Chapter Text
It's all wrong.
The Colonel doesn't know what it is, but the feeling won't leave. It's wrong. There were too many strange smells, and the uniform was too tight. It scraped against his skin like tiny hooks; the sterile environment was nauseating. Every step in his boots was painful. Every step felt crushing.
Nothing matches. The smell of humans was revolting, their sweat and obsession with coffee; he's supposed to love coffee, though.
His memories detail a yearning for the hot bean water, the burst of caffeine and heat running down his throat. The first time he tried drinking any, he emptied his stomach onto the floor. It was atrocious, like fluids from a burst haemorrhoid or liquidated shit.
The Colonel needed to smoke, but tobacco produced the same result. He needed to scowl, but it didn't come naturally.
Everything is wrong.
He's suffocated by everything around him.
The sterileness of the RDA facilities that once brought comfort was an atrocity to his senses. Whatever they used to keep the place clean made him feel constantly sick. The smell burnt his nostrils; it stuck to his teeth and the back of his throat. There was no escape from it.
There was too much noise; the lights buzzed, and nobody would fix them. He heard electricity everywhere, running machines and other trivial crap that never bothered him before. The lights shouldn't burn his eyes; they kept blinking, but nobody would listen.
Why is this happening?
When he caught himself in the mirror or any reflection, he didn't know who was staring back. Those yellow eyes weren't that of an experienced, war-hardened Colonel; they were fresh, like that of a rookie that's never even held a rifle before.
Colonel Miles Ezekiel Quaritch doesn't flinch from gunfire or combat. But he froze. He felt panic at Walker's carcass, almost cradling her remains as he pulled to cover. Even in the earliest days of his career, he didn't freeze.
The contradictions only rise. It doesn't fit.
Quaritch liked women; that was a fact. He used to, at least, as his new body showed intrigue on both ends of the spectrum. How was he supposed to deal with that? Why does he even care?
He cared about the wrong things. And the Colonel didn't care about the things that he should.
The RDA had been everything to him since his youth; he didn't have anything else after his parents died. He would've ended up in prison like all the other forgotten rats in New Louisiana. He was in the marines since he turned fourteen.
It wasn't unusual for kids from his background to lie about their age, and the RDA wasn't concerned. So long as they had capable soldiers, they didn't mind if they happened to be younger than legally preferred.
He was good at it. He never got the chance to be anything else.
Thoughts like those don't belong to him. Quaritch never doubted the RDA like that.
He did now, however. He didn't care about his rank, whoever Ardmore was or whatever the RDA wanted; they meant almost nothing to him. As much as Quaritch tried to give a damn, he couldn't.
It's all wrong.
Walker, Warren, Brown, Fike and Zhang are dead. He didn't get to know them, but they're gone. He couldn't even get to bury them. It's a guilt that he never allowed himself to feel before. Many died on Pandora; it was to be expected.
It affected him as though it was his first time seeing death.
Another confusing thing he couldn't process was his own body, the skeletal remains left to decay in that AMP suit. The Colonel knew that he was supposed to be that person, but all he saw was a skull that got others killed; it disgusted him.
Everything disgusted him. Especially the crap they dare claim as food. Being near the stuff made him nauseous.
It's crashing and burning and immolating, churning from the inside out. There's no reprieve from the screaming or the demand to be outside and be free.
It's so hard to keep himself from hissing, from whacking his tail into the tiny gremlins that looked at him as though he were a thing. The way they spoke about him was reminiscent of a tool to be picked from a toolbox; he hated it.
He's not a thing.
What is he, though? Because these hands don't belong to Quaritch. These emotions don't. He's meant to be that man, but how? Memories aren't what makes a person them - it doesn't fit.
"What do you want?"
The young voice pulled him from the bottomless pit.
There's so much wrong, but he isn't one of them. The moment that Quaritch saw him, something in his head snapped into place.
Protect. Defend. Provide. Care. Teach. Feed. They ran through his mind like a broken record.
It'd been going well these past few months. Quaritch got to experience the skies atop Cupcake, explore parts of Pandora and grow with his team. He even managed to get Spider to start teaching him better na'vi.
His southern accent is thick and stubborn. It makes the language harder to pronounce.
"To be anywhere but here," the Recom said, leaning against the cold, dead wall.
It was too claustrophobic. Has he got claustrophobia? That sucks.
