully. "Nervous?"
"About what? The Resistance?" he falls silent, aware again of what the travel was originally for. "A bit. I've already come so far, and I still have so much to see. I'd hate to die a second time."
I wipe the fruit we've gathered with a rag, eyeing him curiously. "How did you die?"
"I dunno," he lifts his shoulders in an odd way, finishing his berries. "We don't get to see anything after the room we got our memories stored. Because,, well, we didn't get to update the memory discs."
"How many rectomibans are you?" Prager blinks, breaking into a fit of laughter.
"Recombinants."
I hate that word. Dreamwalker has always been easier.
"Reeecooombinaaanttss," he says again, stretching out the word as he urges me to repeat.
"Ree..."
"Combinants," he fills in, waving his hand for me to keep going.
"Recom," I settle, earning a nod.
"That works."
"Alright, how many...recoms...are you?"
"We used to be twelve, but I think we're....eight left? Some died while Neytiri was on a rampage to get her kids back. Wouldn't blame her, I'd be fuming, too."
Toruk Makto's mate. I've heard of her name and great skill. She's one of the fiercest warriors I know besides Ikeyni and Tamtey.
"Tsyeyk Suli is still alive and active, then?" I've been suspecting it, but no one dares voice it in HQ. They all act like the walls have hidden speakers. Maybe they do. I wouldn't be surprised.
"And tough as nails. Ardmore wants him dead so she can expand her city," his eyes droop, almost seeming guilt-ridden.
"Why? She's already burnt the land to hold three," frustration burns my heart. My home weeps in silence and they still can't keep their greed away.
"Humans suck like that..." he admits, smiling sympathetically. I frown. He's probably including himself in the statement.
I reach for the fruit and peel it open—my dagger has seen sharper days, but it's still good to use. I'll care for it at the base.
"You're not so bad. And... there are good humans working with us," his eyes widen imperceptibly, pinning me in place under their scrutiny. An odd, tingly feeling rushes through my chest and face, but I decide it's from the breeze. "What?"
He doesn't reply immediately, opting to offer me a white packet. "That's nice of you to say."
I sniff the pack, nose scrunching in disgust. It smells...well, it smells like sweaty feet, and the consistence is of a gathered red-orange dust. "What.....is it this?"
"Rations. I've had some on me up until now."
The smell is artificial and tangy, so I politely offer it back. "Keep it. I don't eat sky people food."
"What's with the whole 'sky people' thing? We're both on land," he smirks, and I shove a half of the fruit in his palm.
"You came from the sky. Simple," and I bite down on the pulp, chewing happily with a curled tail. "Why do you call us...saves? Sagaves?"
"Savages?"
"That, yes," my brows unfurrow. It sounds fancy.
"Oh, uh...well, our people would call you 'primitive' by the technological standards," he seems unsure of how to rid of the shell, so I scoop it out with my blade.
"And what is 'pritimive'?" I must sound increasingly pouch-mouthed from how badly the words are returned, but he's polite enough to not comment.
"It means you're underdeveloped. Normally, primitive civilizations don't have a writing system and their people can't read."
"Why would I need them if I can remember what I need?" he purses his lips, squinting his eyes to the sky in thought.
"Your history is forgotten."
"We have our spirit trees. Tales also sprout for a reason, and great warriors are remembered," he's not giving me any exact answers to why his people are better.
"It's easy to lie in tales," his counter makes me glare.
"Lies are to keep children from poisonous plants and to lead stupid sky people to palulukan dens," he tenses up, staring at me like a yerik about to be shot. "Not you."
"My point still stands," Prager looks like he's about to pout in defeat.
"Your 'point' has no meaning," I tut, and he scoffs.
"Your planet has no meaning."
Annoyance makes me hiss, ears pinned back and teeth bared. The dreamwalker looks like he's about to run, startled by my sudden fire.
I sigh, rubbing my forehead before waving my hand. He seems less tense, but still cautious. Maybe hissing at my guest isn't the brightest or most hospitable idea.
The radio crackles to life. Teylan is asking where I am, as he knows his messages were most likely left to be deciphered at HQ.
"Are you close? You've been missing for a long while," his high, timid voice bounces around the leaves. I dig in my pouch and press on the clunkiest button that has a mountain thing drawn on it.
"I'm near. The waterfall isn't too far from here," Prager shrinks into himself, ears pinned back. "Tell the others to gather. I'm bringing a friend."
"Ouu, an Aranahe?" ever the curious Teylan. I grimace, and the recom's eyes are clouded by anxiety. His brows clash, creasing in the middle.
"Err....a traveler. You'll see," and, for good measure, I decide to leave one last request. "Tell Nor to be nice."
I can sense his intrigue, but he signs off with a happy chirp and Priya's muffled voice asking him tech questions. With the conversation over, we both slouch in relief, and Prager uncrosses his arms.
"Who are the 'others'?" he muses, and I struggle to catch up for a moment.
"Oh, the Sarentu and So'lek," it seems to confuse the recom more, as he raises a brow.
"Foreigner?"
"Dog Tag Warrior," I clarify. It doesn't put him at ease, whispering a 'great' through closed teeth. "He doesn't bite, I don't think."
"Not what I'm worried about," he smirks, picking up his remaining fruit. Juice litters the corners of his mouth as he finishes, and I make it my mission to wipe it off with my rag. Holding his jaw, I watch him puff his cheeks in protest, trying to escape my grasp.
"You don't need to coddle me," he complains, but his fight against my hand is weak and insincere. "I'm not a child."
"You act like one," I tease, and his eyes slide to mine through the corners. "Besides, you need to look presentable."
I'm not entirely sure why I'm making up these excuses. He's strong—albeit a bit clumsy and stiff—and he'll make a great addition to the Resistance. He spirals his eyes to the side again. "Don't spin your eyes. So'lek will judge you by both skill and how Na'vi you seem. If you don't prove you're willing to put in the work, he might not agree with your stay."
"Is he your leader or something?" back in my seat, I shake my head, popping the last bit of pulp in my mouth.
"No. We don't have an Olo'eyktan yet, but if I were to choose, Tamtey is more than up for it. Ri'nela is already learning to be Tsahìk, and Teylan and Nor are learning to be warriors, in their own ways," Prager listens like he's sipping every word, bright amber eyes holding mine.
"And what are you?"
The question sounds targeted at first, but I brush off the tone as his natural voice's timber.
"I want to be a storyteller. I plan to travel and see all there is, learn whatever I can, and bring back the traditions of my people."
"Noble," he nods, palms resting on his biceps to cover his chest. "Am I gonna become one of you when I join?"
"No. You'll need to learn the Na'vi way, then the Sarentu way, and then, if the others agree, you may bond to the tarsyu and become one of the people."
"That sounds like a lot of steps," we rise to our feet and head back to the bridge of trees.
"It is. But you don't have to join to stay with us. We're pretty hunted for our mark..." Mercer always called it filthy growing up. I may not remember much of TAP, but the foggy fragments haunt me ever the same, filling me with a sour, painful anger. I always wonder what the others have seen and put up with.
"As if I'm not," I cock a brow. He has a mark? "We were pretty expensive to make."
"Their problem," I shrug. "Sky people take too many useless risks."