Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was still early in the morning, the sun having only risen a few hours ago, and yet Wally was elbow‑deep in one of RDA’S Link Unit’s, his hands gliding around the units primary conduit array, the metallic scent of freshly‑melted solder still clinging to the air like a stubborn after‑thought.

The unit lay open, the upper clamshell peeled back, its metal gleaming under the harsh florescent lights.

His fingers danced across the primary interface board, swapping out outdated quantum relays for a new RDA prototype—a custom mesh of carbon‑fused processors that promised near‑instantaneous feedback during consciousness transfer. He hummed under his breath, a low, absent melody that had no name but belonged to the rhythm of turning screws and checking voltages.

It was beautiful, really. The Link Unit that is. A machine built not just to carry a man’s mind across space, but to 𝘮𝘪𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘳 it—down to the tremor of a synapse, the flicker of a memory. And right now, Wally was rewiring its soul.

He tapped a diagnostic probe into a small patch of circuits, watching the readouts spike across the panel. “Stability at ninety‑seven percent,” he muttered to himself, more out of habit than necessity.

He inspected each micro‑circuit in the unit's boards, his eyes catching a flicker of a micro‑copper strand that had cracked under previous stress. He soldered with a precision‑laser, a thin beam that hissed as it sealed the break, restoring the pathway with a clean, glowing seal.

Once he was sure there were no others like it, he moved on and replaced the units old core with the new one, aligning the connectors with a precision that felt almost ritualistic. The click of the lock was satisfying, a small triumph that resonated through his bones.

Everything was going perfectly.

His mind was a river—calm, deep, flowing with the effortless clarity that only came when he lost himself in mechanics. There was no past. No future. Just the hum of capacitors charging, the soft resistance of micro-wires seating into their sockets, the smell of ozone and insulation tape.

He didn’t hear the door hiss open.

Didn’t hear the soft crunch of boots on grime-coated tile.

He 𝘥𝘪𝘥, however, feel the hand on his shoulder like a live wire to the spine. Wally jolted so violently he nearly face-planted into the open neural matrix. His soul didn’t just leave his body—it 𝘳𝘢𝘯 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 into the nearest airlock.

“𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘍—!" he yelped, wrench clattering to the floor as he spun, heart hammering like a war drum. "Barry! What the hell, man? I could’ve shorted the whole damn unit! Or zapped myself! Or—hell—I could’ve 𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘥!”

Barry stood there, hand still hovering, eyes crinkled with laughter. He was lean, late-thirties but ageless in that way that made you want to punch him in his stupidly good looking face—skin weathered by the sun, hair blonde like a sunflower and still stubbornly thick. He wore a faded RDA lab coat, one pocket open with a stylus poking out, the other failing to hide a half-crushed energy bar.

"Relax, kid," Barry chuckled, voice warm like a recalibrated reactor. "You're fine. Besides, you need the break. You’ve been hunched over that thing for three hours."

Wally rubbed his chest, still catching his breath. "Yeah, well, maybe if someone didn’t 𝘴𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘬 𝘶𝘱 on me like a damn ghost, I wouldn’t jump out of my skin."

Barry stepped forward, nudging the fallen wrench with his boot. "Sneak?” He echoed, a smirk tugging on the corner of his lips. “I walked in loud enough to wake the dead, kid. You were just… 𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘦. Head lost in the thrum of your calculations.”

Wally rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah whatever. Look, seriously, Uncle B. This has got to stop. This is the third time this week you’ve scared the crap out of me.”

Barry’s grin softened. “Hey, I’m just keeping you sharp. You can’t afford to get distracted out there. Especially not with the kind of work you’ve been doing.” He gestured at the link unit, its outer shell glistening. “What’s the upgrade, anyway?”

Wally leaned forward, suddenly eager. “RDA says the neural latency’s been spiking. I’m rerouting the signal through the new relays here—” he tapped a cluster of nodes “—to cut the lag by about 0.03 seconds. Also replacing a few parts to keep her running smooth. It’s not much, but in the field, that’s the difference between a clean transfer and a fried cortex.”

Barry nodded, his eyes—practically a mirror image to Wally’s, despite their lack of shared blood—narrowing in approval. “That's smart, kid. You’re always thinking ahead.” Then, grinning again: “But that’s why they dragged you out here from Earth, right? To fix things before they break. Our own little superhero.”

Wally blinked. "𝘚𝘶𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘰’? Dude—? Ugh, never mind. You always do this. You always say weird shit that makes me sound like I’m some child. It’s so corny."

Barry grinned. "You kinda are. Just without the height. Or the cute chubby cheeks. Or the candy."

"Ha. Hilarious." Wally bent to retrieve the wrench, shooting Barry a glare that lacked any real heat. "You know, one of these days, your surprise entrances are going to actually give me a heart attack. I’m not as young as I used to be, 𝘜𝘯𝘤𝘭𝘦 𝘉𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘺."

"You’re 𝘵𝘸𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘺-𝘦𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵," Barry shot back, ruffling Wally’s already disheveled hair. "You’re still young, kid. Like it or not.”

Wally ducked away with a grumble, swatting at Barry’s hand like an overgrown mosquito. "Alright, alright, very funny. Now that you’ve successfully traumatized me, can I get back to—"

“Hold up,” Barry said, suddenly more serious. The shift was subtle—like a pressure drop in the room. He crossed his arms, leaning against the open frame of the link unit. "I didn’t just come down here to harass you for fun. Well, okay, that 𝘸𝘢𝘴 part of it. But there’s a reason."

Wally paused, screwdriver hovering over a micro-jack. He studied his uncle. Barry had that look—the 𝘐-𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦-𝘣𝘢𝘥-𝘯𝘦𝘸𝘴-𝘣𝘶𝘵-𝘐’𝘭𝘭-𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦-𝘪𝘵-𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥-𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳-𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯-𝘪𝘵-𝘪𝘴 look. It was familiar. Almost as familiar as the ache in Wally’s lower back after a twelve-hour shift.

“Let me guess,” Wally said, setting the tool down. “I’ve got another field run. Don’t tell me—outskirts. Sector Seven? Again?”

Barry gave a slow, apologetic nod. “Couple of hours. Drop pod leaves at 1800. You’ve got transport prepped in Bay 3.”

Wally groaned, long and loud, like a man sentenced to life in a soundproof room with only kazoo music. “𝘈𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯? Barry, this is the 𝘧𝘪𝘧𝘵𝘩 time this month! What, did a Direhorse take a dump on a power converter? Did a Stingbat decide to nest in the comms array? What could 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘣𝘭𝘺 be so fragile out there that it can’t wait for someone 𝘦𝘭𝘴𝘦 to fix it?”

Barry shrugged, but there was pride in the tilt of his head. “Because, Wally, no one else has a brain like yours. You 𝘴𝘦𝘦 the mechanics. Not just the wires and circuits—𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘭𝘰𝘸. The rhythm of the machine. Same way I see equations in my head before I can even write ‘em down. You fix things 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 the first time. Not jury-rigged. Not ‘good enough.’ 𝘙𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵.”

Wally rolled his eyes, but a flicker of warmth curled in his chest. He turned back to the link unit, closing the casing with a soft 𝘤𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘬. He was pretty much done anyway. “Yeah, yeah. Spare me the pep talk. I know I’m brilliant. You don’t have to keep telling me.”

“Then act like it,” Barry said, clapping him on the shoulder again—lighter this time. "Now go. Pack your kit. You’ll need to be prepared—reports say the forest’s been… twitchy. Something’s got the wildlife on edge. They've been getting more aggressive. Even the Thanators are starting to be seen more often around the ridge near Site Theta."

Wally grumbled under his breath as he began tossing tools into his roll-bag—spanners, sensor probes, a portable arc welder. "Twitchy. Great. Just what I wanted. A jungle full of pissed-off lizard-cats and floating rocks. Perfect.”

Barry lingered as Wally zipped up the bag, watching with that quiet, fatherly gaze that always made Wally feel ten years old again. “You’ll be fine,” he said. “You always are.”

"Yeah, well, my definition of 'fine' includes fewer near-death experiences," Wally muttered. But he smiled as he said it.

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The walk through the RDA compound was its usual symphony of chaos and order. Alarms chirped in the distance. Servos whined. Somewhere above, a SA2 Samson transport roared into the bruised orange sky, leaving contrails that curled like smoke from a dying campfire.

Wally cut through the central gallery of the Armor Bay, shoulders brushing the low hum of magnetic containment fields. Rows of AMP suits stood like steel sentinels—thirteen feet tall, hydraulics gleaming under the overhead lights, some still wearing the battle scars of the last border skirmish. Techs scrambled over them like ants on a carcass, loading railgun magazines, running diagnostics, patching armor plating with quick-setting polymers.

Wally paused for a moment, just to 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬.

He loved this part. The raw, brutal elegance of the tech. The way every bolt, every joint, every neural link was a testament to human stubbornness—thier refusal to be outmatched by nature, even on a planet that wanted to rip them apart. He’d helped design the adaptive grip system on the new Mark-VII actuators. Had rewritten the feedback protocol for the hand servos so pilots could feel the pressure of their grips through the exoskeleton.

It wasn’t flashy.

It wasn’t saving lives.

But it mattered.

He exhaled, shoulders dropping, breath fogging in the cool bay air.

Then he moved on.

The Bio Lab loomed ahead—a long, large structure wrapped in decontamination seals and pressure doors. Inside, the air was colder, heavier, thick with the scent of sterile chemicals—a faint ozone tang that made his nostrils flare. Glowing vials lined the walls, racks of genetic samples, and consoles that hummed with the low drone of biosynthetic processes.

He passed through a doorway marked ‘𝘚𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘈𝘤𝘤𝘦𝘴𝘴—𝘈𝘶𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘻𝘦𝘥 𝘗𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘭 𝘖𝘯𝘭𝘺,’ the badge on his chest flashing a soft green as the door slid open. Scientists moved in white coats, reading data from floating holoscreens, adjusting nutrient flow, monitoring neural development.

But Wally didn’t stop for any of it.

He went straight to 𝘩𝘪𝘴 tank.

It sat in the far corner—solitary, almost ceremonial. A cylindrical chamber, three meters long, filled with viscous blue fluid that shimmered under the soft bioluminescent lights. And suspended within it—𝘩𝘪𝘮.

His avatar.

Tall. Slender. Impossibly elegant. Smooth cobalt skin striped with midnight, like a predator painted by moonlight. The face—sharp, feline, but undeniably 𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘢𝘯 in its expression, even in repose. Long black hair braided into a thick cascade that swayed with the gentle current. The tail curled slightly at the tip, as if instinctively seeking balance. Five fingers. Five toes. Eyes closed, but Wally 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸 the color—jade green, like a glistening emerald in the sunlight.

He looked 𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦.

And yet, for all its perfection, it was a statue. A masterpiece that would never move under 𝘩𝘪𝘴 will.

Wally stood there, hands in his pockets, breath shallow. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just stared.

It wasn’t the first time. Wouldn’t be the last. He always came here. Before every mission. Even though he knew—𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸—he wouldn’t be linking. Even though he’d passed every test, endured every scan, every neural calibration, every sleepless night hooked up to dream-mapping arrays. The system 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘨𝘯𝘪𝘻𝘦𝘥 him. The avatar 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘥 to his brainwave patterns. Everything was green across the board.

But when they closed the lid… when they initiated the transfer…

𝘕𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨.

No shift. No out-of-body surge. No waking up in blue skin beneath a vast sky.

Just silence.

Static.

A hollow, echoing 𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘬.

And the medics would say, ‘𝘛𝘳𝘺 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘯𝘦𝘹𝘵 𝘤𝘺𝘤𝘭𝘦.” And the techs would say, “𝘔𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘴 𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘮𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘦”—which, by the way, it did not. He's checked thousands of times, thank you very much—And Barry would say, “𝘉𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘵. 𝘞𝘦’𝘭𝘭 𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘰𝘶𝘵, 𝘬𝘪𝘥. 𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵… 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦.”