His boy stayed curled against the wall, covering himself with the thin, itchy blanket provided in their quarters. They were meant to ride out tomorrow and search the islands.
He was explicitly ordered to use lethal force if the natives didn't comply. If it was Parker, Quaritch could've talked his way out of it. However, Ardmore's an immovable object; she won't settle for less than scalped corpses.
If Ardmore decided that Spider was in the way, she would take him away. There's only so much that Quaritch can do.
Even in his old life, Quaritch was somewhat sympathetic to the na'vi. He had a job to do, as did they. It started like that, at least. After burying so many good men, women and in-between, he lost much compassion for the natives.
Quaritch especially recalled a young science puke, Merîvan Heliz, a fresh-faced Kurdish girl who couldn't have been older than twenty-three.
She was supposed to be with Grace's posse, but Heliz got ordered to accompany a mining entourage - something about a suspicious plant. He never understood botany; that was Augustine's niche.
He remembered getting an urgent call that they were getting attacked. Those weren't fighters or soldiers; those people were only a threat to rocks and bugs that squatted in the dirt. He knew some of them, he knew of their families and their aspirations to get out of the RDA's bullshit.
Contrary to what Augustine liked to proclaim, the na'vi aren't a treehugger monolith. Different clans are like separate species.
Heliz was unfortunate enough to meet the wrath of the Ayroa. A particularly nasty group of blues that even the mighty Grace couldn't sweet talk.
Quaritch remembered vividly hopping off a Samson, gun in his hands, having to take cover while fighting. Though many jungle clans liked bows and arrows, the Ayroa made a makeshift crossbow; it shot dozens of tiny darts into you. Those little needles were soaked in an agonising neurotoxin meant to paralyse you.
It didn't kill you because they liked to eat their prey alive. Preferably awake, too. They even ate other na'vi. Cannibalism wasn't on the brochure to the green inferno of the Pandoran jungles.
After chasing the bastards off, they got to the captives. They were too late to save any of them; the neurotoxin didn't have an antidote; it wouldn't be created for another three years.
He found Heliz strung up like a butchered cow, still alive, though barely. He cut her down, feeling her blood rush from her cold, shaking body. The girl couldn't move, but he saw the fear and pain in her eye - the other had gotten torn out. He still saw the fingernail scratches around the socket.
That poor girl shouldn't have been there in the first place. It was a week before he met Topaz Socorro, the mother of the kid he wasn't supposed to be capable of having.
There wasn't time to get her anywhere. There wasn't any treatment, especially as she was bleeding out. The only thing he could do was put an end to her agony.
It was one of the few times he almost threw Parker outside without a mask. He almost shot Grace, too, after she tried to justify the Ayroa's attack.
You got sick of her garbage when you saw the consequences of inaction. The Ayroa stopped bothering the RDA after Quaritch dumped juicy napalm into their village. It sent a loud and clear message - fuck with me, and you'll burn.
"Then why are you here?" Spider grumbled, audibly upset.
Quaritch felt his ears perk upwards, alert.
"I'm going to be straight with you, kid. Shit's going to get bad real fast," the Recom said, his tone causing the boy to remove the covers, looking at him fearfully. "We know that Jake Sully's somewhere in an archipelago - our orders are to search villages for him, explicitly with lethal force. People will die. And you'll have to be our translator."
"I'm not doing that!"
Understandable. Quaritch would much rather be elsewhere doing something else, but he can't.
"If you ain't in my sight, Spider, you'll get dragged back to the lab coats, and I won't be there to stop it. Ardmore won't stop, either. She'll scoop through your head until you're a brain-dead bag of meat. You stay by my side, or I can't protect you."
So much doesn't matter. He's angry with Jake, but he also doesn't give a shit. How hard is it to kill one jackass with a gun?
Admittedly, Quaritch was never trying to find him. He'd prefer flying with his son and squad, fishing or other things.
Sully can go fuck himself; Quaritch couldn't care less for the annoying gnat.
He watched the teenager process the information given. There wasn't any pleasant way to say it, unfortunately. If Quaritch was going to protect his boy, he needed to be close.
"Why can't you ignore her? Aren't you meant to be big in the army?"
"A General outranks a Colonel. It's like you ignoring the orders of a clan leader; that shit doesn't fly, does it?"
"No..."
"All you have to do is translate. After that, I can order Lyle to take you away when things don't go well," Quaritch stated, knowing that no matter what the ocean na'vi said, some would die. It was what Ardmore wanted; a powerful message. "You won't have to see it."
