Part Ib -Opening the Box

[ratherastory]

[Master Post]

Part Ia

Norm insists on accompanying Jensen to the commissary for supper, and waxes enthusiastic about linking with their avatars for the first time in the morning.

"I mean, it's one thing doing all the simulations, you know? I've logged, like, five hundred hours or so of link time in the last year -well, I guess it's been six years since I did that, but you know what I mean- but tomorrow, man, it's going to be the real thing, you know?"

Jensen nods. He can't bring himself to share Norm's enthusiasm, but he is kind of excited about the prospect. Maybe he'd be more enthusiastic, he thinks glumly, if his back hadn't started to hurt sometime during Selfridge's argument with Grace. He shifts a little uncomfortably in his chair and mechanically shovels his food in his mouth. At least there are constants in life, like just how shitty the food is when you're deployed-even on a different planet.

"So how did you do it? I mean, with no avatar, what did you link up with?"

"Oh, it was a 3D computer simulation. Not exactly the same, but from what they said it's close enough that it lets you acclimate when you first drive your avatar. I can't wait to get out there, see the moon up close and personal, you know? I dreamed about this for years!" Norm enthuses, and Jensen smiles, staring down at his plate. "I don't know how I'm going to sleep tonight. I'm going to be a nervous wreck!"

Jensen swallows a mouthful of tasteless green mush he thinks is meant to be beans. "You better find a way, otherwise Dr. Augustine might not let you link up. After all, it's got to be stressful on your system, right?"

Norm looks so anxious at that that Jensen immediately feels a little guilty. "You think she might do that? God, I hope not."

"I could always knock you unconscious," Jensen offers, and Norm barks out a laugh and reaches over the table to sock him on the shoulder.

"Oh my God, you really had me going there! Man, don't do that!"

Jensen chuckles. "Sorry, couldn't resist."

"Aren't you nervous at all?"

He shrugs. "Not really. I don't really know what I'm getting into, so there's no point in worrying about it until I get there, right? Besides, I figure it can't be worth getting more nervous about it than about going into combat."

That earns him a smirk. "Aren't you the big bad soldier?"

"Not anymore."

Norm's face falls. It really is like playing with a puppy. "Oh, man, I didn't -I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like..."

Jensen grins. "Dude, relax."

Norm plasters his palm over his face. "Oh, man. This is starting to feel like a slightly friendlier version of middle school. I swear, if you snap me with a wet towel or try to give me a swirly, we're going to have words."

"No swirlies, scout's honour."

"Don't think I didn't notice you said nothing about wet towel snaps. And were you ever a scout?"

"I'm a Marine, which is way better. And you gotta let me have some sort of fun, I get precious little of it as it is." Jensen gives up halfway through his tapioca pudding, and pushes his tray a few inches toward the middle of the table. He's not even hungry, and the stuff is turning his stomach.

"So... can I ask what happened?" Norm makes a vague up-and-down motion with one hand, his meaning more than obvious.

"Anti-personnel mine." It's not exactly a good memory.

"Man, I'm sorry. Couldn't they do anything?"

Jensen shrugs one shoulder. "Not on VA benefits. By the time I'm out of here, though..."

"Oh, I get it," Norm nods, but his expression is suddenly a little more guarded. "Well, the pay is pretty good, I'll give you that."

Judgemental fuck, Jensen thinks. "Yeah, I know, my brother wasn't in it for the money. Well, since nobody here appears to have noticed, I'd like to remind you that I'm not him."

"Oh, we noticed," Norm says drily.

Jensen grabs his tray. "Screw you," he says, feeling suddenly exhausted. "Screw you and screw Grace Augustine and all of you judgemental assholes. I don't have to explain myself to you. You don't know a damned thing about me."

He wheels sharply away from the table, empties his tray into a recuperation bin, and resolutely ignores Norm's calls until he's back in the hallway. Unfortunately, the problem with being in a wheelchair in a narrow corridor is that the guy with working legs is always going to have the advantage. About thirty seconds into Jensen's not-altogether-impressive exit (seriously, it's impossible to storm out of anywhere when you're in a wheelchair), Norm catches up to him, hooking a hand over the back of his chair.

"Hey, hold up!"

"Let go!" Jensen twists in his seat, winces a little as the movement proves ill-advised and tiny sparks of pain light up in his spine.

Norm immediately relinquishes his hold, raising both hands in a gesture of surrender. "Okay, sorry. Look, I didn't mean to offend you, or whatever. I thought we were getting off to a pretty good start, weren't we? Come on. We have to live with each other for the next five years, I'd hate to have you think I'm an utter asshole less than twenty-four hours after we've met."

Jensen sighs. Right now all he wants is his bed, and maybe a couple of painkillers, but he knows an olive branch when he sees one, and Norm has made a very good point. He rubs at his eyes, then jerks his head in a nod.

"Yeah, okay."

"Shake on it?"

He forces a smile, lets Norm come around and shake his hand, and tries not to wince again as the movement jolts his spine. It obviously doesn't work, because Norm gives him an odd look.

"You okay?"

"Yeah. Long day, is all."

"You look like you're in pain."

"It's fine. I just need some sleep." It's not like Norm needs him to go into the long and boring spiel of chronic pain and nerve damage. He was sort of hoping that his body would have mended itself a little more on the trip to Pandora, but it looks like they really meant it when they said nothing at all would change about him physically while he was in stasis. He wonders if this is as good as it's ever going to get, and just the thought depresses him. "I'll see you in the morning, okay?"

"Sure," Norm claps him on the shoulder, and Jensen grits his teeth. "Sleep well!"

Jensen doesn't wait to watch him leave at a trot on his stupid gangly legs. He wheels as fast as he can manage to his quarters, does a cursory job of washing his face and brushing his teeth, and then rummages in his pack for the pills he packed for just this reason. He swallows two of them dry, then eases himself onto his bed, lifts his legs onto the mattress and pulls his blanket over them. It's a comfortable bed, at least, much better than any of the ones he's had before. He laces his fingers behind his head, waiting for the painkillers to start working and trying not to think too much about what's waiting for him in the morning. Eventually he feels the muscles in his back loosen, his eyes droop shut of their own accord, and he lets himself drift to sleep.