But they never did.

And so the avatar remained—beautiful. Waiting. 𝘏𝘪𝘴. And yet not.

A dream trapped in a tube.

Wally exhaled, long and slow. A weight settled in his chest—not anger. Not even sadness. Just… 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨. The ache of almost having something you can’t name, only feel. He reached up, pressing his palm against the cool glass.

And then—𝘪𝘵 𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘥.

A flicker. A twitch. A fingertip curling in the viscous blue, as if his touch had sent a ripple through the fluid. The braid quivered like a cat’s tail. The eyelids—𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘧𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨?—parted ever so slightly, just enough to reveal a pinprick of gold before snapping shut again.

Wally’s breath hitched.

𝘕𝘰. He silently reprimanded himself. 𝘋𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘱𝘪𝘥. 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘯𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘭 𝘰𝘤𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦. 𝘐𝘵’𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘢 𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘯. 𝘕𝘰, 𝘯𝘰, 𝙣𝙤—

His heart slammed against his ribs. The lab’s soft hum seemed to dim, the scientists’ murmurs fading into a white-noise blur. He leaned closer, fingers splayed against the glass, as if his warmth could bridge the gap between them. He took a stabilizing breath, closing his eyes.

“Someday, big guy,” he whispered, voice a tad hoarse. “Someday.”

He didn’t believe it. Not really.

But he said it anyway.

Then he turned.

Zipped up his jacket. Slung his bag over his shoulder. Walked out—back into the noise, the chaos, the dirt and grease and real world.

Back to fixing machines.

Back to being human.

And leaving the dream behind.

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Outside, Pandora's skyline glowed bronze in the late afternoon sun. The air smelled of fried citrus, exhaust, and the first hints of rain. Wally stuffed his hands inside his coat pockets, strolling down the hangar bay ramp with the nonchalance of someone who didn’t have a care in the world.

He did 𝘯𝘰𝘵 look like a man who’d just stared into the eyes of his own ghost. Nope. No, sir. He was fine. Or at least he was until he was assaulted.

The moment he stepped off the hangar ramp, the wind nearly knocked him flat.

A torrent of pressurized air blasted upward from the twin ducted fans of the Aerospatiale SA-2 Samson parked thirty meters away. The civilian transport craft hummed like a waking beast, its rotors spinning up in lazy bursts as ground crews double-checked tie-downs.

Another gust slammed into Wally’s chest, whipping his auburn hair into a red tornado around his face. This time, he barely flinched. With practiced ease, he adjusted his Exopack’s breathing mask over his nose and mouth—fingers tapping the filter seal twice—before squinting into the chaos beyond the ramp.

Hell’s Gate.

The name fit.

The place was a cluster of squat concrete and steel structures crouched beneath a permanent haze of diesel fumes and ion exhaust, ringed by a chain-link fence ten meters high, topped with coiled razor wire that glittered like venom in the midday sun.

Automated sentry guns perched on corner towers swiveled with silent precision, scanning the perimeter with unblinking red lenses. A massive tractor—the size of a two story house, its treads wider than city sidewalks—rumbled past on muddy wheels, belching black smoke.

Wally’s eyes narrowed as he spotted something jutting from the tire tread: 𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘴. Primitive, hand-carved shafts of wood and feathers. He smirked. It seemed the Na’vi had paid someone a visit last night.

Of course they had.

The Na’vi didn’t care about your concrete. Your guns. Your rules. And they made sure you knew that.

Wally chuckled.

Beyond the tractor, two VTOL vehicles lifted off in synchronized roar—the AT-99 ‘Scorpion’ gunships, armored like tanks and bristling with chainguns, their pilots visible only as silhouettes behind polarized canopies.

On the ground, a pair of Mitsubishi MK-6 AMP suits clomped along the outer fence line, each towering four meters tall, their hydraulic limbs clicking with every step. The GAU-90 rotary cannons slung across their backs looked like they could shred a mountain. Which they most definitely could.

And beyond the fence… the forest.

A black wall of vegetation hundreds of feet high, rising like a living fortress. Bioluminescent flora pulsed beneath the canopy in slow, rhythmic breaths—like a million sleeping eyes.

To most, it was awe-inspiring. Alien. Terrifying.

To Wally, it was just Tuesday.

The only thing that impressed him anymore was how the marines hadn’t managed to blow up all the equipment by now. And that, frankly, was a miracle.

Still scanning the compound, he barely had time to register movement before a voice boomed over the wind.

“West! About time you showed up!”

Wally turned—fast, reflexes sharpened by years of working near heavy machinery.

And looked up.

And up.

And up again.

Roy Harper stood before him—towering, sculpted, magnificent.

Roy was the perfect fusion of predator grace and military precision. Nine feet of lean, corded muscle wrapped in shimmering blue skin, streaked with jagged dark blue stripes that ran across his body like war paint. His face was sharp—high cheekbones, feline nose that twitched slightly in the breeze. His ears—pointed, expressive—swiveled forward as he smirked, revealing just a hint of those pronounced canines.

He almost looked like a real Na'vi.

Key word: 𝘢𝘭𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵.

The real giveaway?

He had five fingers—calloused, scarred, and strong as steel.

Not four.

Just like Wally’s avatar.

The second giveaway and arguably the most obvious?

He wore military cargo pants, snug and form fitting, paired with a tight deep red sleeveless T-shirt that showed off the powerful lines of his chest and arms. A baseball cap—RDA issue, unofficially customized—sat backward on his head, shadowing his eyes. Across his back, an M36A1 carbine hung in a quick-draw sling. And on his shoulders lay tattoos.

On the left arm lay a crowned bat accentuated by a gold banner with the word Pesadilla—Nightmare—carved on it. The bat's wings were wide open while its bottom half coiled like a serpent's into a wisp of smoke, ending in an arrow head. It was inked in deep green, standing out like a sore thumb.

Similarly colored on the right shoulder was the word Poison in Gothic lettering, accompanied by a scorpion below it. Underneath the scorpion was a skull crowned with spikes, its mouth transformed into a bow with arrows sticking out like teeth.

Roy dressed nothing like a real Na'vi. At least, according to what Iris has said and what Wally's read about them he didn't. Definitely didn't act like them either.

Wally sighed, craning his neck. “Roy. You ever think about 𝘯𝘰𝘵 growing ten feet everytime I see you, huh?”

Roy grinned, sharp fangs flashing. “Nah. Where’s the fun in that?”

Wally rolled his eyes. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re late.”

“I was 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 on time.”

“You were three minutes past ‘go time.’ At this rate you're as punctual as your uncle. Which is 𝘯𝘰𝘵 a compliment.”

“Three minutes doesn’t kill anyone.”

“On Pandora? It 𝘮𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵.”

Wally huffed, crossing his arms while leaning his weight on one leg, jutting his hip out. He leveled his best unimpressed face at Roy. “Oh, please. Like anything in that jungle wants to eat 𝘺𝘰𝘶.” He smirked. “They’d break a tooth while gagging on the taste. It'd be a double whammy.”

“What'd you just say?” Roy asked. His tail flicked once, annoyed, as his narrowed olive green eyes glared down.

Wally’s smirk grew. “You heard me. Or didn't you? What? You deaf now? I thought Na'vi were supposed to have exceptional hear—”

Roy lunged.

One second Wally was standing. The next, he was dangling a full two meters off the ground, hoisted effortlessly by the collar of his jacket, Roy’s massive hand closing around the fabric like a vice.

“𝘈𝘩! What the—put me 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯, you overgrown housecat!” Wally yelped, kicking his legs. “I’m fucking half your size! This is high enough for me to break something! I'm not a toy, Roy! I swear to God if you drop me—”

Roy just laughed—a deep, rumbling sound that echoed through his chest. “Maybe if you'd start eating protein bars like they’re candy, you’d have a shot at not being half my size.”

“I’m 𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘢𝘯, dumbass! I’m supposed to be tiny and fragile and emotionally vulnerable!”

“Excuses, excuses.”

Wally squirmed, flailing uselessly. Roy’s strength in avatar form was inhuman—ten times his own, even with Wally’s wiry, scrappy build. He might as well have been trying to fight a bulldozer.

“Put him down, Roy.”

The voice was calm. Commanding. And unmistakable.

The one and only Donna Troy stepped into view.

She moved like water—graceful, certain, balanced. Her avatar form was breathtaking in its symmetry. Sleek blue curves, longer limbs, a neck like a swan’s, tail held high and alert. Her face was softer than Roy’s—gentler, though no less fierce. High cheekbones, golden eyes that missed nothing.

She wore a black tank top, the collar a sharp V, revealing the smooth lines of her collarbone, with cargo pants, tactile combat boots, and a military issue communication choker. Her outfit was adorned with silver, armor arm braces on her biceps and wrists. Her hair—dark, thick, braid-wrapped—was pulled into a high knot, beads woven through the strands. No tattoos. No weapons. Just a shield slung across her back. But Wally knew better. Donna didn’t need weapons. She was one.

She placed a hand on Roy’s arm. “Enough. We have a mission to do, remember?”

Roy exhaled through his nose, then released Wally with a playful shove. Wally staggered, catching himself, fixing his jacket with exaggerated precision.

“Rude,” he muttered.

“Love you too.”

Donna smirked. “Boys. That’s enough. We don’t have time for your theatrics.”

Roy raised his hands in mock surrender. “Whatever you say, boss.”

Donna’s smirk widened. “Damn right I am.”

From behind her, Garth emerged.

Taller even than Roy, if that was possible. His stripes were darker, more irregular—like storm clouds over the deep ocean. His tail was thicker, more muscular, swaying slowly like a rudder. His eyes—piercing green—locked onto Wally with quiet warmth.

He wore a sleeveless vest, open at the front, showing off a chest and arms inked from shoulder to wrist in intricate patterns—black lines resembling the ocean currents, of ancestral memory, of a life lived beneath the waves of some forgotten sea.

“Hey, Wally,” he said, offering Wally a small wave with a reward winning smile.

Wally scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Don’t, ‘𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘞𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺,’ me. You could’ve helped, you know.”

Garth shrugged, his low, smooth voice carrying a hint of amusement. “I like the entertainment.” He studied Wally’s face. “You good to go?”

Wally sighed, rubbing his neck. “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. But I swear to God, if our pilots flying like Hal did last time—zero-to-sonic in two seconds, barrel rolls through rock spires—I’m gonna lose whatever I 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵 eat this morning. And it's going to be 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 problem.”

Before anyone could respond—

“𝘞𝘰𝘸.”

The voice cut through the wind like a blade.

Hal Jordan strolled into view, hands in the pockets of his grey flight suit, blue eyes crinkling at the corners with amusement. He was tall—tall for a human—but next to the avatars, he looked almost delicate. Athletic, though. Built like a fighter pilot should be: compact, wiry, coiled with energy. His short, light brown hair was tousled by the wind. The zipper of his suit was half-down, revealing a faded 𝘛𝘰𝘱 𝘎𝘶𝘯 patch on the shoulder.

He stopped in front of Wally, shaking his head. “I can’t believe my own nephew doesn’t have faith in my flying. Maybe I should go get someone else to fly your ungrateful ass.”

Wally snorted. “First of all—𝘯𝘦𝘱𝘩𝘦𝘸? Since when?”

“Since I decided it. Second of all—yeah, go ahead. Find someone 𝘦𝘭𝘴𝘦 who can thread a Samson between canopy layers at 300 knots without scraping the paint.”

“I 𝘴𝘢𝘸 the paint, Hal. It’s 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥. I have to fix it.”

“Cosmetic!”