The boy's seen enough already.
Pandora's no place for a child.
"Why do you care?" Spider asked, pulling the itchy blanket over his shoulders. "You don't get anything out of protecting me."
"I cared the moment I realised who you were, small fry. It wasn't my choice to care about your ass, but I do. Keeping you fed, warm and safe are my priority. It's tough tits for both of us."
He didn't choose to care so much for the boy. It just happened, and he has to go with it.
They're a clan of their own, alone on a giant moon.
It confused him to see Spider scrunch his face, trying to understand the words. He thought it was clear.
The Colonel will do everything he can to defend this kid.
"Why do you call me Spider?"
"Because that's what you wanna be called. That an issue?"
"It's not what I want to be called. It's just what everybody's called me since I was a baby."
"Do you want me to keep using it?"
"Yeah. No. I dunno; don't be so... nice about it."
Now Quaritch is more confused. Is he supposed to stick to the nickname or not?
Let's use logic and deduce why this has risen from the shadows. Everybody called Spider by that nickname; what was the issue? It doesn't seem like a negative nickname like Dunce or Moron, the names that Lyle should have stamped on his stupid bald head.
Getting the sense that something was up, the Recom sat on the far too small bed. His tail curled on the mattress, the end lightly brushing against Spider's back.
Even though Spider is easily six feet tall, he's so small. Next to Quaritch, he was tiny.
The stripes are fading. They'll have to reapply them. Quaritch doesn't understand why Spider's so adamant about them, but he knows they're important to him. It's also funny to watch Prager and Lopez try to get the stuff needed. They're idiots.
"I'm no psychic, but I sense something's bothering you. Other than the obvious, of course."
It's nice when Spider isn't wearing the mask. It feels like a barrier between them.
He can see more of Topaz's eyes in Spider like this.
The kid got his old curls, though. Nobody was allowed to know that he was curly; keeping it shot ensured that. Even when dead, his father was a prick, passing those stupid genes to him.
"You're too nice."
"That ain't what I'm usually called, but thanks."
"No. You're not supposed to be. You're meant to be mean and evil."
"You shouldn't determine somebody's character if you ain't met them."
Well, some people. Hitler was a cunt. The man was dead for centuries, but Quaritch heard all about him from Trevor, the useless sperm donor. It'd be a good day that he died if not for the fact he took Quaritch's mother with him. That's something Spider can probably relate to.
He never wanted this. He was never meant to be a father. Quaritch got snipped to ensure that history wouldn't repeat itself, but sometimes it heals; Spider was proof of that.
Does Spider want any of that information? To know about his family? Quaritch knew a little about Paz's.
"Everybody told me about you."
"Probably nobody that knew me." Maybe he should? Tell the boy about his fucked up little family of misery. "You'd know why you've got that name because, funnily enough, it wasn't after me. Paz didn't even know my first name until after you were born."
The boy's brown eyes widened slightly, intrigued to hear about his mother.
Has nobody talked to him about his mother? If they'd met her, they would've known that already. It wasn't a secret that she accidentally gave Spider the same name as Quaritch. It was a massive joke for weeks.
Wainfleet still jokes about him over it.
"If it's not from you, then from where?"
"Your mama was into this little show - it's like a story you watch - from a long time ago: Deep Space Nine. I don't know what it was about, but Paz could talk about it for hours. You were named after her favourite character - Miles O'Brien."
He never understood it. Even so, it made Paz happy. They were a friends-with-benefits situation. The opposite of what he had with Grace; they almost killed each other so many times.
Their relationship was confusing. A handful of times, they tolerated each other for the sake of the people around them. Other than that, it was fantasising about burying one another alive. To add to the confusion, they fucked. Twice. It was out of pure hatred but still.
It was also strange that they refused to address it afterwards. Especially the second time; that was with her avatar. Geez, how much did they drink for that?
Whatever they had, he needed some of that. Something powerful and possibly lethal. Can't Prager make some decent moonshine?
"I thought it was from you."
"Nope. I suggested that Topaz change it, but she gave you my middle name instead. Not like I could say otherwise; Paz was a determined woman. She got what she wanted, especially you."
His son is more relaxed. Talking about Topaz has helped him a little.
"What's your middle name?"
"Ezekiel."
"What the hell is that?"