"Yo, Hot Wheels, hold up!"

Jensen stops in the middle of the hangar he's been exploring while he has a few hours to himself, spins in place to find himself staring at a curvy young Latino woman with oversized aviator glasses, dressed in a slightly faded flight suit with the patches removed. She's grinning, one hip out at a saucy angle, her hair tied back in a tight ponytail. Good-natured ribbing is part and parcel of the military world, no sense in getting his panties in a wad over it.

"You want something, Flygirl?"

She grins wider. "I always want something. You're Jensen Ackles, right?"

"Guilty. You have the advantage of me."

She saunters over. "Airman First Class Trudy Chacon. Well, technically not anymore, but the Colonel likes to keep everything as military as possible. Keeps things nice and orderly. Chain of command works more smoothly that way."

"Colonel Quaritch?"

"The one and only. Anyone who's not a scientist reports to him, one way or another. Well, maybe some of the administration zombies reports directly to Selfridge, but the rest of us follow orders, just like the good old days."

Jensen twitches the wheels of his chair back and forth, looking around curiously at the Samson SA-2s and Scorpions he's only heard about before today. "So you fly these things?"

"You bet. I'm the best there is, so I'm the one who flies out all the scientific expeditions. I'm short a man -guy got himself bitten by something- so I'm going to need you on a door gun, since you're the only avatar driver with any kind of training with firearms. You game?"

Jensen grins. Finally, something he knows he'll be good at. "Hell, yeah."

She claps him on the shoulder. "That's the spirit. Anyway, Colonel wants to talk to you, which is why I'm here. Follow me."

He wheels himself after her as she leads him toward the Armour Bay, ducking some tilt rotors under repair, unable to keep from craning his neck in all directions to see what's being done around here like a real first-class Looky Lou. "You guys are packing some pretty heavy ordnance, here," he comments.

Yeah. That's because we're not the only things in the sky out there, and definitely not the biggest," she flashes him another wide, slightly manic grin, and he decides he likes her, a lot. "Okay, he's just down there. See you on the flight line, zero-nine, day after tomorrow if we're lucky."

"Lucky. Yeah, sure. I'll see ya, Trudy."

Jensen wheels himself slowly along the central gallery of the Armour Bay, paying special attention to the floor because this place isn't exactly designed to be wheelchair-accessible and people have left shit lying around everywhere. Tools and wires and pieces of piping. He figures that they must do a clean-up at the end of every day, but that's not exactly helping him out now. He passes by a few rows of ampsuits standing in their service racks, somehow looking a little less large and imposing when there's no one inside them to power them up and make them move. Or maybe it's the swarm of techs climbing all over the suits, loading ordinance with cranes and lifts, that make them seem less intimidating.

Someone has set up a pretty decent makeshift gym at the end of the row. It's mostly free weights, but it's clean and functional, and Jensen figures that he's going to be spending a fair amount of time here. He spots Quaritch, bench-pressing what looks to be about three times his own weight in plates. Jensen doesn't know whether to be impressed or just skip past that and wet himself right off the bat.

"This low gravity makes you soft," Quaritch says, grunting his way through the last couple of reps. No preamble, nothing. Jensen can work with that, though. This isn't the first officer who started out life as a drill sergeant that he's ever met. "You get soft, Pandora will shit you out dead with zero warning."

"Is that so, sir?"

Quaritch racks the bar and sits up, sweating but not winded, Jensen notes. "I pulled your record, Corporal. Venezuela -now that was some mean bush. Nothing like this here, though. It takes a hell of a set of brass balls, kid, to come out here like this. Especially when you don't have all your parts working right. Gotta say, I'm impressed.

Jensen shrugs, ill at ease. "I figured it was just another hellhole. Sir. What's not to love?"

Quaritch chuckles appreciatively at that and claps him on the shoulder. It's starting to be a habit with the people around here, Jensen thinks with a hint of irritation. At least Quaritch isn't being a condescending asshole about it, or treating him like he's going to break at any second. Whatever he's going to say next is interrupted by a yell from a guy Jensen thinks might be the chief mechanic.

"That servo’s in, Colonel, if you want to try it."

Quaritch nods, crosses to the suit the guy motioned to, forcing Jensen to wheel after him or get left behind. "I was in First Recon a few years ahead of you," he says over his shoulder. "Saw more than a few, let me tell you," he continues, in that tone Jensen knows all too well. Old soldiers and their no-shit-there-I-was war stories. "Two tours in Nigeria, not a scratch. I come out here... and bam." He points to the thick scars in his scalp. "I got myself a permanent new haircut. Oh, they could fix this if I rotated back, but you know what? I kinda like it. It's a permanent, visible reminder of what's out there. Besides, I can’t leave," he says, staring at the wall like he's seeing the whole of Pandora stretching out before him. "This is my war, here."

Jensen doesn't really have anything to say to that, so he just stays where he is, hands in his lap, while Quaritch climbs into the suit's cockpit and fires it up, throwing switches in quick succession. Quaritch raises his voice to be heard over the whine of the suit’s gas-turbine spooling up.

"The avatar program is a joke. Just a bunch of limp-dicked scientists fucking around in the jungle and getting high off the plant life. But we have a unique opportunity here, you and me. It's like God just dropped you into my lap. A fully-trained Marine in an avatar body, which means you're not going to be wasting your time collecting mushrooms. You, son, could get me the intel I need, on the ground, right in the hostiles’ camp."

The whine of the turbine becomes a roaring whoosh and the whole suit begins to rumble with power. Quaritch raises one of the suits' arms, flexing the giant hand on the end, metallic fingers clanking together. "Looks good," he calls to the waiting mechanic before turning back to Jensen. "I want you to learn about these savages, Ackles. Gain their trust. Find out how we can force their cooperation. Barring that, you tell me where their soft underbelly is so we can hit ‘em hard if they don’t decide to play ball. Maybe you can keep some of my boys from going home like you. Or bagged-and-tagged."

Jensen nods. This, he can do. If he can prevent just one other poor bastard from having his life ruined, then his trip out here will have meant something other than just exploiting his brother's death for the money and trying to lick Grace Augustine's boots for the next five years.