“People almost 𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘥 during that maneuver!”

“That was 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 I perfected it!”

Wally threw his hands up. “Oh, 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘦𝘤𝘵. Just what I wanted to hear!”

Roy burst out laughing. Donna covered her mouth, eyes dancing. Garth just shook his head, grinning.

Hal stepped forward, clapped Wally hard on the shoulder, and then pulled him into a rough, one-armed hug. “Relax, kid. You’ll be fine. I’ve flown you through worse.”

“You flew me 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 a thunderstorm last time!”

“That was 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘥!” Hal protested, throwing his arms out. “There was lightning! It looked cool on the HUD!”

“It looked like we were being 𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘬𝘺! Which we were!”

Hal clapped him on the shoulder again—hard enough to make Wally stumble—and grinned, blue eyes gleaming under the bright light. “C’mon, Wally. Don’t be like that. Admit it. You loved it. Admit you were screaming like a kid on a rollercoaster.”

“I 𝘸𝘢𝘴 screaming like a kid on a rollercoaster,” Wally snapped. “Because you 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥 like a kid on a rollercoaster! With a death wish!”

Roy let out a low chuckle, stretching his arms overhead with a crack of joints that sounded too large to belong to anything human-born. His muscles flexed beneath that shimmering blue skin—corded, dangerous, like taut cables wrapped in midnight silk. His tail flicked once, lazily, as he watched the exchange with feline amusement.

“Relax, Wally,” he said, voice a gravelly purr, “if Hal tries to kill us with his piloting I’ll protect you. I’m basically your guardian angel. A big, blue, heavily armed guardian angel.”

“You’re not an angel,” Wally deadpanned. “You’re a walking war crime with a smirk.”

“And you,” Roy countered, “are a sarcastic little gremlin with a death wish and no survival skills. We balance each other out.”

Wally turned on him, finger jabbing. “Oh, please. Shut up, Roy. You’re not fooling anyone with the whole ‘alpha predator’ routine. I’ve seen you cry during E.T. On 𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘵.”

Roy’s smirk faltered. Just for a second.
“You promised to 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 bring that up again,” he growled.

“That was 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 you insulted my honor,” Wally shot back. “It’s not my fault you sobbed into a tissue for fifteen minutes after the bike scene. I have a video.”

“You—”

“Hey! Wait a second.” Hal interjected, crossing his arms. “Did Roy just insult my piloting?”

“Yep. He did do that.” Garth confirmed with a grin. He was more than enjoying the chaos unfolding and had no issues showing that. Or adding to it.

Hal gasped. “What the fuck, man! This is ridiculous! What’s with all this slander on my piloting? I'm a good—no, the 𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘵 pilot RDA's got!”

Wally cleared his throat.

Loudly.

One eyebrow arched. Arms crossed. “Hal,” he said, voice dry, “if I had a nickel for every time I almost died because 𝘺𝘰𝘶 thought ‘style’ mattered more than safety, I’d be able to buy my 𝘰𝘸𝘯 Samson and fly it 𝘴𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘭𝘺 through a parking lot.”

Hal smirked, hand raising to ruffle Wally's hair. “And if I had a nickel for every time you survived because of that style? I’d be rich enough to buy 𝘺𝘰𝘶 and retire you to a zoo.”

“Ass,” Wally muttered, but there was no bite in it—just the familiar bickering he and Hal always fell into—fast, sharp, full of fake outrage and genuine affection—back and forth, trading jabs like fencers, each one landing a hit, neither ever really winning.

Donna stepped forward, her movements silent on the concrete. She tilted her head slightly, golden eyes narrowing toward the treeline. A breeze lifted the beads in her hair, clicking like prayer stones.

“Alright, that's enough you two. We’re burning daylight,” she said, voice low but cutting through the banter like a vibro-knife. “As much as I love watching you two bicker, we need to get going.”

Hal held up his hands. “Okay, okay. Message received. Bossy Donna has spoken.”

“Good. I'm glad we're on the same page,” she said, her gaze sharp enough to cut steel. She stepped closer, her expression hardening. “Oh, but call me bossy one more time, Hal, and you’re going to be needing a new flight suit.”

“Yes ma'am. Message received loud and clear.” Hal turned, grinning, and started walking toward the Samson. “Now let’s get you kids in the air. I'm telling you now though, you big blue weirdos better not puke on my upholstery.”

Roy cracked his neck, the sound like two rocks grinding together. His tail lashed once—then stilled, coiled and ready. “Hell yeah! About time!” He unslung the M36A1 with practiced ease, chambering a round with a sharp click. “I’ve been itching to use this thing on something that isn’t a training drone since last week.”

Garth sighed. “You always say that. Then it turns into a firefight and I end up dragging your sorry ass out of the line of fire.”

“You love it,” Roy shot back, grinning.

“I love not getting ambushed,” Garth corrected, adjusting the thick bracers around his wrists. “So let’s try stealth this time. For once. As a courtesy to my blood pressure. Which means not messing with the wildlife in hopes of drawing out a reaction. This is supposed to be an 𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘺 mission.”

Roy scoffed. “You mean 𝘣𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨.”

“𝘙𝘰𝘺.”

“Ugh, fine, 𝘮𝘰𝘮. I'll be on my best behavior.” He brought one hand up to his chest and raised the other in the air, lowering his pinky, ring, and thumb. “Scouts honor.”

Wally snorted. “Yeah, sure you will.”

Roy gasped, bringing a hand to clutch at his heart in mock offense. As he did he slung an arm around Wally’s shoulders, kneeling to do so, dragging him forward. “Wally. You wound me. And here I thought we were 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘴.”

“Regrettably, we are.” Wally confirmed, but he was grinning now.

For the first time since being told to go on this mission, the weight in his chest felt lighter.

He didn’t have an avatar.

But he had this.

The wind. The noise. The stupid, impossible people who called him family.

And the sky.

Wally grinned.

Let the jungle come. He could take it.

…

He in fact could 𝘯𝘰𝘵 take it.

He now laid sprawled on the Pandorian forest floor, one cheek pressed into damp moss, the other side of his face sticky with something warm and coppery, wishing he'd told Barry to go fuck himself when he'd told him he should take the gig on Pandora.

The canopy above was a cathedral of bioluminescent green and deep violet, fronds swaying in a breeze that carried the distant cries of unseen predators. The sun filtered through layers of foliage, casting a thin, amber light that seemed to settle on his face. His body felt like it had been used as a sandbag in a particularly brutal boxing match, every nerve alight with a deep-seated ache.

𝘖𝘧 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦, the thought rang out, slipping through the cracks of his fogged mind. He blinked slowly. 𝘖𝘧 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦 𝘪𝘵’𝘴 𝘮𝘦. 𝘖𝘧 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘣𝘪𝘳𝘥, 𝘸𝘩𝘺 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘸 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘭𝘶𝘦 𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘣𝘶𝘪𝘭𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘷𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘴 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘰𝘳𝘣𝘪𝘵? 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘣𝘭𝘺 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘨𝘰 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨?

One second, they’d been gliding smooth over the Hallelujah Mountains, the kind of flying that made you believe Hal wasn’t just a pilot but a poet of the skies. The Samson hummed beneath them, its twin ducted fans a steady, reassuring rhythm. Wally had even cracked a smile, watching the way sunlight fractured through the floating islands, painting rainbows in the mist.

Then the sky screamed.

Not with engines. Not with alarms.

With wings.

A whole swarm of Banshees—𝘐𝘬𝘳𝘢𝘯—came screaming out of the eastern ridge like an avalanche of fangs and leathery wings. Dozens of them. No riders. No warnings. Just primal, furious intent. And they went straight for the Samson like it was a fresh steak in a starving lion's den.

Hal didn’t panic.

He became the storm.

Wally remembered the sudden tilt, the way the horizon flipped as Hal dropped the Samson into a vertical dive, nose pointed straight down. Not away—toward the rising cliff face. Gravity slammed into his chest like a sledgehammer. His vision tunneled.

Then, at the last possible second, Hal yanked the controls hard to starboard, pulling up in a gut-wrenching, 200-degree Immelmann that scraped the starboard wingtip against the stone, sending sparks flying like fireworks. It was a maneuver that would've left the guys in Top Gun spitting out their coffee, eyes bugging.

The Banshees swarmed past, confused, split by the sudden reversal.

Then Hal went wild.

He wasn’t flying anymore—he was dancing. Spinning, weaving, diving between floating monoliths, using the terrain like a shield. He’d dip low into a ravine, then climb at a 70-degree angle, flipping the Samson sideways to thread it through a narrow rift in the rock. He fired the door guns in short, precise bursts—𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘬-𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘬-𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘬—not to kill, but to deter, to create flinching space between the machine and the beasts.

Donna was already on her feet, rifle barking from the hatch, her voice a blade of command. “Left bank, Hal! They’re coming in high!”

Roy was beside her, half-standing in the windblast, rocket pod controls on his tablet, fingers flying. “Firing salvo—three, two—” and then “𝘓𝘈𝘜𝘕𝘊𝘏!” as four missiles punched from the undercarriage, exploding in midair in a controlled curtain of fire and shrapnel that sent the lead ikran veering off in screeching disarray.

Garth leaned out the other side, his massive blue form braced against the rushing air, twin pulse carbines blazing. His tattoos seemed to pulse with the rhythm of his fire, ancient patterns lit by muzzle flash.

But then—one of the Banshees, larger than the rest, with wings like tattered storm clouds—plunged straight into the cockpit side.

𝘊𝘙𝘜𝘕𝘊𝘏.

The Samson lurched violently. The cabin lights flickered red. Hal cursed, wrestling with the stick. And in that split second—when the craft rocked sideways, when the emergency harness alarm blared—Wally’s shoulder strap snapped.

One moment, he was yelling, gripping the seat.

The next—

—he was out.

Tumbling.

The world became a blur of sky, stone, and green. Wind roared in his ears. He saw the Samson banking hard, Hal fighting to stabilize it. Saw Donna lean out, reaching, shouting his name. Then the forest rushed up like a fist.

Branches—thick, springy, merciless—slapped him, clawed at him, broke his fall in increments of agony. One caught his ribs. Another raked across his side. His head snapped back, smacking a trunk with a thud that sent stars across his vision.

Then—

𝘐𝘮𝘱𝘢𝘤𝘵.

His body hit the ground with a wet crunch. Rolled. Slammed into a tree root. Skidded across moss and roots.

And then—nothing.

Darkness.

He didn’t know how long he’d been out.

Could’ve been minutes. Could’ve been hours.

The sun—or whatever passed for it through Pandora’s thick, ever-shifting atmosphere—was in roughly the same position as when they’d taken off. That was something. Maybe twenty, thirty minutes had passed. They’d only been airborne for forty.

He was still breathing.

More importantly, his Exopack was intact.

He shifted slightly, wincing as pain flared in his left shoulder, and reached back with trembling fingers. His bag—his emergency kit—was still strapped to him. He patted it like a prayer. Inside: tools, rations, two med-injectors, and, most crucially, a second Exopack. Nineteen hours of oxygen total.

He let out a breath that was half laugh, half sob.

“Good job, past me,” he whispered. “You’re a genius.”

Then he remembered.

He'd forgotten his tablet.

𝘚𝘩𝘪𝘵.

No comms. No GPS. No way to signal the Samson, no way to get coordinates, no way to call Hal and tell him, "𝘏𝘦𝘺, 𝘔𝘳. ‘𝘐’𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘱𝘪𝘭𝘰𝘵 𝘙𝘋𝘈 𝘩𝘢𝘴,’ 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘯𝘦𝘱𝘩𝘦𝘸 𝘪𝘴 𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘢 𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘥𝘥𝘭𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘥𝘥𝘢𝘮𝘯 𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘢𝘯 𝘤𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘵."

Okay, maybe not a genius. Just smart.