"Off the top of my head, I think it's a Hebrew prophet or angel or whatever - my family was Jewish. Even my father, weirdly enough. I hate him so much, even though he's dead."
He wished that Trevor died slower than he did.
"What'd he do?"
"Usual shit. Abusive, verbally but sometimes physically. At thirteen, he killed my mother. She was a good woman, too. She did everything she could for us. That son of a bitch took away one of the few good people left," the Recom said coldly, feeling himself detach from the information. "He's why I never wanted to be a father. But you're here, and I gotta take responsibility for that."
He won't be like that excuse of a man. He won't put Spider in the position that Nate took. He won't let it happen.
Nathan never should've had to do that.
Why did he do it? What finally pushed Trevor to kill his mother? No matter the answer, it wouldn't be reasonable or fathomable.
Good people suffer the most.
"Us? You have siblings?" Spider asked, shuffling a little to face the giant.
Even for na'vi, Quaritch realised that he was tall. He was the tallest in the squad. He didn't even know why. Quaritch was average in height when a human. Why is he gigantic as a blue guy?
"I had siblings. Three. There was Nathaniel; he was older than me by three minutes - identical twins suck. He joined some stupid Terra Nova thing and has been missing for nearly twenty-five years. Eleanor was my younger sister; she's been dead for thirty or so years. Scarlett was the youngest; she joined a resistance group. No idea where she is now or if she's alive."
Ellie didn't deserve what happened to her. Nate was never the same after Ayani died, and neither was his kid, Lucas. Scarlett is probably dead.
Thinking about it, Spider was all the family that Quaritch had left. Most of Trevor and his mother's family were dead by the time he was eight; the coup in New Louisiana was a bitter time. A lot of people died during the riots.
The only reason they even survived was thanks to Rafael Holland. He was his guardian for some time - Rafael even helped him find a new surname.
That wouldn't be a struggle if not for his last tour in Nigeria.
Rafael betrayed him, and that's a mental scar that'll never leave.
Everybody he's gotten close to dies or betrays him horrifically. No wonder Quaritch has so many issues when it comes to relationships.
"I've lost a lot of people in my life," Quaritch continued, feeling his ears flat against his head. "So, so many good people died here, kid. I've had to bury many mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, sons, daughters and everything in between. I've had to bury children. More often than not, they weren't even soldiers - do you know the main cause?"
His son diverted his dark eyes, visibly deciphering the words. All that Spider knew was the good side of the na'vi, but every coin has an opposing face.
They didn't tell the kid anything about what went on. Did they not bother to inform him that nobody was innocent? The na'vi were victims of the RDA's greed, and nobody would deny that, but why target civilians?
There's nothing like pulling an arrow the size of you out of a child's face. Kareem Shammas was only five years old, and some dickhead on a banshee deemed him a threat.
Quaritch watched as Spider looked at him again; he stank of nervousness.
"You shouldn't have been here in the first place."
Quaritch could hear the boy's doubt. He knew that it was a weak argument.
"It wasn't much of an option for us, kid. Can't blame you for that, though; you've never been to Earth," Quaritch sighed, his mind wandering to where he grew up. "I was born and raised in the sticks. It wasn't until your age I had clean water for the first time. The air was so thick you could chew it, drowning above water. You join the military and become part of a corp like the RDA, or you die. Ain't an in-between."
It's a stereotypical story. Southern trash joined the military with nowhere else to go. He needed the money to keep his sisters fed and clothed. The masks were so expensive. Everything cost so much, and those tours took a lot out of him.
He had Colonel Rafael Holland watching his back. Then Rafael betrayed him. He was like a true father to him.
Both of his fathers were twats; Rafael was better at hiding it.
Earth was nothing but skyscrapers, misery and gunfire. The reason he managed to get to Pandora was technically illegal. He was going to be court-martialed for doing the right thing, but Parker stepped in.
The little man liked what he saw in Quaritch's records, even the redacted stuff. They wanted that kind of decision-making on Pandora to protect the employees from the hostiles.
He should've told Parker to go fuck himself, given what he's been through in this hellhole.
"How many people did you bury?"
"I always said that I didn't count. I did. I remembered every face. On Earth, there's no space, so they burn the bodies like trash. Those folk deserved more; they got funerals. I dug the graves myself. I dug nearly one hundred thousand."
Not all of them were human. He dug graves for na'vi as well. It was partially malicious, denying them whatever their funeral practice was for taking so many of his people.