"That sounds real good, Colonel. So -am I still with Augustine? I mean, whose orders am I following?"

"On paper you're still hers. You walk like one of her science pukes, you quack like one, but you report to me when you're done. Can you do that for me, son?"

"Sure," Jensen nods. "I can do that."

Quaritch brings the ‘suit to life. He steps forward and pivots smoothly, balancing the huge machine on one foot while bringing the arms about, smooth and graceful, in what Jensen suddenly realizes is a Wu-shu kata. Jensen barely refrains from whistling, because these things are huge and clunky and incredibly hard to manoeuvre even for basic movements. Quaritch might be an old soldier, but he's damned tough, rock-hard and determined, the epitome of self-discipline, and Jensen can't help but admire that in his superior officers. He'd admire it in anyone, frankly.

"Look, son," the Colonel says, turning back to him. "I take care of my own. You get me what I need and I’ll see you get your legs back when you rotate home. Your real legs," he stresses, then raises the suit's hand and slams down the canopy, effectively ending the conversation.

With one last salute in Jensen's direction-a move designed to show off control more than anything, Jensen figures, because superior officers never salute the rank-and-file -he moves away, huge footsteps clanging loudly against the metallic floor, and disappears from view.

Norm is waiting for Jensen right outside his quarters when he emerges in the morning. He's been up for a couple of hours already, making sure he had plenty of time to shower and eat before he has to be at the lab and go yet another ten rounds with Grace.

"I couldn't wait for breakfast, I thought I would come find you first. Aren't you excited? How are you so calm?" Norm is bouncing on his toes. In spite of himself Jensen grins, the enthusiasm contagious.

"Yeah, I guess. I mean, we'll have to see how it goes, right?"

"God, I hope I don't screw this up. I mean, I've logged about five hundred hours of simulation time, but I don't know that anything can really prepare you for the real thing, you know?" Norm wrings his hands as they make their way down the narrow hallways, and Jensen reaches up to thump him on the hip.

"Relax, Spellman. If anyone's going to screw it up, it'll be me. Anyway, you better go grab something to eat if we're going to be test-driving all day."

"What about you?"

Jensen rolls his eyes. "Spellman, it's oh eight hundred. I've been up for two hours. I've already had breakfast."

"Old army habits, huh?"

"Got it in one. Hurry it up; I'm planning on using you as a human shield if Augustine decides to test my Na'vi this morning."

Norm laughs. "Oh, don't worry. She knows you can't speak a word. I can tutor you if you want, just so you can get the basics."

Jensen tilts the wheels of his chair over the lip of the door to the lab. "Yeah, that'd be good, actually. Maybe it'll get me in her good books. Hell, I'd settle for her neutral books."

Before Norm can reply, Grace is in their faces, barking orders around her ever-present cigarette at anyone who'll listen. "All right this isn't a Sunday picnic. We've got a strict timetable to keep. You boys have breakfast yet?" Jensen nods and Norm looks sheepish enough that Grace just rolls her eyes and tosses him a protein bar. "You need to start getting up earlier in the morning, Norm, this isn't like the labs back on Earth. How much link time have you logged?"

"Five hundred and twenty hours," Norm replies promptly.

"Not bad. Get yourself set up, we're going now. How about you, Marine?"

Jensen shrugs. "I read the manual. Besides, I kick ass at Jungle Fighter III. "

She glares. "Did you seriously just compare driving an avatar to a video game?"

He grins unrepentantly at her. "The simulations are all just being hooked up to sensors, right? How is that different from a video game?"

"Don't be a smartass, Jensen. You and Quaritch might be thick as thieves -oh, don't look at me like that, this base is tiny, you can't fart without everyone else knowing about it- but this?" she gestures to the lab. "This is my world, and you're living in it. Just remember that."

"Yes, ma'am," Jensen doesn't bother to mask his sarcasm. He wheels himself to his assigned unit, pokes an experimental finger into the gel surface of the link bed. It yields easily to his touch, making him wonder if, when he lies down on it, it won't swallow him whole like some sort of gelatinous monster. He shrugs one shoulder, hoists himself up, legs dangling uselessly off the side of the bed, and goes stiff when Grace moves to help him. "Don't!" he snaps. "I got this."

She steps back, both hands raised in a fine-have-it-your-way gesture, and he pulls his legs up one at a time, hating how they just stay in whatever position he dropped them. He rearranges them straight in front of him, looks up to see Grace watching him with a considering expression.

"So let me get this straight. You figured you would come out here, to the most hostile environment currently known to man, not only with no training whatsoever but just recovered from a life-altering injury, and you would, what, see how it went? Play it by ear?"

He gives her a flat look. "Maybe I got tired of doctors telling me what I couldn't do."

She barks a laugh, starts hooking up electrodes to his temples, lowers the plastic barrier to lock him in place. "All right, then. Just relax, close your eyes if it helps. Let your mind go blank -that shouldn't be too hard for you."

"Why don't you kiss my―" Jensen starts, only to be interrupted as the lid slams down, plunging him into darkness.

He closes his eyes, overcome with the sudden sensation of falling, rushing through the air. He fights the urge to lash out, to try and catch himself with his hands, to lunge back toward the surface of -well, he's not sure. A moment later he hears voices calling his name, opens his eyes only to blink painfully at the bright light shining directly into them. There are two techs standing over him, faces obscured by breather gear, dressed entirely in protective white jumpsuits.

"Can you hear me, Jensen?" one of them asks, snapping latex-clad fingers next to his ear.

"Pineal response is good," the other one says, taking notes on a clipboard.

He blinks, sits up, and suddenly the techs are down near his solar plexus. He's staring at his feet, weirded out by the knowledge that they're his even though they don't look like the ones he's used to. Then he grins, wriggles his toes, feeling the muscles in his feet and legs ripple and flex, laughs breathlessly. The techs are saying something that sounds encouraging but he ignores them, pulls his legs up, bending his knees, swings them over the side of the gurney to place both feet off the ground, feeling the chill of the floor seep into his skin.

"Easy, Jensen, you're going too fast! We have some tests to run before you-hey! No!" There's a hand on his arm that he barely feels. "You have to give yourself time to adjust! No, don't get up, wait!"