He groaned, rolling onto his back. “Barry,” he hissed, voice raw. “You promised me a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. You didn’t say once-in-a-lifetime near-death experience!”

He should’ve stayed on Earth. Should’ve stayed in Central City. Should’ve taken that lab job, worn the stupid white coat, clocked in at nine, gone home to his crappy apartment, watched TV, and never once worried about being eaten by a six-legged lizard the size of a school bus.

But no. Barry had given him the talk. The bright-eyed, eager-to-share enthusiasm that only Barry Allen could pull off without sounding like a cult leader.

“𝘐𝘵’𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘢 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘞𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺. 𝘐𝘵’𝘴 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺. 𝘐𝘵’𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺. 𝘠𝘰𝘶’𝘭𝘭 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘯𝘰 𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘢𝘯’𝘴 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘯. 𝘠𝘰𝘶’𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘪𝘨𝘨𝘦𝘳. 𝘗𝘭𝘶𝘴, 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘭𝘭 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘢𝘶𝘯𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘭𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘺. 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢 𝘥𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘺?”

“Well, Barry,” Wally muttered, “I’ve seen things. And I hate them. And I definitely want to punch you for it.”

The forest hummed around him. Strange birds—𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘣𝘦 𝘣𝘪𝘳𝘥𝘴—called in harmonic pulses. Vines pulsed faintly, reacting to movement. Something scuttled off to his left—small, fast, glowing. He didn’t look.

He couldn’t look.

Because he knew—knew in the deep, quiet part of himself—that he couldn’t stay here.

Not if he wanted to live.

He had nineteen hours.

Nineteen hours to find shelter. To find water. To find anyone. To avoid whatever was out there with teeth, claws, and a grudge against humans.

And first, he had to move.

He sucked in a breath. Deep. Slow. Felt the ache in his ribs, the throbbing in his skull, the hot sting along his side where the gash opened up with every shift.

Concussion. Bruises everywhere. Maybe internal bruising. Gash on the hip. Possible sprain in the left ankle. But—no breaks. Probably.

He wasn’t dead.

He wasn’t maimed.

He was hurting, but he was whole.

And Wally West didn’t get this far in life by lying on the ground and waiting for rescue.

With another breath—long, ragged, braced—he planted his palms on the damp earth.

Then, slowly, excruciatingly, he began to push.

Every muscle screamed.

His vision exploded in white-hot sparks. For a second, everything went silent—the forest, the wind, the distant cries—all gone. Just ringing in his ears, like a bell struck too hard.

He froze.

𝘋𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘴 𝘰𝘶𝘵. 𝘋𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘴 𝘰𝘶𝘵.

He gritted his teeth so hard his jaw creaked. Breathed through his nose.

𝘐𝘯. 𝘖𝘶𝘵. 𝘐𝘯. 𝘖𝘶𝘵.

The world swam back in flickers.

Color returned. Sound dripped in like water through stone.

He was on his elbows.

Then—inch by inch—he dragged himself up.

Knees under him.

Forearms braced on his thighs.

He stayed like that for a full minute, head down, sweat beading on his forehead, breath coming in short, shallow gasps.

Every second was a victory.

He reached back again, fumbled with the straps of his pack, and with a grunt, hoisted it onto his shoulders. The weight sent a fresh wave of pain through his spine, but—there. It was on. Secure.

He closed his eyes.

Then, with a sound somewhere between a growl and a laugh, he pushed off.

Up.

One leg. Then the other.

His knees trembled. His left ankle buckled slightly. His side burned like fire. His head pounded like a drum.

But—

—he was standing.

On his own two feet.

In the middle of a hostile alien jungle.

With nineteen hours of air.

And no idea where the hell he was.

Wally took a shaky breath.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he grinned.

“Alright, Pandora,” he rasped. “Your move.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He really needed to stop saying shit like that.

It was no secret that the Na’vi hate humans—correction, 𝘚𝘬𝘺 𝘗𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦. You’d have to be an idiot to believe otherwise. To the Na’vi, Sky People are demons, blind to the world around them, destructive, greedy, 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴—pretty much chaos in every form of the word. And the Na’vi have every right to believe that.

Since the Sky People came to Pandora, their home has seen nothing but destruction and hardship. The forest that once sang with life, radiant and untamed, had been carved into oblivion by bulldozers and fire. The sacred trees, the deep-rooted ley lines, the nesting grounds of the Ikran—all gone, replaced by metal, machinery, and a toxic haze that lingered like a curse.

Who wouldn’t be pissed? It was seriously 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘶𝘱.

But that wasn't the point here.

The point was, to the Na’vi, Sky People have 𝘯𝘰 redeeming qualities. As far as they’re concerned, Sky People could burn in hell—where they’re suspected to have come from. Hence them being considered demons.

Which is why it really 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯’𝘵 have come as a surprise to Wally—who was a human, Earthling, Sky Person, whatever they wanted to call him—that he was now pinned to the jungle floor with an eight-foot alien’s blade pressed against his throat.

Honestly, it really 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵 surprise him.

What 𝘸𝘢𝘴 surprising—what was, frankly, 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘣𝘪𝘯𝘨—was how hot he found the whole situation to be.

Wally had been wandering for hours, maybe longer, his body screaming with every step. The pain was a constant companion now: a dull thunder in his skull, a white-hot throb along his left side where the gash had split skin and muscle, his ankle clicking with each movement like a broken hinge. Less than nineteen hours of air left. That’s all he had. And no idea where the hell he was.

The forest around him, though… God, the 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵.

It was nothing like Earth. Nothing like the documentaries, the simulations, the grainy holos they’d shown back at the base. Pandora wasn’t just alive. It was 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘦.

The trees rose like cathedral spires, their trunks thick and pulsing faintly with bioluminescent veins—cobalt, violet, emerald—glowing beneath layers of moss and symbiotic fungi.

Vines as thick as his arm writhed gently in the breeze, not from wind, but from some internal rhythm, like slow, sleeping breaths.

The air hummed—literally 𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘥—a deep, organic frequency that vibrated in his chest. Distant calls echoed in harmonic pulses, layered and melodic, like birdsong composed by something ancient and intelligent.

And the 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘳𝘴.

Everything glowed. The ground shimmered with patches of phosphorescent moss. Flowers unfurled like living lanterns, blooming in bursts of gold and crimson, retracting when he neared, as if shy. Even the insects were radiant—tiny, winged things that zipped past like living sparks, trailing streaks of blue and silver in their wake.

It was beautiful.

It was terrifying.

And it was 𝘴𝘰 not what he signed up for.

He paused, leaning against a tree for support, sweat cooling on his brow. That’s when he saw it—a 𝘏𝘦𝘹𝘢𝘱𝘦𝘥𝘦.

Graceful as a dream, the six-legged herbivore stood at the edge of a clearing, its long, delicate limbs folded beneath it as it grazed on luminous, fern-like plants. Its hide was dappled in patterns like cracked porcelain, shifting from indigo to teal in the dim light. Antler-like horns curled back from its skull, tipped in silver, catching the glow of the canopy. It moved with a fluid, almost liquid rhythm—no jerks, no fear—just peace.

Wally held his breath.

For the first time since the crash, he forgot about the pain. Forgot about the oxygen. Forgot about Barry’s stupid, starry-eyed pep talk about 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 and 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘺.

This wasn’t discovery. This was 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨.

And it was breathtaking.

Then—movement above.

A shimmer in the air.

Dozens—no, 𝘩𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘴—of them drifted down from the canopy like embers rising from a fire.

Woodsprites.

They were tiny, seed-shaped beings almost resembling jellyfish, no bigger than his hand, with delicate, membrane-like wings that pulsed with soft bioluminescence. They floated on unseen currents, swirling in slow, deliberate spirals, glowing a pale, otherworldly teal.

And then—they 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘥.

One settled on his forearm, light as a breath. Another on his shoulder. One even brushed against his cheek, its tiny wings fluttering like a heartbeat.

Wally froze.

Not from fear. From 𝘸𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳.

They weren’t afraid of him. They were… drawn to him. Which left him enthralled.

And 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 was the issue.

Because Wally wasn’t supposed to be here. Not like this. Not at all.

He wasn’t even supposed to 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦.

Pandora? Sure, it was pretty. Yeah, okay, the trees glowed. The animals had extra legs. Big deal.

Back on Earth, while his uncle Barry marveled at photosynthesis, gawking at it like some wide-eyed tourist, and his aunt Iris gushed over exotic species, Wally had been tinkering with circuit boards or disassembling old drones in his garage.

Nature? Cool, sure. But he’d always found it… predictable. The way leaves followed the sun, the way animals stuck to their habitats—it all seemed so rigid. Like a program written in an outdated, never changing code.

Machines? Now those were a language he understood. The hum of an engine, the precision of gears, the spark of electricity igniting a system—that was beauty. Creation. Control.

He’d signed up for Pandora not to 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘶𝘯𝘦 with the planet, but to fix the goddamn 𝘮𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴 the company promised would be there—RDA exos, hover loaders, AI-assisted drills, the kind of gear that 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥. He’d always loved how things worked—how a motor could scream to life with the right spark, how a shattered system could be rewired into something stronger. Creation. Precision. Control. That was what lit him up.

The forest? Please. The forest was a mess.

On Earth, you could map ecosystems. Predict growth. Trim, contain, reroute. But on Pandora? The forest didn’t follow rules. It didn’t 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 to be understood. It pulsed, shifted, 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 in ways that made no sense to someone who spoke in volts and torque. And yet—now, with mini jellyfish like creatures floating around him, Wally finally 𝘨𝘰𝘵 it.

This wasn’t a forest.

This was a machine.

But not the clunky, inefficient kind he’d spent his life repairing.

No—this was 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘦𝘤𝘵 engineering.

Every vine that slithered with its own rhythm, every thread of light in the roots beneath him—𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥. Synchronized. Not welded or coded, but 𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘯 that way. The Woodsprites weren’t just pretty lights—they were data carriers, messengers, 𝘯𝘦𝘶𝘳𝘢𝘭 𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘴 in a living, breathing network. The hum in the air? That wasn’t just ambiance. That was a 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘺, a harmonic resonance tying the whole damn ecosystem into one vast, self-sustaining organism.

It was like someone had taken every blueprint he’d ever studied—the schematics of cities, of satellites, of fusion cores—and said, ‘𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘧 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘥?’

And then built it.

And 𝘰𝘩, how it was beautiful.

Not “pretty” beautiful. Not “look-at-that-shiny-plant” beautiful.

But 𝘧𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 beauty. Elegant design. Purpose in every pulse of light, every shift of root and leaf. This wasn’t chaos.

This was 𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘶𝘴.

Something that needed to be protected at all costs.

He exhaled, his voice a hoarse whisper. “Hey… hey, little guys.”

They responded—𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩, as if listening.

One landed on the tip of his nose. He didn’t flinch. Just smiled, painfully, slowly.

It was like being blessed.

Like being 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘯.

His eyes burned. Not from pain. From something else. Something deeper.

And then—𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘢𝘤𝘵.

Hard. Fast. 𝘉𝘳𝘶𝘵𝘢𝘭.

The world flipped. One second he was standing, lost in the glow of the Woodsprites. The next, he was on his back, the breath knocked out of him, a knee grinding into his chest, a hand gripping his hair, and a knife—sharp, bone-crafted, 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭—pressed against the soft skin under his jaw.

He gasped. Pain flared through his ribs. His vision spotted.

Above him loomed a Na’vi.

𝘔𝘢𝘭𝘦.

𝘛𝘢𝘭𝘭.

𝘍𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴.

And—𝘰𝘩, 𝘎𝘰𝘥, 𝘶𝘯𝘧𝘢𝘪𝘳𝘭𝘺 𝙝𝙤𝙩.