If they targeted the soldiers, that was one thing. Soldiers can fight back. Botanists, zoologists, geologists, and other science pukes couldn't. They were the weak, thus, the most in danger. Despite Grace's nagging, he managed to get an order that every quack outside had a soldier with them.
Nobody was allowed out after dark. That was for their protection as well. The na'vi and native fauna liked to be extra mean at night.
On day one, the Valkyrie he rode in on crashed. It sucked and hurt a lot. For eighteen days, he and Wainfleet were left to wander towards Hell's Gate on foot. Most of the group he was with died from the crash. Quaritch got his signature scar from a pissed-off thanator looking for dinner.
Marine wasn't on the menu, but that ugly space jaguar sure was. Despite the awful taste, they had to eat something.
He still remembered dragging Lyle's unconscious ass through the gates, bloodied and messed up, mask malfunctioning and delirious as fuck. It was how they met, and the two were almost inseparable afterwards.
And Topaz Socorro was the one who helped him pull Lyle into the building because Quaritch wasn't letting that idiot go.
"I don't want to see anybody die."
"And I'll do what I can to ensure you don't, kid. It ain't much, but it's something."
"I'd say I want to go home, but I didn't have one to start with."
"Your home's with us. Not the quacks and idiots with guns; you're with us. I'll have Z-Dog and Prager stay with you, so you aren't alone. I don't trust anybody here that ain't striped."
Keep the kid away from Ardmore. That's all he can do for now.
There is so much wrong with him, but this kid isn't one of them.
"I'm always alone."
There's a sad plainness to that statement. The kid isn't angry or upset over it; it's like a fact, such as the colour of the sky or how Lopez's singing isn't as good as he thinks it is.
Why did Spider feel alone? Didn't he have friends? Somebody he grew up with?
Though he didn't mean to, his tail curled slightly around Spider, the end flicking onto his thigh. It had a mind of its own.
"Why's that?" the Recom asked, trying to lower his tone. He's always spoken with confidence and authority, but that didn't fit here.
His son shouldn't feel alone. He deserved better.
The young lad looked back to the Recom, somewhat confused by Quaritch's genuine intrigue. The kid looked at his tail and then back to his face but not at his eyes; those brown spheres shifted as Quaritch's ears twitched. Is Spider following some weird body language that Quaritch didn't know about?
Whatever he was looking for, it was enough for Spider.
"Nobody wanted me. I got used to it. The na'vi kids with me were my friends; they were enough."
"You didn't have anybody looking after you?"
"They left me with the McCoskers, but they hated me. Nash would drink a lot; he was always annoyed with me. Every time I came back from the forest, he always said, "they got sick of you". Sounds a little like your dad."
But Spider didn't have any armour or weapons; a little arrow wouldn't do much against a thanator or pissed off titanothere. They let him run around in the forest alone. As a grown-ass man with combat experience, Quaritch struggled out there. It was so, so dangerous for humans.
Soldiers inside AMP suits were still at risk of death, let alone a teenager bordering on naked. They let him do that? Why!?
That wasn't nearly as infuriating as McCosker, though, because Quaritch knew about that man. He hated that bastard. The alcoholic was a prick, and being a waste of space was one of the few things he and Grace could agree on. It was nepotism bullshit; he only got the position because Nash's daddy was high in the RDA's hierarchy.
Of all the people, they left his son with that asshole? McCosker wasn't even nice to his kids.
There had to be somebody better who could've cared for Spider. Somebody responsible enough not to let a child run around a lethal jungle.
Quaritch didn't even realise the deep, guttural snarl emanating from his throat. It sounded like a Viperwolf made a hybrid with a jet engine. His blood was boiling, and his tail was rigid with anger.
He wanted to hunt everybody who neglected his boy and introduce them to the consequences of their inaction. They would endure 9'5 feet of whoop-ass and feral paternal rage.
If he saw McCosker anywhere, Quaritch would gladly provide an arrangement with the pavement. He'd brush his teeth with wet concrete.
It's like what he used to do with Grace, such as putting itching powder in her cigarettes, only he wants McCosker to die. Slowly.
"Anybody look at you wrong, tell me, and I'll take care of it," Quaritch said coldly, his ears flat against his head. "I'll make a necklace out of their coccyx if they even try. I promise you that."
"You're angry, but not at me?"
"The fuck would I be mad at you for? You haven't done anything. At worst, you make Ardmore's life difficult."