He's on his feet, staggering a little because this body is huge and odd and doesn't respond the way his own does, but he's standing. He plants one hand against the nearest wall, stops to get his bearings, irritated by all the wires still hooked up to him, electrodes tugging at his skin. He ignores the appalled squawking of the techs and yanks the wires off, staggers again. Then suddenly he rights himself and -woah, tail. That's what that's for. It's weirder than anything else so far, trying to figure out how to move a whole extra appendage, and he comes close to knocking the techs over a couple of times and does in fact send one of the trolleys flying before he gets it all under control. Balance acquired, he looks over at Norm, who has stopped in the midst of proving he can touch all his fingers to his thumbs, grins so wide he's sure his face is going to split open and takes off at a lope through the doors and out into the sunshine.

It's more glorious than he ever let himself hope for. Whenever he bothered to think about it, Jensen never dared to think that it would be anything like walking in his own body again, too afraid of getting his heart broken if it turned out to be only a distant facsimile. This, though? This is fantastic. He bursts through the heavy doors and into the sunshine, feeling the warmth on his skin. A thousand alien fragrances assault him at once, sweet and pungent, some of them even a little unpleasant. Behind him he can hear the commotion growing louder as the techs and Norm begin to get over their initial shock and come after him.

He pushes off the ground with his toes, takes off at a jog along the ground, quickly picking up speed as his brain and muscles adjust to each other. He's still a little unsteady on his feet, but he can tell it will only be a matter of minutes before this uncertainty is a thing of the past. His hair, heavy about his shoulders, streams behind him as he runs, and he could swear he feels something like tiny electrical impulses running up every individual strand and directly into his scalp, the sensation oddly pleasurable. Up ahead he catches sight of an obstacle course like dozens of others he's trained on in the past during basic training and between missions. Then he spots the perimeter fence way off in the distance and makes a beeline for it, determined to see just how far this whole place really stretches out. Before he even gets close he finds himself bursting through a one-on-one game of hoops between two other avatars he's never met. He blurts an apology as he runs past, but they just laugh -doubtless because he's still dressed in a flimsy hospital gown while they're wearing clothes better adapted to their bodies- and wave him on with a couple of encouraging shouts.

"Jensen, wait! We're not supposed to be running yet!" Norm's voice comes from behind him.

"Screw that noise!" he calls back over his shoulder, the blood singing in his veins.

After a while it feels like his feet aren't even touching the ground. He sprints as far as he can go, until he reaches the perimeter fence, then turns around and sprints back, stops in the middle of what looks like some sort of vegetable garden, plants with huge purple fruit hanging from them growing in rows, reaching high above his head toward the sun. He digs his feet into the dirt, the rich scent of loam filling his nostrils. The world around him is brighter than he's used to, the colours more vibrant and slightly more blue-green in tint than he remembers. He can't tell if it's because of the re-breather mask humans have to wear at all times outside, or if there's something inherent to the physiognomy of Na'vi eyes that means they see the world slightly differently, but it hardly seems to matter.

"Hey, Marine!"

He turns toward the familiar sound of the voice, is startled to see what looks like a young Na'vi woman sauntering toward him, hair pulled back in the signature braid he's seen in all the pictures and vids. The woman is beautiful, if not by any conventional human standards, with a lithe, athletic body, dressed in a pair of cut-off denim shorts and a tank top that looks like it might once have been a college t-shirt, altered to better fit a much larger frame.

"Grace?"

"Who'd you expect, numbnuts?" Grace grins, then plucks one of the weird-looking purple fruit and lobs it at his head. Instinctively he catches it one-handed, bringing up his other hand to keep it from falling. "Motor control's looking good," she says approvingly. "Go on, take a bite, see what you think."

He's never tasted anything like it. The flesh is bitter at first until the sweet juice hits his tongue, flooding his mouth. "Oh my God..."

"Not bad, right?"

He laughs, juice dribbling down his chin, wipes at it with the back of his wrist. "This is awesome."

For the first time he sees something like approval on her face. "I had my doubts, kid, but you're a natural at this. Who knew video games would turn out useful? Come on. Norm's still doing some tests with the techs, but if you're up for it I'll put you through your paces on the obstacle course, see just how fast you can pick things up. You game?"

He all but leaps at her. "Hell, yeah."

"Okay. Let's get you something other than that hospital gown to wear, and we'll be in business."

The avatars are housed separately on the compound, in a building that reminds Jensen of the summer camp he and Tommy went to once when they were kids. It's built entirely of wood with wire mesh in the windows to keep out the bugs, but not much else. Inside there are rows of cots like in an army barracks, each one neatly labelled, and a small locker at the foot of each cot. He stops at the one labelled 'Ackles,' and when he flips the lid of the locker open he finds several sets out clothes already waiting for him. Grace is watching, but he doesn't let that stop him from pulling off the flimsy hospital gown right then and there and pulling on the more functional cargo pants and t-shirt. Grace looks on, arms folded over her chest, then jerks her head in his direction.

"You know how to make a braid?"

He looks up from where he's been trying to tie his boots, brushing the unaccustomed long black hair out of his way without much success. "Uh, what?"

She reaches over and carefully combs her fingers through his hair. Immediately the sensation of tiny electrical shocks runs through him again and he shudders in spite of himself. "Your tail isn't the only extra organ you have," she mocks, not unkindly. "You'd know this if you actually read the manual you claim to have read. The Na'vi all grow their hair long on purpose to protect the tswin. So, you got any sisters or do I have to teach you?"

He glares. "I can manage." No way does he want her touching him there. She grins, hands him a brush, watches as he manages a clumsy, slightly lopsided facsimile of the braid he's seen in the pictures of other Na'vi.

"It'll do for now. You'll get better with practice, same as anything else."

"Uh-huh," he says absently, holding up the queue and watching curiously as the very tips of the tendrils, protruding from the hair, undulate seemingly of their own volition.

"You play with that enough, you'll go blind. Now come on, let's see what you can do with this new body of yours."