He was eight or more feet of pure, coiled deep blue muscle, and as if that 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯’𝘵 enough of a turn-on his intricate, natural tiger-stripes that darkened over his shoulders and down his arms—like something carved from the wild heart of Pandora itself—didn’t hold a randomized pattern. No. Instead they coiled into a precise avian sigil over his broad chest, wings outstretched across his pectorals as if the creature were poised to take flight from his very soul. Tribal, sacred, 𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦.

It was unfairly gorgeous.

And this bastard's beauty didn’t end there.

Nope. It seemed he was blessed by whatever divine entity watched on from above for his eyes—𝘑𝘦𝘴𝘶𝘴, those eyes. Large, luminous, like molten honey cut through with flecks of gold, narrowed now in pure, unfiltered contempt. They bored into Wally like twin suns, dissecting, judging, 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘮𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨. His pointed ears twitched—sensing more than hearing—and behind him, his long, powerful tail lashed like a leopard’s, low and threatening, the tip twitching with predatory awareness.

Everything about this guy was breathtaking.

And it really didn’t help Wally’s poor, lovesick heart that he was 𝘯𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘥.

Well, 𝘯𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘥 wasn’t quite right. The Na’vi did have the decency to wear a loincloth of tightly woven plant fibers, dyed in earthy reds and browns, cinched at his narrow waist with a cord of braided sinew. And his arms were adorned with woven bracers. Plus, across his chest crisscrossed a harness of leather and polished bone. It held an empty knife sheath at his hip (no doubt for the dagger pressed to Wally’s neck), a satchel made of tanned hide that bulged slightly with unknown tools or relics, and kept what rested on his back in place.

So, no. He wasn’t completely naked.

But maybe it would’ve been better if he had been since it was what rested 𝘰𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 that made Wally’s breath skip—twice. Just as he was adapting to the reality that someone this hot existed.

Twin blades.

They weren’t carried like swords or spears. No. They were mounted in a buugeng-style configuration, slung across his back in an elegant X, the hilts parallel and facing outward—one near each shoulder—so that each blade angled diagonally down along his spine, the sharpened edges facing 𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘥, ready to be drawn in a single, fluid motion with either hand.

Their edges gleamed with a faint iridescence, like oil on water, and Wally 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸, somehow, that they could cut through steel as easily as vine.

It made the reality of his situation all too clear.

But still.

There was a 𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘯𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘥, unfairly 𝘩𝘰𝘵, Na’vi on top of him.

Wally’s brain short-circuited.

𝘕𝘰. 𝘕𝘰, 𝘯𝘰, 𝘯𝘰. 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴. 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘤𝘢𝘯’𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘐 𝘥𝘪𝘦. 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘬𝘯𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘢𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘶𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥—𝙬𝙝𝙮 𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘢𝘳𝘣𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘴𝘰 𝘥𝘦𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘥?

He mentally slapped himself.

𝘚𝘩𝘶𝘵 𝘶𝘱, 𝘞𝘦𝘴𝘵. 𝘠𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘪𝘦. 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘮𝘺.

But he couldn’t help it. The guy was 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨. The kind of face you’d see on a statue—carved by gods, worshipped by tribes. And right now, that face was inches from his own, lips curled back in a snarl, 𝘧𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘴—oh God why were they so hot?—bared like a wild animal.

The knife pressed harder. A bead of blood welled.

The Na’vi warrior snarled something in Na’vi—harsh, guttural, full of venom. Wally didn’t need a translator to get the gist: “𝘚𝘬𝘺 𝘗𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘰𝘯. 𝘋𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘺𝘦𝘳. 𝘌𝘷𝘪𝘭. 𝘋𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘯.”

Wally didn’t move.

He didn’t speak.

He just… 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘥.

And in that moment, he accepted it.

This was it. This was how he died. Not in some lab explosion in Central City. Not on a comfy couch, surrounded by takeout and bad TV. No. He was going to die on a glowing alien planet, face-to-face with the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen, while being surrounded by magical flying seeds.

And honestly?

𝘒𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘱𝘰𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘤.

He closed his eyes.

Waiting.

The pressure didn’t increase.

The knife didn’t slash.

The Na’vi didn’t move.

Wally cracked one eye open.

The Woodsprites.

They were 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦.

Floating in a slow, glowing halo around them—Wally, the Na’vi, the knife, the tension—𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨. Dozens of them, maybe hundreds, drifting in silent, rhythmic patterns, their soft golden light casting long, dancing shadows on the foliage.

The Na’vi’s piercing golden eyes flicked upward.

Then down.

Then back to Wally.

His expression shifted—just slightly. The snarl softened. The pressure of the knife eased. His ears twitched again, but not in aggression. In 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘧𝘶𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯.

He looked… 𝘶𝘯𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦.

Wally swallowed, his voice a ragged whisper. “Uh. Hi.”

No response.

But the knife lowered. Just an inch.

The Na’vi stared at the Woodsprites. They landed on his arms. On his shoulders. One even settled on the tip of his tail.

He didn’t swat them away.

He 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘥 at them.

And for a second—just a fraction of a second—Wally thought he saw something flicker in the Na’vi’s eyes.

𝘙𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘨𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯.

𝘞𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳.

Maybe even… 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘧?

Wally didn’t understand.

But he was alive.

For now.

His breath came in short, shaky bursts, fogging his Exopack mask. His side burned. His head throbbed. But he was 𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦.

And the Woodsprites?

They weren’t leaving.

They were 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨.

Waiting.

Like they knew something he didn’t.

Like they were guarding him.

The Na’vi slowly rose, the knife still in hand, but no longer aimed at Wally’s throat. He stepped back, his tail flicking once, twice, scanning the air. His eyes never left Wally’s. And Wally—bruised, bleeding, exhausted—just stayed on the ground, staring up at him, heart pounding for a whole new reason.

Then, softly, he muttered, “Okay, fine. Maybe Barry was right about one thing.”

He paused.

Then grinned—weak, pained, but 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦.

“This 𝘪𝘴 pretty historic.”

The warrior’s golden eyes narrowed with a hatred Wally couldn’t blame but still flinched to receive.

“Right. Stupid thing to say,” Wally rasped, the words tasting bitter, like rust on his tongue. “Just… Please don’t kill me. I—I don’t want to die.”

The Na’vi’s lip curled, revealing those sharp canines, beautiful and glistening in the forest light. 𝘚𝘬𝘺 𝘗𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘬 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘥, Wally imagined him thinking. 𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘥𝘪𝘦. 𝘚𝘰 𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘰𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨.

But then—those Woodsprites. Still clinging to Wally’s collar, his hair, his trembling fingers. They pulsed softly, their glow undimmed by the tension, as if baffled by the idea of violence. The Na’vi’s gaze faltered, just slightly, as one of the creatures drifted over and draped a filament of light over his nose. He stared at the Woodsprite for a second, as if memorized, before shifting his gaze back to Wally.

Waiting.

For what? A lie? A threat? A spark of malice?

Wally swallowed. Blood and sweat and fear all on his tongue.

Then, softly, trembling, he whispered:
“I… I didn’t come here to destroy.”

The Na’vi didn’t move.

But the forest did.

Around them, the vines curled slightly. The moss brightened. And one of the Woodsprites—still perched on Wally’s shoulder—drifted upward, hovering between them like a tiny, glowing judge.

The warrior followed its movement. Then looked back at Wally. It wasn’t rage in his eyes now—it was something worse.

Uncertainty.

Wally seized it.

“You have every right to distrust me. Hell, you and your people have every right to hate us hu—𝘚𝘬𝘺 𝘗𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦,” he gasped, wincing as the pain in his side flared. "We've torn your home apart for 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 now. All for something as stupid as a tiny rock because we deemed it valuable. Y’know, back home, I fixed machines. Big ones—jets, reactors, you name it. It’s pretty cool actually. But, uhm, that’s why I was brought here. To 𝘧𝘪𝘹 things. Not destroy.”

The Na’vi’s head tilted, his free hand brushing the Woodsprite’s around him as if testing whether the demon spoke truth.

Wally pressed on, voice raw but relentless. “Point is, I didn’t come to this planet because I cared about RDA’s agenda, I just needed a good gig that paid well. I promise. And, well, admittedly, I was curious to see the tech they had here.”

A beat. The Na’vi’s blade didn’t get put away, but neither did it take place at his throat again. A few feet from them, the hexapede watched, its silver-tipped antlers swaying in time with the trees. Somewhere in the canopy, a banshee’s cry echoed—a sound like steel bending under pressure.

Then the Na’vi spoke, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. “𝘕𝘨𝘢 𝘱𝘭𝘭𝘹𝘵𝘦 𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘴𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘨 𝘯𝘢 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘷𝘳𝘳𝘵𝘦𝘱 𝘯𝘨𝘢 𝘭𝘶,” he growled. “You lie. The Sky People only take. Destroy. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 only destroy."

Wally’s breath hitched. Of course. How could he blame whoever this is—he really needed to get a name—for not believing him? His entire home has seen destruction at the hands of humans. If he were him, he wouldn't believe him either.

“I was like them,” Wally admitted, staring past the Na’vi’s shoulder at the glowing forest. “Cared more about circuits than… than this.” He gestured weakly at the pulsing vines, the magnificent symphony of light and sound. “Hell, me helping them with their machines has probably cost your home so much. But this?” He touched a Woodsprite on his wrist, and it flared brighter. “It’s started to show me that this forest isn’t something that should be destroyed over something as stupid as a valuable rock. This place is beautiful. Sacred.”

The Na’vi’s expression hardened. “You are one,” he said, the word a hiss. “One Sky Person. You think you are different?”

Wally managed a wry, painful smile. “Nope. Not even close.” He coughed, blood speckling the inside of his Exomask. “But I’m not here to burn your trees. I’m just… stuck.”

For a long moment, the forest held its breath. Then the Na’vi turned, walking away from Wally, the blade he was holding finally being sheathed.

“You live,” the Na’vi said, voice grudging. “For now. See if your words hold. Now leave. You should not be here.” He tossed Wally a quick glance, his eyes scanning him from head to toe. His tail flicked in one quick, strong motion—as if showing how disgusted he was with him. “Do not waste this.”

Wally stared at the Na’vi’s retreating back. The hexapede lowed softly, and the Woodsprites swirled between them like embers from a shared fire.

Then—𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵.

Wally’s fingers dug into the moss. He gritted his teeth and pushed himself up, staggering to his feet with a gasp. Pain lanced through his ribs, burning like live wires under his skin, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. Not when the only chance he had to survive was walking away from him.

“𝘞𝘢𝘪𝘵!” Wally called out, voice cracking. “Wait—hold on a sec!”

He took a lurching step forward, then tripped over a knotted root, stumbling into the thick, bioluminescent undergrowth. A curtain of hanging moss slapped him across the face, and a spined creeper snagged his pant leg, tearing the fabric with a soft 𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘱𝘱. He cursed under his breath, swatting at a vine that curled around his wrist like a curious child.

“Hey! Hey—just—just a second!” he panted, scrambling forward, his boots sinking into the spongy earth with every step.

The Na’vi didn’t slow.

“Damn it—look, I know you don’t want to talk to me,” Wally continued, voice rising as he yanked his leg free and lunged ahead. “But I need a second. Just—just 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬 to me!” He tripped again, this time catching himself on a low-hanging branch that released a cloud of glowing pollen as he grabbed it. The air shimmered around him, and the Woodsprites swirled in agitation, their lights flickering like startled stars.

He finally caught up enough to fall into step just behind the warrior, half-limping, half-staggering.

“So—uh—what’s your name?” Wally blurted, breathless.

Then he winced, cursing himself instantly. 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵?! What kind of idiot asks for someone’s 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦 right after nearly getting throat-slitted? As if that mattered right now.

“I mean—no, wait—that’s not—𝘫𝘦𝘦𝘻,” he stammered, waving a hand. “Forget that. I’m lost. And I could really use your help.”