That's not a bad thing. He doesn't like that woman.
"Are you going to stay tonight?"
"Me or somebody else. I can get Z-Dog or Mansk if you'd prefer."
"No. You're fine."
So far, so good. Stay close and keep him safe.
Let him have a moment of peace before it goes tits up.
Honestly, Spider didn't like the SeaDragon.
He spent his life in the forest and mountains; Spider didn't know the ocean. He'd never seen it until Miles and the Recoms. It was big and blue, and its salty fragrance permeated the ship. It took a while to get used to the waves.
But he knew that the moment he stepped off the ship, there would be pain and death. It was an unhappy compromise.
"What're you doing, small fry?" grinned Lyle, the bald Recom leaning over the teen's shoulder. "See anything cool?"
"No. It's too dark," Spider said, watching the dark blue waves. It was somewhat disappointing that he couldn't see anything.
Lyle's Ikran, Whiskey, descended from the sky, landing on the top of the bridge. He chirped at them, lowering his head to meet his rider. The boisterous Ikran climbed down, nudging his head against Spider's back.
It wasn't a good sign.
In the distance, Spider saw an island. There were a few, but this one looked different. It looked inhabited. A knot churned in Spider's stomach, knowing what was coming next.
The righthand man of Miles patted Spider's shoulder, silently knowing the cause of Spider's sudden bout of anxiety.
"It's gonna be alright, small fry," Lyle said, attempting to alleviate Spider's discomfort. It didn't work.
Soon, the rest of the team exited the bridge, waiting for their mounts to collect them. As usual, Spider would ride with Miles.
Miles wasn't supposed to survive taming an Ikran, especially the one that chose him.
Sezetukru, the blue warrior, a huntress of the skies that slew any that attempted to mount her. Her brilliant colours were unmistakable; she was well known to the Omaticaya for her ferocity and mercilessness. Those seeking an Ikran were always advised to steer clear of her hungry gaze; the ones foolish enough to approach her wouldn't return in one piece.
In a way, Spider hoped that her reputation would endeavour. He wanted the mighty Ikran to defeat the phantom.
It stunned him when Miles punched her in the face, though. He jumped on her back, refusing to get off, managing to avoid Eankxitx's gnashing jaws.
When she lept from the cliffs, Spider felt fear and guilt that he got the guy killed. The sad looks on the other Recoms hurt him; they loved the man that wore his "father"'s face.
But he survived. Not only did he live, but he rode her as though he'd done it for his entire life.
Astonishingly, Miles was a natural and talented flyer. He bonded with the fiercest Ikran and earned her respect; she'd lift her neural whip to him before he even reached for his queue. It was a level of trust that took a long time to gain, often months, but she did it within the first week.
She let Spider ride on her neck. It took years for an Ikran to be comfortable enough to allow a second hunter, but she let him do it within the same day that Miles tamed her.
It wasn't only her that he managed to bond with either, because Spider's seen him perform tsaheylu to the other Ikran. When Miles thought that Spider was asleep, he watched the man casually connect to Whiskey without an issue.
That wasn't supposed to happen. It was also weird how Miles preferred riding without a saddle.
"You ready?" Miles asked, the concern in his voice irritating the teenager. The mighty warrior, renamed after a human snack, lowered her body for him. "Just like we said."
Spider awkwardly climbed onto Cupcake's neck, waiting for Miles next. The man sat behind him, joining the huntress and taking to the air.
"Do you have to kill somebody?" Spider asked, keeping his gaze away from the tall clone.
"Those are my orders, so yes. You won't be there to see it," Miles assured. "Mansk's gonna ride back with you when it's time."
Mansk is weird. All the Recoms are odd, but something especially is unique with Mansk.
The Ikran beneath them glided low over the water, dipping her lower jaw into the ocean to snatch an ugly-looking fish. It wasn't usual for Ikran to casually hunt when joined by their rider; did Miles tell her to fish?
Since Miles didn't know anything about Ikran, Spider doubted that. Even so, he can ask before things get bad.
"You know, an Ikran doesn't usually hunt when with their rider," Spider started, leaning back to look at the intrigued Recom.
"She wanted something to eat. Ain't my place to say otherwise."
Cupcake croaked as though she agreed with him, another peculiar oddity. The Ikran all communicated with Miles, eager to share sounds and converse with him. He's even seen Miles try mimicking their sounds.