Grace isn't as tough a task master as some of the drill sergeants Jensen has had in his time, but she doesn't exactly let him slack off, either. She keeps pace with him the entire time, daring him just by her body language to follow where she leads, to try to do better than she can. At first she leaves him in the dust, but it's hard to argue with years of military training. Jensen may not be a scientist, but he's had years of nothing but teaching his body how to do everything he wants it to, and this is no different. It doesn't take long for him to catch up, to take greater risks as he grows accustomed to how this new body feels and moves, to figure out how to use the long prehensile tail to his advantage, something he notices Grace doesn't remember to do much. By the time they're done they're both out of breath and her braid is coming undone in small wisps about her face.

"Okay," she pants, expression exhilarated. "I think you'll do just fine, physically. I'm going to go see how Norm is getting on. Why don't you go, introduce yourself around to the other drivers, and get a feel for the place? You'll probably be seeing a lot of it when we're not out in the field."

"So how many of us are there?"

"Avatar drivers? Including you, six right now. Three rotated home to Earth while you were on your way out here with Norm after their six-year contract ended."

"They didn't want to stay?"

Grace shrugs, her expression shuttered. "Let's just say the program wasn't what they were expecting or hoping for."

It's Jensen's turn to shrug. "Okay, whatever." It's not like it's surprising that scientists wouldn't have the stomach to stick it out in this place -it's dangerous as hell, so the only people usually willing to hang out in these kinds of places are grunts like him who don't have any other choice and fanatics like Grace and Quaritch.

"Lights out at seventeen hundred, to give you time to have dinner and get to bed at a decent time when your link is severed. You can always voluntarily go to sleep before that, no one will stop you, but somehow I don't think you'll be taking that option, will you, Marine?"

He grins and shakes his head. "No way."

She returns the smile, but her expression stays a little sad, which Jensen can't quite figure out. "That's what I thought. I'll catch you later."

Jensen doesn't even bother to watch her walk away before taking off at a run back toward the training ground. In all his life, he thinks, he has never come so close to flying.

Trudy takes them out in her Samson tilt-rotor first thing in the morning. It's not Jensen's first hay ride, but he's never gotten over the thrill of being flying, of feeling nothing but air thrumming beneath him, even if he has to use a machine to get aloft. In his more contemplative moments, what few he allows himself, he sometimes thinks he would have been better suited to the Air Force, not that he had the time or luxury to become a pilot back then: joining the Army was the quickest way to start making decent money to send back home. It's moot now, anyway. He hangs onto the Samson with one hand, holding the muzzle of his weapon clear from the chopper, and whoops with glee.

Corporal Wainfleet, whom Jensen hasn't seen since he first arrived on Pandora, is hanging off the other side of the tilt-rotor. He's the only human on this expedition aside from Trudy herself, his role apparently limited to providing security for the tilt-rotor once it's on the ground and thus more vulnerable. Grace, Jensen and Norm are all in their avatar bodies, though Jensen is amused to see that Norm is looking more than a little green in spite of the blue skin. Jensen flashes him a smile, all conversation rendered impossible over the roar of air rushing through the rotor blades.

The chopper banks in order to follow a shallow river, the rotor blades blowing up mist from the surface. Grace points off to the side where a flock of brightly-coloured bird-like things are soaring above the churning water and she yells out what Jensen assumes is the name of whatever species it is, but he can't hear her at all. The birds gronk unhappily at the intrusion, the flock veering away from them in a blur of purples and blues. Below them a herd of six-legged animals that look to Jensen's untrained eye like oddly-coloured buffalo thunder across a sandbar, kicking up mud and spray as they gallop past. All of a sudden the river drops away below them, plunging into a massive waterfall, and Jensen feels his heart plummet into his stomach as Trudy follows the rushing water into the rainbows that hang there permanently. The Samson chases its shadows over the forest canopy, threads its way beneath the trees to land in an obviously man-made clearing. A bevy of creatures bursts out of the underbrush, startled into flight by the arrival of the chopper. Jensen catches sight of a few flashes of blue, green and purple fur as the animals scurry for shelter far away from the intrusive noise and whipping of foliage.

Jensen jumps down as the rotors come to a standstill, relishing the feel of the ground beneath his feet again. Coming back to reality after being in his new body for so many hours was a hell of a shock. It had been all too easy to forget that he'd be waking up in a body that was only half-functional and he'd almost tried to get up and walk when he came out of the link bed, catching himself at the last minute before he face-planted and made a spectacle of himself. Worse still, his back started seizing up almost the moment he was back in his chair. He'd barely made it through dinner, though luckily Grace and Norm were too engrossed yammering on about nerd stuff to notice he wasn't making polite conversation. He'd simply dragged himself into his bed directly afterward, swallowed his muscle relaxants, and let himself sink into oblivion. It's a bit of a head trip thinking of that now while he's in this huge, capable body, each muscle more responsive than his old body ever was, even when he was in peak physical conditions. The Na'vi live in a world that's unforgiving of physical weakness and the avatars have been designed to be able to keep up with them if needs be.

"Okay, people, listen up!" Grace nods once to Trudy, who's still inside her pressure-sealed cabin, then turns back to him and Norm and Wainfleet, the one human who came with them. "If there's one thing Colonel Quaritch is right about, it's that the forest can be dangerous if you don't know how to handle yourself. However, shooting everything in sight is not the appropriate reaction to a perceived threat. For one thing, loud noises here attracts unwanted attention from very big, very deadly predators. So try to move quietly and keep your fingers off your triggers. That means you, Jensen."

He snorts. "Aye aye."

For another thing," she continues as though he hasn't said a word, "your bullets won't harm a significant percentage of the fauna. Just so you know. If you get separated from the group, or if at any point in the future any one of us finds ourselves having to spend the night out here, there are a couple of way stations that have been set up within a reasonable distance of the main compound. They're rudimentary, but they'll shelter you for a night without any issues. You have already been provided with the coordinates, so consider it your chance to practice your orienteering skills here in the Pandoran wilderness. It's not like Earth, so don't let yourselves be fooled. Wainfleet, you'll stay with Trudy and the ship. One idiot with a gun is enough," she mutters under her breath, but loud enough for all of them to hear. Or maybe just loud enough for the avatars, because Wainfleet doesn't so much as flinch, although he looks more than a little disgruntled at being left behind. "Let's move out!"