The Na’vi kept walking.

Wally pressed on, talking faster now, voice fraying at the edges. “I don’t know this forest. I've only ever really flown above it. This?” He gestured wildly at the towering, breathing trees, the glowing flora, the eerie hush of living stone and sentient mist. “This is all 𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘯. I don’t know which way is north, I don’t know which plants’ll eat me, and 𝘥𝘦𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘺 have no clue where the nearest RDA outpost is.”

He slowed slightly, voice dropping, almost pleading. “I’ve got… less than nineteen hours of air left in my pack. Maybe less, if my Exopack gets damaged.” He pressed a hand to his side, grimacing. “I’m hurt. I can’t run. I can’t climb. I don’t even know how to 𝘢𝘴𝘬 for help in your language.”

Wally stumbled over a root, cursing under his breath. Man, he regretted a lot right now. He really should've paid closer attention to Iris's lectures. Maybe then he'd be able to speak Na'vi and know for sure that this guy could actually understand more than every other word he was saying. Oh well, live and learn. He had bigger things to worry about. Like making sure he 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘥 to learn.

“But you—𝘺𝘰𝘶 belong here.” He continued, voice a breathy rasp. “You know this place. So please—just 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘦 where to go. Or point. Or growl. I’ll take anything.”

The Na’vi didn’t turn. Didn’t pause. His strides were long, deliberate, cutting through the underbrush like a blade through silk.

Wally groaned, pressing forward, his boots sinking slightly into the spongy earth. His voice cracked. "I’m only out here because some stupid flying lizards attacked me! I was in a Samson—flying—then 𝘣𝘢𝘮—got thrown out! I—”

The Na’vi 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘥.

Not a hesitation. Not a pause. A full, sharp 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱, like a blade drawn across silence.

Then—he 𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘥. Not slowly. Not cautiously. He 𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘥 back toward Wally in three long, powerful strides, eyes narrowed, ears laid flat against his skull, nostrils flaring. Wally yelped, stumbling backward, and landed hard on his backside with a wet 𝘵𝘩𝘶𝘥, his head bouncing slightly against a moss-covered root.

In the distance, a Prolemuris laughed.

Not a sound, not a call—𝘭𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘦𝘥. A high-pitched, chittering giggle that echoed from the canopy above. It clung to a branch, its leathery gliding membranes stretched like tiny wings, its enormous eyes fixed on Wally with what could only be described as 𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘢𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵. It tilted its head, sharp teeth glinting, and let out another cackle.

Wally glared up at it, wiping dirt from his face. “Oh, shut up. You little—uh—𝘫𝘦𝘳𝘬.” He waved a hand weakly. “Stuck halfway across the galaxy and I’m still at risk of getting mocked by stupid, annoying monkeys. Some things never change.”

He was still scowling at the Prolemuris when he turned back—and nearly choked on his own breath.

The Na’vi was 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦. Crouched low in front of him, face inches from his own. Eyes like twin pools of molten onyx, narrowed with suspicion and something else—something deeper, 𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘦𝘳. His ears were pinned back, his breath short and sharp like a predator assessing prey. One hand hovered near Wally’s chest, not touching, but close—so close Wally could feel the warmth radiating from his fingers.

Wally swallowed. Hard.

“Uh… hey,” he said, voice cracking. “Nice weather, isn’t it?” He offered a shaky grin. “Great… lighting.”

The Na’vi didn’t blink.

Wally chuckled awkwardly. "Heh… what? Is there something on my face? A bug? A leaf? A 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 bad first impression?"

Still nothing. Just that unrelenting stare.

Wally shifted uncomfortably. "Okay. Yep. Not talking. Got it. I’ll just… sit here. Quiet. Like a respectful lump of space trash."

He was ready to accept the fact he'd never get an answer, but then the Na’vi finally spoke. His voice was low, threatening.

“What do you mean… you 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘬𝘺?”

Wally blinked. “Huh? What do you—?”

The Na’vi snarled, cutting him off. “𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘭. 𝘍𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘬𝘺.” He said it like it was a blasphemy, a heresy against the natural order.

“Oh!” Wally’s eyes widened. “Yeah. Right. Well,” he said, pushing himself up slightly, wincing as he leaned on one elbow, “I was on my way to an outpost—RDA mission, Sector Seven—for repairs. Standard job. Then—bam—outta nowhere, a whole swarm of your flying lizards—”

“𝘐𝘬𝘳𝘢𝘯,” the Na’vi corrected, voice sharp as obsidian, teeth bared.

“Right. Ikran. My bad. Anyway, they came outta nowhere—screaming, dive-bombing the Samson like a pack of angry drones. We tried to shake ’em, but they weren’t easy to shake off. One of ‘em hit the Samson and the next thing I knew I was buckled one second and then the next—whoosh—I’m falling. No parachute, no jet pack, just me and gravity having a very personal conversation.”

He gestured vaguely upward. “Landed in a lot of leaves and branches on the way down, I think, if you can believe it. Took the edge off, but—” he tapped his ribs—“we’re not exactly friends right now. By the time I hit the ground I was unconscious. Didn’t know where I was. Didn’t know if anyone survived. Didn’t know if I’d bleed out before I found help. So I started walking. That’s when…” He gestured weakly at the Na’vi. “𝘠𝘰𝘶 found me and put a knife to my throat. Now, here we are.”

The Na’vi stared at him. Long. Hard. So long that Wally started to wonder if he’d stopped breathing. The forest seemed to lean in, vines curling tighter, bioluminescent blooms dimming and brightening in slow pulses like a heartbeat.

Then, the warrior muttered one word:
"𝘐𝘮𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘣𝘭𝘦."

Wally opened his mouth—

But before he could speak, strong hands grabbed his arms and 𝘺𝘢𝘯𝘬𝘦𝘥 him upright. Wally cried out in pain, nearly collapsing again, but the Na’vi held him steady, hoisting him up like he weighed nothing. His fingers probed Wally’s torso, brushed over the bruises that were definitely hidden under Wally’s shirt across his ribs, tugged at his hair, then stopped—freezing—as one Woodsprite, still clinging to Wally’s shoulder, 𝘧𝘭𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥 brightly, casting a soft blue halo across both their faces.

The Na’vi’s eyes widened.

He stepped back, slowly, scanning Wally up and down—not as a threat, not as prey, but as something… 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘯. His expression shifted, mouth parting slightly, ears twitching forward.

“You… survived a fall from the skies,” the Na’vi murmured, more to himself than to Wally. “And Eywa has not claimed you. She protected you," he whispered, voice thick with awe.

Wally blinked. “What? Who’s Eywa? Wait—𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵? Protected me? From what? The fall? I mean, if she did, she’s 𝘢𝘸𝘦𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦, but—”

The awe vanished.

Snuffed out like a candle in a storm.

The Na’vi’s face hardened. His lips curled into a sneer. He 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘥 Wally—hard—sending him stumbling back into a cluster of soft, vine-wrapped saplings that groaned under his weight.

"Forget it," the warrior hissed, turning away. "You do not see. Sky People 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 see."

Wally caught himself, gasping, then lunged forward, ignoring the fire in his ribs, the dizziness clawing at his vision. "Wait—𝘸𝘢𝘪𝘵!" He scrambled after, tripping over roots, swatting aside glowing fronds, voice raw with desperation. "If I can’t see—then 𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘮𝘦! Show me! I don’t know your world, I don’t know your 𝘳𝘶𝘭𝘦𝘴—but I’m 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦. I survived. And if Eywa—𝘸𝘩𝘰𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘴—had a hand in that, then maybe—𝘮𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦—she wants me to 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘯!"

The Na’vi stopped.

Not because he turned.

Not because he spoke.

But because his tail—long, powerful, expressive—went utterly still.

The forest held its breath.

Then, slowly, deliberately, the warrior turned.

His eyes burned. Not with anger. Not with pity.

But with something deeper.

Dangerous.

"You cannot be taught to see," he said, voice low, final. "Eywa does not speak to those who do not 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨."

Wally stared at him—breathless, bleeding, standing in a world that was not his, under a sky lit by living light—and for the first time in his life, felt like the world was ripped away from beneath his feet.

He was utterly helpless.

Broken.

Lost.

He had nothing.

No friends.

No family.

No machines to save him.

Just the cold, hard truth.

And the silence between them, thick as the vines, heavy as the sky.

This was it

Chapter Text

Wally swallowed thickly, a dry click in his throat like the ratchet of a misfiring engine. His body felt numb—no, worse than numb. Hollow. Like someone had scooped out his bones and filled the gaps with molten lead.

His head throbbed with a deep, insistent pressure behind his eyes, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. Each breath came too fast, too shallow, and when he inhaled the thick, filtered sweet-ozone air of the forest, it didn’t fill his lungs—it just sat there, heavy and useless.

He wasn’t sure when the pain had sharpened, but suddenly it was 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦. Like it had been waiting politely on the sidelines while his adrenaline held the stage, and now, with the curtain closing, it was storming the spotlight with a vengeance.

It started in his ribs—a deep, grinding throb with every breath, each inhalation a jagged gasp. Had he cracked them? Shattered them? He didn’t know. Didn’t matter. The fall had done its job. He was broken. Bruised. Bleeding internally, maybe.

His fingers twitched at his sides, clumsy and slow, like someone else’s hands grafted onto his arms.

Dizziness swirled at the edges of his vision, dark flecks dancing like fireflies in a storm. The world tilted slightly, just enough to make the towering trees above seem drunk, swaying in a breeze he couldn’t feel.

𝘊𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘶𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯, his mind whispered, clinical and cold. 𝘠𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘶𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥. 𝘔𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘴𝘦. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘦 𝘭𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘢𝘺. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚.

But here he was.

And here, the air hummed with life—bioluminescent plants pulsing in soft blues and violets, vines curling like living serpents around trunks thicker than hovertrucks, the distant cry of unseen creatures echoing through the mist. It was beautiful. Terrifying. Alive in a way Earth hadn’t been in decades. And yet, none of it mattered.

Because he was 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘯.

Not just his body—though that was bad enough—but his spirit. The Na’vi’s words echoed in the hollows of his mind: 𝘌𝘺𝘸𝘢 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘥𝘰 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨.

He didn’t belong.

Never had, really.

Back on Earth, he’d always been the kid who tried too hard, the nephew who tagged along when Barry didn’t ask him to, the one Iris had to pull aside and gently remind to breathe, to slow down, to stop trying to prove you’re worth something to people who already love you.

He’d joked about being the “slow kid,” the “kid who took longer to learn,” played up the cocky grin, the sarcastic quip—but deep down, it had always been a performance. A way to hide the tremor in his hands when the weight of expectation pressed down.

And now?

Now he was stranded. Powerless. No weapon, no connection to RDA to call for help, no way to run from this. Just a broken man in a broken body, in a world that saw him as an intruder. A Sky Person. A machine-rider. An omen.

A 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦.

His chest tightened, not from the bruises, but from something deeper. A longing so sharp it made him gasp.

𝘐𝘳𝘪𝘴.

He could almost see her—standing in the kitchen, sunlight catching the red in her hair as she stirred coffee, humming that stupid old Earth ballad she loved. Her voice, warm and steady, like a blanket on a cold night.

“𝘞𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺, 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘢 𝘣𝘦 𝘰𝘬𝘢𝘺. 𝘠𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬.” She’d say it whether it was true or not, just because he needed to hear it.

He missed her. Not just as his aunt, not just as family—but as home. The only person who’d never looked at him like he had to be something more. The one that never judged, never rushed, never made him feel like a burden.

She wasn’t his mother. But she’d 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 his mother.