The idiot could start to learn Ikran but can't speak Na'vi.
"That not normal?" Miles asked, his ears flicking with interest and curiosity like a child.
"No. An Ikran rider's meant to have total control when riding. The Ikran becomes an extension of you."
The confusion on Miles' face was almost cute.
"I follow her lead. She's the one that knows how to fly; I suggest things."
Suggest? Follow?
That's not how you ride an Ikran. But Spider's thinking of the Na'vi way and Omaticaya tradition; Miles doesn't know any of that.
He and the other Recoms are like children; they don't know anything. They've not been taught how they should act with animals or plants. They didn't know the correct way to do things.
It's not like Spider can show them, either. He's only a human.
Despite that, Miles' weird approach had faster results. The bond with his Ikran was like that of an experienced hunter who's ridden for at least a decade, not three months.
"Heads up."
Spider cringed at the change in Miles' tone, the serious Colonel taking over. The nice guy who talked to him the other night was gone, hidden behind an angry mask.
Cupcake roared, spreading her glorious wings before landing on the beach. She snapped at the air, displaying aggression.
Miles got off first, helping Spider next. The Recom team is already gathering the villagers, guns aimed at them and fingers near the trigger. The cold seriousness in their eyes was frightening.
Lyle had gone from an oblivious joker to a trained killer, putting his boot on the back of one of the captured na'vi.
These were their orders. Spider was only here because they could take him otherwise; he didn't want to return to the scientists, but he didn't want this.
The Colonel lifted a holographic screen, poorly demanding the location of Jake. The anger in his eyes was intimidating, more like when they first met. He hadn't seen those eyes for a long time.
A boat reached the beach, human soldiers jumping off, some in exo-suits that made them as tall as the na'vi. They had their guns ready as well, confirming with the SeaDragon or maybe Bridgehead that they were in the village.
There wasn't a way to claim they killed somebody if there were witnesses. Some masks had cameras in them; Bridgehead's probably watching.
Miles didn't have a choice but to follow his superior's orders. He has to go through with it; disobeying would endanger Spider.
When a na'vi, presumably the chief, started talking, there was a problem. The ocean clans had slight differences in the language; Spider didn't know all he was saying. The accent changed too much.
Those cold eyes turned to Spider, waiting. There was a small apology behind the anger.
"They're saying that forest na'vi don't go to the ocean," Spider said, worried that the people in Bridgehead also had translators. If Spider lied, they might catch him and get them in trouble. "They don't know anything."
"He's in one of these villages," said a soldier, looking up at Miles. "We'll search the place."
The Colonel provided a signal, informing them to proceed. The soldiers and some of the Recoms started to search the homes, mishandling the innocent people's belongings without care. It disturbed Spider to see the callousness of it.
The Olo'eyktan and Tsahik protested, begging for mercy and for them to leave. They kept repeating that they didn't know anything.
Although Spider didn't want them to find Jake, he knew what'd happen if they didn't say something.
Miles whistled to Mansk, alerting Spider.
The teenager scrambled to try and warn the leaders, begging them to say something, anything. The na'vi repeated that they knew nothing of Toruk Makto's location, sealing their fate.
"Come on," Mansk said, lightly nudging Spider's shoulder.
The na'vi begged Spider to stop it, but he couldn't. Even the Recoms couldn't.
Miles' mask dropped slightly, letting Spider know he didn't want to do it. Although it wouldn't relieve the pain growing in Spider's heart, it was something to know it wasn't malicious but for his safety.
To be somebody's priority was new to Spider. He wasn't anybody's priority, not even his best friend's.
Firefly stepped towards them, lowering herself for the duo.
Mansk sat Spider on her neck, climbing behind him. Though it wasn't Mansk's fault, Spider preferred riding on Cupcake with Miles.
They flew back to the ship quickly, going faster than necessary to keep Spider from hearing anything. The Recom kept an arm over the teenager, keeping him steady on the hasty Firefly; she wasn't as cautious as Cupcake.
Spider didn't wait for Firefly to lower herself before jumping off. He wanted to find somewhere dark and curl into a ball. Unfortunately for him, Mansk had other ideas.
"You need to eat something," the Recom said, patting Spider's back with his tail.
Though Spider didn't want to eat, he'd get a stern talking to from the others if he refused. They were adamant that he eats all the time, even when unnecessary. He could go a day without food; why be so insistent?
"Do we have to? RDA food sucks," Spider complained.