The light trickles through the thick canopy as Jensen and Norm follow Grace into the jungle. Jensen finds himself spending more time gawking at everything around him than strictly paying attention to where he's putting his feet. He comforts himself with the knowledge that Norm is doing just as much gawking as he is, like an overgrown blue tourist. Norm looks back, catches his eye, and they share a slightly sheepish grin. Jensen shrugs, ducks his head, makes his way through the dense underbrush, weapon at the ready until Grace pushes the muzzle down with two fingers.

"At ease, Marine," she says drily, "you're making me nervous."

Jensen rolls his eyes and steps away from her, keeping his weapon up anyway, just outside of her immediate vicinity. Although from far away the forest appeared bright and green, up close Jensen can see a whole panoply of colours, predominantly blue. Small creatures skitter away, keeping just out of sight if they can. Jensen starts as one monkey-like thing clambers nimbly up a plant he can't identify, extending more limbs than he thought possible to pull itself upward.

"So why do some of these things have six legs and not the others?" he asks.

Grace arches an eyebrow at him. "Not a bad question. As far as we can tell evolution on land happened along two completely separate paths, which is something no one had ever heard of before we came to Pandora. It's a bit of a scientific mystery for us, which is what makes it so interesting. The Na'vi, for instance, share a significant percentage of their DNA with the trees, if you can believe it."

"They're part plant?" Jensen can't mask the disbelief in his tone.

Grace snorts. "Not quite that significant a percentage."

Jensen lets her voice fade into the background as she delves further into some sort of long, technical explanation that mostly goes over his head. His brother would have lapped up every single word, he thinks. It should be Tommy out here, geeking out over the plant life and two different evolutionary ladders. He banishes the thought with a shake of his head, feeling the cat-like ears of his new body flick in response to every unknown sound, stops to look at a weird-looking shoulder-high plant shaped like a spiral while Grace and Norm busy themselves taking samples or whatever. Grace is explaining something about treating the forest with respect or some other hippy-ish sounding crap that's supposed to convince the Na'vi that they should really come out of hiding and talk to them. He pokes an experimental finger at the plant, and to his surprise it retracts with a hollow, echoing sound. The next thing he knows the whole clearing springs into motion as the first flower sets off a chain reaction in the other flowers, leaving Jensen standing there and feeling more than a little foolish.

A resounding snort slightly to his left makes him start and back up a step. He blinks, brings his weapon to bear as he finds himself staring at the business end of what looks like a very angry cross between a hammerhead shark and a blue six-legged triceratops. Or something. Maybe a rhinoceros. Whatever it is, it's really big and it looks really pissed off. It bellows at him, stomping its hooves on the ground.

"Uh, Grace?"

"Don't shoot," comes the quiet order. "You'll just piss it off!"

"It's already pissed off!" Jensen can't quite help the note of anxiety that creeps into his voice, doesn't lower his weapon.

"The hide is too thick, your bullets won't do anything except bounce off it. It's a territorial display -it's a young male, see? He's trying to assert dominance. Just stand your ground and he'll back off."

"Just stand my ground, she says," Jensen mutters under his breath. "Fine. You want to have a pissing contest?" he calls out to the -thing. "Come on! Yaaah!" he yells at the top of his lungs just as it gives an answering bellow, waves his arms and charges at it.

To his surprise, it works. It snorts and backs off, eyes rolling in its head, then gives an alarmed bleat and gallops away, joining up with a herd of identical-looking but much larger beasts. Jensen stops, heart hammering against his ribs, and lets out a triumphant whoop.

"Oh yeah, who's bad? That's right, you little bitch, run back to your momma!"

He's still breathing hard, drinking in the heady feeling of success, when he realizes that the herd hasn't budged, huge skulls lowered defensively, and are forming what looks almost like a military formation, a phalanx against a common enemy. Whatever it is they're afraid of, it's definitely not Jensen.

"It's right behind me, isn't it?" he asks softly, not expecting anyone to answer him. When he risks a glance over his shoulder he feels his blood run cold. His ears flatten themselves against his skull. "Grace?"

It's enormous. Larger even than the rhinoceros-thing from before, huge and hulking and pitch-black. This one Jensen remember from the book: Thanator, from the word for 'death,' and up close and personal he can see why they picked the name. The panther is poised beneath the gnarled roots of a tree, gathers its six powerful legs beneath it and springs over Jensen's head, ignoring him in favour of the straggler from the herd, only to be met by a wall of horns. It turns back then with a snarl, its focus solely on Jensen, who swallows hard as it hisses, baring fangs from within distendible jaws.

"So what about this one," he calls back, not taking his eyes off it. "Shoot? Run? Don't run?"

It's hard not to panic when he hears the terror in Grace's voice. "Run, definitely run!"

With a curse Jensen scrambles away, letting his rifle fall to dangle over his shoulder by its strap, sacrificing his ready-carry for speed. The Thanator isn't exactly going to be fazed by his bullets anyway. It's next to impossible to get any purchase on the wet leaves and moss underfoot, and Jensen finds himself slip-sliding his way down the closest slope, hanging onto every protruding branch and root he can get his hands on to break his fall. There’s no time to look where he’s going -it’s just a blind, headlong rush into the jungle to escape from the Thanator. He can feel the great cat's foetid breath hot on the back of his neck as he finally finds level ground and springs into a full-out sprint, dodging trees and bushes and sending startled wildlife careening away from him in an explosion of colour. His one attempt to find shelter amid the gnarled roots of one of Pandora’s huge trees comes to an abrupt end as the Thanator simply rips away the sturdy woods with a few deft slashes of its powerful claws, undeterred even when Jensen empties the magazine of his weapon into its face.

He abandons the gun, takes to his heels again only to find himself being dragged backward by his army-issue pack. For a moment he’s dangling in mid-air, held in the animal’s huge jaws, until with a frantic twist he manages to unclasp the buckles of his webgear and slips free, falling heavily to the ground. The Thanator crushes his pack with one swift crunch of its jaws and comes after him with another roar, and Jensen scrambles madly to regain his footing before it can catch him again. He crashes blindly through the underbrush, spots water up ahead and, before he can second-guess his decision, he hurls himself headlong over the edge of an overhanging rock into the churning depths of a gigantic waterfall.