When his father was too busy getting drunk and starting a screaming match with his wife that always ended with fresh bruises and broken furniture. When Barry—God, 𝘜𝘯𝘤𝘭𝘦 𝘉𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘺, who bore the weight of the world on his shoulders like a second skin because he'd convinced himself he 𝘩𝘢𝘥 to be the one to do everything—had been too busy being a highly respected scientist to notice his nephew struggling in the emptiness of a house that felt more like a museum than a home… Iris had 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘶𝘱.

She’d made grilled cheese with the crusts cut off. She’d sat with him when he couldn’t sleep. She’d called him her “little sidekick” just to make him laugh. She’d hugged him like she meant it.

And now—now, stranded on a planet with ginormous trees and glowing bugs and a sky that smelled like thunder and flowers—he’d give 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 to hear her say, “𝘞𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺, 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦. 𝘠𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘦. 𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨’𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘰𝘬𝘢𝘺.”

He didn’t care that he was a grown man. He didn’t care that he was supposed to be tough, self-reliant, capable. None of that mattered when the universe cracked open and showed you how small you really were.

He just wanted to feel 𝘴𝘢𝘧𝘦 again.

And Barry—𝘉𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘺—suddenly flashed into his mind. Not as a renowned scientist. Not as the legend. But as the man who ruffled his hair too hard and called him “kid” too much and always, 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 left a plate of food in the fridge with a sticky note: 𝘌𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘮𝘵𝘩, 𝘞𝘢𝘭’. - 𝘉.

He wanted that. He wanted 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮. Both of them. The people who’d loved him even when he was messy, even when he screwed up, even when he ran away—literally and figuratively.

But he wasn’t going to see them again.

That truth settled in his chest like a stone. Cold. Final.

He might die here. On this beautiful, terrifying world. Alone. Forgotten. A nameless corpse in some RDA report labeled “𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘵, 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘥.”

And no one would even know how much he’d wanted to come home.

And in that moment, that clarity didn’t feel like revelation. It felt like drowning.

Wally exhaled—long, shaky, like a sigh pulled from the bottom of his soul. His shoulders slumped so hard it felt like they might never rise again. He didn’t wipe the tear that slipped free. Didn’t bother. What was the point? Pride meant nothing here. Not in the face of oblivion.

He could feel the Na’vi’s presence still in front of him—he hadn’t moved. Still standing there, a silhouette carved from shadow and muscle. Watching. That intense, otherworldly gaze like a weight on Wally's soul. Studying him. Judging him.

But Wally couldn’t bring himself to care. The fight had drained out of him with the last of the adrenaline. No more jokes. No more quips. No more desperate attempts to impress, to connect, to 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘷𝘪𝘷𝘦.

He just… wanted to stop.

“I—” His voice cracked, barely above a whisper. He cleared his throat, tried again. “Right. Sorry.” The words came out slow, thick. Like pulling them from mud. “I shouldn’t have taken up your time. You’ve… obviously got places to be.” He didn’t look at the Na’vi. Couldn’t. His vision was swimming too much, his balance too fragile.

“I’ll get out of your hair.”

He turned.

Each step was agony.

His left leg dragged slightly, favoring the side that had taken the brunt of the fall. His ribs screamed. His head pulsed. The forest floor, soft with moss and fallen fronds, felt uneven, treacherous—roots rising like bony fingers to trip him. He swatted at a glowing vine that brushed his cheek, its light flickering in response. The air smelled of damp earth and something sweet, like crushed blossoms, but all he could taste was copper—blood, maybe, from biting his tongue during the crash.

Behind him, silence.

No footsteps. No call to stop.

No hand on his shoulder.

No offer.

Of course not.

What had he expected? That the Na'vi would suddenly soften? That he’d say, “𝘞𝘢𝘪𝘵—𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘴. 𝘗𝘦𝘳𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘯.” That he’d guide him to safety, teach him the ways of this world, help him survive?

That was the kind of thing that happened in the stories Barry used to tell him as a kid—the hero falls, the savage saves him, they become brothers in arms. But this wasn’t a story.

This was real.

And in reality, people didn’t get saved just because they wanted to be.

A laugh bubbled up in his throat—hollow, broken, edged with tears he refused to let fall. He bit it back. Swallowed it down with the pain.

He kept walking.

Branches clawed at his arms. Vines snagged his shirt. The forest didn’t care if he lived or died. It only waited—patient, ancient, indifferent.

And somewhere deep inside, beneath the bruising and the fatigue and the crushing weight of loneliness, a truth settled like stone in his gut:

𝘏𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘐𝘳𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯.

Never hear her laugh.

Never see Barry roll his eyes at one of his terrible jokes.

Never feel safe.

Never feel seen.

Not like that.

Not ever again.

The thought didn’t make him cry.

It didn’t make him scream.

It just… was.

And so, Wally West—the kid who always had his “head in the clouds,” the lost cause, the 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘯 one—kept walking.

Into the dark.

Into the silence.

Alone.

Time slipped through his fingers like sand in a dream as he did.

One moment, the sky was a deep bruise of purple swallowing the last golden gasps of dusk. The next, it was gone—swallowed by the velvet black of an alien night.

Wally didn’t notice.

His body moved on autopilot: one foot, then the other, drag, step, breathe, wince. His mind was a fogged mirror, reflecting nothing but pain and the echo of his own ragged breaths inside the Exopack mask. He didn’t know how long he’d been walking. An hour? Two? Time didn’t mean anything here. Only survival did. Or, at least, the illusion of it.

And then—slowly, strikingly, terrifyingly—the forest came alive in a way you couldn't see during the day.

Bioluminescence blossomed like a second sunrise—vines pulsed with slow, rhythmic blues. Fungi flared in clusters of emerald and violet, glowing like tiny lanterns nestled in the bark of towering trees. The air shimmered with floating spores, drifting like fireflies in silent constellations.

It was beautiful.

It was breathtaking.

It was horrifying.

Because in the dark, this beauty wasn’t a comfort. It was a lure. Everything glowed—not to welcome, but to 𝘩𝘪𝘥𝘦. To distract. To mislead.

The very ground seemed to shift under his feet, patterns of light rearranging like a nervous system responding to his presence. Wally ran his fingers through his hair with a trembling hand, and when he looked at his palm, it was streaked with sweat and something darker—old blood, most likely his own.

He kept walking.

Not because he knew where he was going.

Not because he believed in direction anymore.

But because stopping felt like dying twice.

Every step was a negotiation between pain and instinct. His ankle throbbed with each press into the spongy earth, a dull spike that shot up his leg like an electric current. His ribs burned with every inhale, the cold air rasping in his lungs through the filter of the Exomask clinging to his face. The mask’s HUD flickered once—O₂: 42%—before disappearing. He didn’t stop to focus on it. He couldn't.

The silence behind him had stayed absolute. No pursuit, no help. The Na’vi warrior had vanished as completely as if he’d never been there at all. And Wally didn’t know whether to feel relief or shame.

𝘔𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘸 𝘮𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐 𝘢𝘮, Wally thought, swallowing hard. 𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦. 𝘈𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘦.

He laughed again—soft, broken. The sound didn’t carry. The forest absorbed it.

And then the snap of a twig.

Wally froze.

He turned his head slowly, pulse hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.

Nothing.

But he felt it.

The sensation of eyes. Not one pair. Many. Watching. Waiting. Judging just like the Na’vi had.

Predators. Scavengers. Things that didn’t care about his story, his family, his wanting to go home. Things that only knew hunger.

His skin crawled.

He took a step forward.

Another snap. Closer.

He spun, heart lurching.

Still nothing.

Just the glow of the forest. The silence. The presence of danger.

He swallowed hard. Sweat stung his eyes. His mouth was dry, parched beneath the mask. He hadn’t had a drink in hours. His stomach twisted with hunger, but worse than that was the cold. Gods, the cold. With the sun gone, the temperature had plummeted. His breath came in white puffs. His fingers ached where they rested at his side. The damp air seeped into his clothes, chilling him to the bone. Every second standing felt harder and harder to maintain.

Another snap.

Wally turned sharply, his breath hitching. A vine snapped against his neck—thick, coiling—before he yanked it free. He stumbled, catching himself on a fallen log covered in pulsing blue lichen. His head swam. The world tilted.

𝘊𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘶𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯, he reminded himself. 𝘒𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘋𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱. 𝘋𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘴𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘱.

But the more he walked, the more the forest seemed to know him. Trees leaned in. Roots grew longer. The path—if there ever was one—twisted into a labyrinth of shadows and shifting light. He turned left. Then right. Then back—only to realize he’d nearly circled back to the same moss-covered boulder he’d passed twenty minutes ago.

Didn’t matter.

He kept going. Because if there was even a flicker of a chance he could find an RDA outpost and get back to Iris and Barry, he sure as hell was going to chase it until his dying breath.

Each turn he took only deepened the illusion of escape. Every root he ducked under, every thicket he pushed through—it all looked the same. The glowing flora formed an endless maze, shifting like a dream he couldn’t wake from.

And the eyes never left him.

At some point, he stopped trying to outsmart them.

“If you’re gonna kill me,” he muttered, voice hoarse, “just do it. Stop playing games.”

No answer.

Just the wind rustling the fronds above, carrying the scent of nectar and decay.

God, Wally was sick of that—the constant silence. The knowledge that he was being hunted. It really made it hard for him to stay devoted to his goal of seeing Iris and Barry again. Each passing second he spent trapped was another second he debated letting the eyes watching him catch up and finish him, as pathetic as that was.

Then, through the haze, through the fevered edges of his crumbling focus—𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥. Not Earth, not another memory of Iris, but a comic he’d stolen from Barry’s backpack when he was ten. Taped together with duct tape and smudged fingerprints, cover ripped, spine cracked.

𝘎𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘓𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘯 #48.

Barry had screamed for an hour when he realized it was gone. Wally had hidden under his bed, cross-legged on the plank floor, reading it in one breathless sitting.

𝘗𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳 𝘙𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘞𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘱𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳. 𝘍𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘥-𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘳.

He’d memorized the Green Lantern's oath. Whispered it under his breath when his parents got loud at night.

And then—years later—𝘉𝘢𝘵𝘮𝘢𝘯. The one who didn’t fly. The one who didn’t have powers. Who just 𝘬𝘦𝘱𝘵 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨. Who turned pain into precision. Wally had never understood how a man could be that relentless. That cold. That afraid, and still show up.

Now, limping through the treacherous flora of Pandora’s undergrowth, he 𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘪𝘵.

You don’t move because you believe you’ll survive.

You move because stopping means admitting defeat to the dark. To the thing in your gut that says 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘦𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩.

So he walked.

One foot. Then the other.

Dragging his bad ankle like a sack of stones. Using the long, sinewy vines as crutches, tearing them down from the canopy, wrapping them around his fists and heaving himself forward. His boots squelched in the bioluminescent muck. Bioluminescent fungi pulsed beneath his soles like dying stars. The forest breathed around him—slow, ancient, indifferent.

He thought of The Flash—the man who ran so fast he could outrun time, who turned physics into poetry. Wally had always seen him as the sun—bright, effortless, radiant. But maybe that wasn’t right. Maybe Flash ran because he 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸 what it meant to lose. To stand in an empty kitchen, staring at two coffee mugs, while the world moved on without you.

Maybe speed was just grief with a purpose.

Wally wasn’t fast. He wasn’t strong. He wasn’t chosen by a ring or bitten by a spider or forged in a cave beneath Gotham. But he was 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦. Still breathing. Still putting one foot ahead of the other, even as his body screamed for mercy.

He passed a cluster of tall, trumpet-shaped flowers that sang when the wind passed through them—high, mournful notes, like a choir of ghosts. They made his teeth ache.

He pressed on.

A spider-like creature the size of his palm scuttled across his wrist, its legs tipped with violet light. He didn’t flinch. Let it ride. Let it judge him, too.

He remembered a line from a different comic—Wonder Woman, issue #-82.