Thankfully, Mansk agreed with that; the man was obsessed with food but was a good cook.
That could've gone better.
Lyle bit his lip, watching as the Colonel paced. He didn't do that before dying, but having a new body changed things. They all had different traits, and it was distressing.
Z-Dog nearly had a panic attack to discover she's not gay anymore; she's straighter than a ruler. It horrified her. Prager's suddenly asexual, which has been super challenging for the guy; he was almost as much of a manwhore as Lyle.
Thankfully, he's mostly intact. He's gone from bi to pansexual; it opens more doors, even if he can only play with his teammates. Being able to give Z-Dog a great first time with a guy was fun; she's a good friend and deserved such.
Out of them, the Colonel was the only one to withhold any changes. Given that they all got a new seat on the sexy spectrum, Lyle knew he had something other than straight.
He never admitted it in his past life, but he had a major crush on the Colonel. The man singlehandedly saved his dumbass after their ship crashed in the jungle. Nothing is hotter than an older guy shoving his hand in a thanator's chest hole and killing it. They even ate it afterwards.
Lyle didn't know who the Colonel was when he was on the station; he was a surprise addition to their crew.
The crazy son of a bitch dragged Lyle for eighteen days to Hell's Gate, even with the mask barely working. It was so badass.
It turned heads in the security division, especially when they discovered he was the new Security Chief. He earned a lot of respect from that, plus Lyle's interest. The dude was hot!
It was annoying that the Colonel was off-limits to the guys; Lyle was eager for some of that. He wasn't alone, either. He knew that Selfridge also had a major crush on the Colonel.
He was so jealous of Topaz when she hit that. He also knew that the Colonel and Doc Auggie fucked at least once. Lyle had a bet with Parker over who instigated it; Parker had his money on the Colonel.
Doctor Augustine would've slept with the Colonel to win one of their famous arguments. Those two were vicious when in the same room. He especially loved their little prank war; only a few people knew the Colonel was tormenting Augustine, though it wasn't vice versa.
Everybody knew that Grace was being petty with the Colonel.
They had no idea he was petty back.
That son of a bitch learned sign language only to mess with Grace when nobody else was looking. He also glitter-bombed her at least three times. It wasn't real glitter, just painstakingly shredding bits of metal. The effort made it more insulting.
Now, though, Lyle had a chance. How could he not want some? The Colonel's Recom body was fine.
He had a tiny, slutty waist that Lyle struggled not to grab onto. His ass was fantastic; even the top bitch herself, Ardmore, couldn't help from staring sometimes. There was so much that Lyle wanted to do to that man.
"The fuck are you staring at," said the annoying voice of Scoresby.
Lyle blinked, looking at the irritating manbaby.
"Thinking about the Colonel's ass. You?"
"Fair enough, mate."
A questionable man of decent quality. Nice.
Something to be said about na'vi anatomy is the downstairs department. It was horrifying to wake up at first; he thought he got a vagina! Not that it was an issue, but he liked having a dick.
It turns out that na'vi dicks retract inside the body like cat claws. It's weird, too; the thing is somewhat prehensile and moves like a tail. There are a whole lot more nerve endings in it, too. It sends shivers throughout your entire body, a tingling akin to a match dropped onto a lake of oil.
It's addictive and fun; even mundane masturbation doesn't get old. But getting it on with somebody else was another matter entirely.
And Lyle knew that nobody's slept with the Colonel yet. They were all open about exploring their new bodies.
Nobody got the courage to talk to him about it, though. Lyle wanted to ensure that his boss was down with vitamin D before giving a dose.
"How many of the bastards did you shoot?"
"Three," Lyle answered, detached from the whole thing. The Colonel wasn't, which wasn't fair. His body seemed to be an empath. "Gotta try the next village."
"I charge extra for being used as a taxi."
"Take it up with Ardmore. And if you start talking about quotas, I'll use you as fishing bait."
Though Scoresby was an annoying asshole, Lyle could handle it. He spent a lot of time around loudmouth Fike for ages.
"Better off using that brat you kee-"
The man didn't get a chance to finish the sentence as the Recom's tail lashed against a computer console, cracking a screen.
Lyle stared at the overweight man, silently warning him to rethink his words.
"Testy bald fucker, aren't ya?"
"I'll be nice. Once. Then I won't," Lyle said, repeating what the Colonel said. The man seemed to get the message.
The kid's off-limits.