"Your father and I are very disappointed," Ìla'rey’s mother stands with her arms folded across her chest in the middle of the cooking room, eyes narrowed in disapproval. "You are too old for these types of childish antics. Playing pranks on the Sky People is beneath you now."

Ìla'rey glares, resists the urge to cross his arms in a pale mimicry of his mother’s pose. "They’re destroying the forest. Why shouldn’t I disrupt them when I can?"

"You think that by frightening them and damaging their machines you will encourage them to rethink what they are doing?" she snorts. "I hoped that I had raised you to have more common sense than that. They are too obsessed with what they have found with their mining for that. We’ve tried reasoning with them, but they don’t listen. The best we can hope for is that they will tire of the difficulty of their operation before too long and depart again."

"So why shouldn’t a few well-placed arrows encourage them to leave?" he points out, reasonably enough, he thinks.

"Don’t be ridiculous, child. You know what they are like. They respond to shows of force by entrenching themselves. All you are doing is forcing them to show their horns like a herd of angtsìk. Is that what you want? For them to come in greater numbers to destroy the forest?"

"No, but they wouldn’t do that. Besides, how many of them could there be?"

"Ìla'rey don’t be foolish. What did we send you to their school for, if not to learn of who they are and what they might do. You said yourself that they outnumber the stars in the sky."

"But they’re far away and it takes them years to travel from their world to this. They have to put themselves in an artificial sleep to do it. They would never want to do that for so many warriors. It makes no sense to do that only to come dig rocks out of the ground here."

"The Sky People have their own reasons for doing things. We can’t know all their motivations, nor should we pretend to. They aren’t like us, they don’t think the same way. Do you understand that? We can’t hope to understand them, nor they us. It’s just the way of things. You assume too much, Ìla'rey, and that will be your undoing if you’re not careful. Assumptions lead to complacency, and complacency leads to error. You must learn to be more thoughtful, to anticipate the consequences of your actions."

"I didn’t harm anyone!" Ìla'rey protests, only to be waved down.

"But you could have! You took Tsu’tey and your friends with you and put them directly in harm’s path. What if the Sky People had shot one of your friends with one of their guns? What then? We are not immune to their bullets. You are responsible for our people’s safety, Ìla'rey! The sooner you learn to shoulder that responsibility, the better."

"I’m tired of hearing about my responsibilities," Ìla'rey rolls his eyes. "It’s all you ever talk about. Anyway, if I’m supposed to keep our people safe, then maybe it’s in our best interests to drive the Sky People away."

"Regardless, I forbid it!" his mother snaps, then immediately softens her tone. "You are going to be tsahik someday, Ìla'rey, and likely sooner rather than later. I am not as young as I used to be," she reaches out to place a hand on his arm, looking up at him, eyes glittering intensely. "The transfer of power will take place before long. You are young yet, and you will have a lifetime ahead of you of holding this power in your hands. You must be ready."

"I never asked for that! You and Father are the ones who decided that for me. Why can’t I just be a hunter like the others? The tsahik should be a woman, anyway. I’ve never had the gift the way you do," he complains.

"It has been ordained," his mother says sharply. "The gift is one to be developed and nurtured, you know that. If you applied yourself a little more, instead of running off whenever you are meant to be working, you would have mastered it better by now."

Ìla'rey clenches his fist. "I don’t want it!" he snarls. "You should pick someone better than me. I don’t want to be the one to take the gift from you just so that you can die," he tries not to choke on the words, turns his back on his mother. "I won’t stand here and be lectured like a child," he manages, not wanting to let her see just how upset he is.

"I will speak to you as a child so long as you insist on behaving like one. This behaviour is unworthy of you. And just where are you going?" she asks as he turns on his heel to leave.

"I am going for a walk. I’ll be back before tonight’s gathering," he says over his shoulder.

Before she can call him back he stalks off, his long stride allowing him to easily outstrip her. Ìla'rey is tall even by the standards of his own tribe, who are known for being especially tall, and it has afforded him a great deal of attention -both good and bad- over the years. He hears Tsu’tey call after him but doesn’t bother turning back. Sometimes the only way out he can find is to simply lose himself in the forest, to jump from tree to tree, from branch to branch until all his troubles are left far behind, leaving only him and the whispering of the wind among the leaves. He slings his bow over one shoulder and runs at an easy lope along the coiling branches of the trees, letting his mind go blank and his muscles take over by instinct. He runs faster and faster until the forest is a blur of greens and blues to either side, the wind sweet against his face, blowing his hair back, until he arrives at his favourite spot by the waterfall.

He drops to a seated position, chin resting in his hands, staring glumly at the churning water. Normally he would strip off his clothes and wade right into the river to stand under the smaller part of the waterfall, revelling in the shock of cold water, but today his heart isn’t in it. He simply gazes at the half-dozen rainbows created by the spray of water, resentful that someday soon he won’t be able to come here anymore, shackled to the village by the responsibilities foisted on him by his parents whether he wants them or not.

A moment later his thoughts are interrupted by the unmistakable roar of an enraged palukulan high above him. He gets to his feet, cranes his neck to get a better look at the top of the waterfall just in time to see another man, clad in the odd clothing of the Sky People, go tumbling off the edge of the waterfall with a terrified yell and plunge into the swirling depths of the river. The great cat comes to a skidding halt at the cliff’s edge, roaring its displeasure. Ìla'rey scans the water for the man, only to see him break the surface a moment later, floundering wildly. He considers jumping in after him, but the man seems to right himself and strikes out on his own, swimming toward the shore downstream from where Ìla'rey is standing, with more strength and skill than Ìla'rey has ever seen any of the Dreamwalkers -those few of the Sky People who are able to take on a form resembling the Na'vi through their technology- display before. Intrigued, he jumps up into the trees, determined to follow this new adventure and see where it leads.

For several terrifying seconds that feel more like an eternity, Jensen can’t tell up from down. All around the water is churning and swirling and roaring, buffeting him about like a piece of driftwood. Then, blessedly, his foot hits the river bed and he kicks up with all his might, breaking the surface with a desperate gasp. He flails, rights himself, looks around wildly until he spots the nearest bank and begins a smooth, powerful breaststroke to get himself there, never taking his eyes off his goal. By the time he reaches the bank he’s panting from the exertion of fighting the current, his clothes and boots completely sodden and weighing him down as he drags himself onto dry land. He contemplates simply taking them off to dry, but he’s already lost all his other equipment, and the thought of being without even the simple protection of his boots makes him uneasy, alone and vulnerable in a hostile environment.

He still has his pocket knife, which is a mercy, as well as a tiny packet of waterproof matches, but that’s the extent of his equipment once he’s inventoried the contents of his remaining pockets. He stands there, dripping onto the damp ground, and wonders just how utterly screwed he is. He has no food, next to no equipment, and no idea where he is. Finally he shrugs, roots around where he is until he finds a long, thin branch that might serve both as spear and torch in a pinch. He whittles the end into a point with his knife, figures he can use his overshirt to turn it into a torch when it gets dark if he can’t find anything else to serve in a pinch.

Grace said there were waystations out here for just such an emergency, so all he has to do is find one, and he’ll get picked up in the morning. Sure, he doesn’t have the faintest idea where they are and the map he had with their locations is in his now-destroyed pack, either crushed and strewed about the jungle floor, or being digested by a Thanator which is a distinct possibility, but he thinks he has a decent idea of how the cardinal directions work on Pandora. How hard can it be to find one waystation? Hefting his makeshift spear he strikes out in the direction he’s pretty sure the base is in, walking through the underbrush with quick, uncertain steps. Now that he’s alone it’s all but impossible to ignore the sounds of the jungle -the unfamiliar screech of what might be a bird or an animal that he’s never even heard of, the crunch of foliage underfoot, the creaking of the trees that stretch hundreds of meters above his head and block out all but the smallest shafts of sunlight.

It must have been getting later than he thought when he encountered the Thanator, because before long the sun dips past the trees and below the horizon, and Jensen can see the light beginning to fade quickly. He’s found a plant that burns well and so he wraps the leaves around the end of his spear, using the plant’s own sap to make them adhere, and uses one of his matches to light it like a torch. Immediately the darkness beyond the light cast by the flame becomes even more impenetrable, but at least he’s able to better see where he’s putting his feet, rather than trying to guess which shadow is a stable bit of ground and which is a root or a leaf just waiting to make him twist an ankle.

He feels like he's walking in circles. Even if that's not the case, it doesn’t take Jensen long to figure out that he’s not going anywhere useful. Even following the river isn’t a guarantee of getting where he needs to go, since the base isn’t actually on the river. After about an hour of walking alone in the dark, though, he realizes that not knowing where the base or waystations are is the least of his problems. Out of the corner of his eye he sees a shadow dart past him, then another, followed by another. He stops, feels his ears flicking back and forth, trying to track the sound of soft panting, of padded feet landing softly on the forest floor. Whatever these things are, there’s a whole pack of them stalking him. He can hear the occasional excited yip now, reminiscent of the coyotes back home when they’re getting close to the kill.

Jensen swears under his breath as he spots one of them on a branch above him, a black, dog-like shape with shiny, chitinous skin, six legs and bright green eyes that seem to glow in the night. They might sound like coyotes, but Jensen has never heard of a coyote that can climb trees. He breaks into a run as the animal leaps at him, missing him by only a few inches, and sprints away from the barking and snarling and yipping only to run headlong into the rest of the pack, waiting for him less than a dozen yards away, their green eyes glinting in the darkness. He skids to a halt, heart hammering in his chest, then brings his torch to bear, swinging it in a wide arc.

"Come on!" he snarls, daring them to attack. "I don’t have all night!"

It doesn’t take long for him to be overrun. It’s impossible to tell how many there are, but Jensen figures there must be at least a dozen. He manages to keep them at bay with the torch for a few moments, but they soon overcome their fear of the fire and leap at him. He reverses the torch, uses the sharpened point to stab the closest animal in the chest, but its momentum wrenches the makeshift spear from his hands, sending it spiralling through the air to land well out of reach. Jensen barely has time to pull his knife before two more of the coyote-things are upon him, one sinking its teeth into his leg just above the ankle while the other goes for his throat. He jams his hand just under its jaw in a desperate bid to save his life, can feel the others closing in, when a bloodcurdling yell comes from somewhere behind him and an arrow catches the coyote thing in the throat, sending it tumbling off him.

The next thing Jensen knows a huge figure is towering above him, silhouetted menacingly by the torchlight. He catches a glimpse of blue-hued skin, gets a vague impression of raw power as the figure turns and uses what looks like a longbow to deal a crushing blow to the skull of another of the animals. Jensen takes the opportunity offered and buries his own knife up to the hilt in the neck of the creature currently biting his leg, while his mysterious saviour snaps the spine of two more with two perfectly-placed blows of his bow. In the next instant the animals retreat under the onslaught, cringing and whining and barking, while their foe growls his own threat in a language Jensen can’t understand.

He scrambles to his feet, adrenaline still making his entire body thrum. He’s about to speak when the stranger strides over to pick up the torch where it’s lying on the ground, miraculously still lit. Jensen raises a hand in warning when he realizes what the guy is about to do.

"Hey, wait, don’t-" he starts, but it’s too late. The lit end of the torch plunges into the river with a hiss of dying flame. "Great. That was my only source of light," he mutters.

The man flings the torch aside contemptuously, walks a few steps over to where one of the animals is still in its death throes, whimpering and twitching and pawing pathetically at the air. As Jensen watches, bemused, the guy kneels carefully beside it, draws a knife that’s much bigger and impressive than Jensen’s, and cleanly slits its throat, murmuring something under his breath.

"Uh…" Jensen rubs the back of his neck. As far as he knows, this is the first time in years that any of the native alien population has come within speaking distance of a human, whether in avatar form or otherwise. "I don’t know if you can understand me, or what, but, uh, thank you. You really saved my bacon, so, uh, I owe you one."

He steps forward and extends his hand, wondering as he does so if these people even know what handshakes are. He’s a little nonplussed when the guy just gets up, dusts himself off, turns on his heel and simply heads back the way he came, quickly disappearing from view.

Part Ic