Wonder Woman, standing in the ashes of Themyscira, armor cracked, sword broken. A god knelt, but not fallen. “𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘶𝘯𝘢𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘥,” she’d said. “𝘖𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘶𝘯𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯.”

Wally exhaled. A shuddering thing. Wet with pain.

“I’m not staying down,” he whispered.

And he meant it.

He climbed a ridge of jagged, moss-eaten rock, using his good leg to push, his arms to drag. Blood trickled from a split in his palm where a thorn had raked him. He didn’t wipe it. Let it flow. Let the forest taste him. Let them 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 he wasn’t prey yet.

At the top, he paused—just for a breath. Just to see.

And then—

His vision blurred. A wave of nausea hit him—sudden, violent. He stumbled to his knees, yanked the Exopack off, and retched into the moss.

Nothing much came up. Just bile and the taste of blood.

It was the worst few seconds of his life.

The world tilted. His lungs screamed for air. He fumbled with the mask, fingers numb, heart racing—𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘧𝘢𝘴𝘵, 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘴𝘭𝘰𝘸, 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨?—and finally slapped it back on just as his vision tunneled.

He collapsed onto his side, gasping.

“Okay,” he wheezed. “Okay. That sucked.”

He stayed on his side, shaking, sweat dripping into the dirt. A small, pathetic puddle of half-digested rations steamed faintly in the cool air, the glow of the moss making it look alien, polluted.

He wanted to cry.

He didn’t.

Because what good would it do?

He already felt defeated.

Crying would only make his face colder.

Eventually, he pushed himself up, the act triggering a fresh flare of pain in his ribs. Because even now, even broken, even drowning—he wasn’t completely gone. He knew he had to keep going. That he had to get home. His body may ache like clockwork gears grinding out of sync, each breath taken a reminder that his body's as fragile as the glowing vines curling overhead, but that didn’t mean he could just 𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘶𝘱. He had to see Iris again. He had to see Barry again. He had to keep 𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨, even if he really didn’t know how to.

𝘜𝘴𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘴, 𝘬𝘪𝘥. 𝘗𝘳𝘰𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘮-𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳? A voice in his head rang out, sounding like Barry, dry and exasperated. 𝘠𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘞𝘦𝘴𝘵-𝘈𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘯 𝘧𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘺. 𝘞𝘦’𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘷𝘪𝘷𝘢𝘭 𝘴𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘴, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘸𝘦’𝘳𝘦 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘵.

The thought made him snort, a wet, uneven sound that dissolved into a cough. His throat burned. His stomach churned. He could still taste the bile from a few seconds ago, the humiliation of collapsing behind a tree to vomit while the forest watched, silent and patient, still burning with a passion.

When he finally dragged himself all the way up, he knew—he couldn’t walk much further.

He wasn’t going to die stumbling aimlessly through the dark like some panicked animal though.

He was Wally West.

Genius-level intellect. Top of his class at STAR Labs engineering track. He’d built interdimensional stabilizers by sixteen. He wasn’t going to let some jungle eat him because he stumbled around hopelessly and didn’t stop to 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘮-𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘷𝘦.

So he stopped.

And he thought.

The clearing he found wasn’t much—just a small gap between three massive, moss-covered roots that rose from the ground like the ribs of a buried titan. It was sheltered, mostly dry, and with a thick canopy above, it would block most aerial threats. The glowing vines draped around it like natural fairy lights, giving him just enough visibility without making him a beacon.

It wasn’t safe.

But it would work.

Wally stood at the edge, swaying. His body screamed at him to collapse. His mind whispered 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘴𝘪𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯. 𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵. 𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵—

“No,” he mumbled, voice raspy. “Not yet.”

He forced himself forward. One step. Then another.

He dropped to his knees and began to gather.

First, the larger branches—deadfall from the surrounding trees, long and sturdy, stripped of leaves. He dragged them with one good arm, his left side screaming as he twisted. Then vines—thick, fibrous, sinewy things that wound around the trunks like cables. He used a sharp-edged stone to saw through them, his hands slipping, blood smearing the green bark.

He worked methodically, like an engineer should. Like his old self would have.

He formed a low A-frame: two longer branches lashed together at the top with vines, anchored into the ground at the base. Smaller poles leaned against them, forming a skeleton. Then, layer after layer of broad, leathery leaves—cut from the nearby flora with his combat knife he'd been keeping in his backpack—woven over the frame like shingles. He packed the gaps with moss, sealing out the chill. On the open side, he left just enough space to squeeze in, then piled more leaves to block it partially, creating a low windbreak.

The fire pit came next—a circle of stones, gathered one by one, laid out in the center of the clearing just beyond the shelter. He scraped dry tinder from under rotting logs—fibrous bark, dried moss, a crumbly fungus that flaked like charcoal. His fingers were raw, trembling, but he kept going. He needed to have this. He needed 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘦. Not just for warmth—for 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯. Predators hated fire.

For weapons, he sharpened a long, straight branch against rock until the tip gleamed like obsidian. He made a second, shorter one, just in case. He kept them both within reach.

When it was all said and done, the little hut stood—crude, lopsided, but solid. It wouldn’t survive a storm. But it was 𝘩𝘪𝘴. Something made by hands that still worked, even if they were failing.

He sank to his knees in front of the fire pit, then sat heavily, back against a stone. Exhaustion hit him like a freight train, every single muscle in his body screaming for him to stop moving.

He stared at the fireless pit.

He sighed.

𝘗𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦. 𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵—𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵.

He pulled the igniter from his bag—one of the few things he was extremely grateful he remembered to pack. Clicked it. Spark.

Nothing.

Again.

A tiny flame caught. Died.

One more.

This time, the moss caught. A wisp of smoke curled upward. Then a flicker. Then—𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘦.

The flame grew, small but real, licking at the dried bark, spreading through the tinder. Wally leaned forward, shielding it with his body, feeding it twigs, whispering nonsense encouragement under his breath.

“It’s okay. You can do it. Just—burn. Please just burn.”

And it 𝘥𝘪𝘥.

The fire bloomed, casting long, dancing shadows against the trees. The warmth was instant, faint but there. A tiny defiance against the creeping cold. Sure, it didn’t do much but it did something.

It made him feel 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘯.

Beside him, the long spear—probably useless against anything bigger than a jungle rat—sat there beckoning him. He grabbed it, resting it across his lap, fingers wrapped tight around the shaft, trembling not from fear—from fatigue.

Wally exhaled, long and shaky, just like before. But this time, it wasn’t just surrender.

It was survival.

He leaned his head back against the stone, eyes heavy. The fire flickered in his vision, dancing shapes forming and dissolving—faces, memories. Iris, laughing, her effortless curls catching sunlight. Barry, arms crossed, that look on his face—𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘣𝘣𝘰𝘳𝘯 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵? But smiling. Always smiling.

He missed them so much it hurt worse than his ribs.

Around him, the night deepened.

The forest awakened.

Calls echoed in the distance—deep, resonant howls that vibrated in his chest. Closer, the skittering of claws on stone. The rustle of something large moving through the underbrush. Leaves trembled. The glowing flora pulsed faster, as if responding to the predators’ movements.

Something large moved just beyond the edge of the firelight. A shadow, too tall, too broad. It paused. Sniffed the air.

Wally didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

The creature lingered—then melted back into the jungle.

He exhaled, shaky, and turned his gaze to the flames.

They danced—gold, orange, blue at the core. Beautiful. Hypnotic. His eyelids drooped. His breath slowed. The pain in his body still throbbed, but it was fading into the background, muffled by exhaustion. His grip on the spear loosened, but didn’t let go.

Somewhere inside himself, beneath the fear, the cold, the loneliness—beneath the weight of everything—he felt it again.

That stupid, stubborn, maddening spark.

The one that whispered: 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘺𝘦𝘵. 𝘐’𝘮 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘯𝘦.

Outside, the jungle watched.

The firelight dimmed.

His eyelids grew heavy.

One thought floated to the surface, soft as a falling leaf:

𝘐 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘰 𝘩𝘰𝘮𝘦.

Then—nothing.

Just the crackle of the fire.

The hum of the jungle.

And the slow, inevitable pull of sleep.

As darkness crept in, the last thing he saw was the glow of the forest—still watching.

Waiting.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

𝗧𝗵𝘂𝗺𝗽.

The sound tore through the silence like a cannon in a cathedral—a deep, wet, 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘺 impact that jolted Wally upright from the void of unconsciousness as if he’d been electrocuted. His back arched off the cold stone as he gasped for air like a man drowning on dry land. For a split second, his mind was blank, floating in that fragile, weightless space between sleep and waking—then, like floodgates bursting open, agony flooded in.

Every bruise. Every strained tendon. Every cracked rib and scraped joint screamed to be acknowledged. His shoulder throbbed where he’d fallen hours ago during the crash. His palms burned from blisters that had split and bled into the wood of his crude spear. His head pulsed with a dull, insistent headache that had been riding him since he’d woken up on Pandora with no allies, no comm line, and no Barry to pull him out of the fire this time.

He groaned, blinking rapidly, vision swimming. The fire still flickered, low but alive, casting frantic shadows that danced across the trees. But something was 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨. The air was thick—charged, like before a storm. And then he saw it.

A massive, hulking corpse lay crumpled directly in front of him, its glossy black body sprawled like a nightmare dropped from the sky. It was 𝘨𝘪𝘨𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘤—twice the size of any predator he’d seen in RDA briefings. Sleek, six-legged, with armored plates running down its spine like obsidian armor. Its head was broad, feline and monstrous, jaws still locked in a death snarl, fangs the length of Wally’s forearm glistening faintly in the firelight. Ten long, quill-like appendages—red and yellow, now limp—curved from its skull like a dying crown.

A Thanator.

𝘖𝘩 𝘨𝘰𝘥, 𝘰𝘩 𝘨𝘰𝘥—

His breath caught. His limbs locked. His instincts 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘥.

And then—another sound.

A high, keening 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘤𝘩—almost like a hyenas—followed by a chorus of hisses and low, guttural growls. Not one. Not two.

A pack.

They circled the firelight just beyond the safe ring of flame—silhouettes of coiled muscle and shadow, six limbs moving with terrifying precision. Five of them. Maybe eight. Their eyes glowed like embers, reflecting the fire in eerie, unblinking pupils.

They moved like they were born from the dark, fluid and relentless, tails lashing like whips. One sniffed the air, quills flaring crimson and gold, then let out a sound that made Wally’s bones vibrate—half roar, half shriek.

He scrambled back, heart hammering so hard he could feel it in his teeth. His hand shot out, grasping for the spear, fingers slipping once before finding the rough wood. He pushed himself up, legs shaking, knees threatening to buckle.

Then he saw 𝘩𝘪𝘮.

In the middle of it all—between Wally and the pack—stood the Na’vi from earlier.

Tall. Impossibly so. Eight feet of deep sapphire muscle, every line carved like a storm given form. His broad chest rose and fell with controlled breath, his body a tapestry of obsidian-striped armor, the intricate tiger-stripes across his body absolutely breathtaking in the night light.

And he was 𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨.

The Na’vi moved like water and lightning combined—no wasted motion, only grace and fury. His twin blades, no longer mounted in that elegant X across his back, instead drawn—one in each hand—gleamed with a predatory glint.

A Thanator lunged, jaws wide enough to snap Wally in half. The Na’vi 𝘥𝘰𝘥𝘨𝘦𝘥, not away—but 𝘪𝘯, sliding beneath the beast’s lunge, slashing upward along its underbelly. Red blood sprayed, sizzling as it hit the hot stones of the fire pit.

He spun—𝘮𝘪𝘥-𝘢𝘪𝘳—twisting in a backflip over another beast’s swipe, landing on one hand, then kicking off into a roll that ended with both blades slicing diagonally across a third predator’s throat. The creature collapsed with a choked gurgle.

Then, the Na’vi’s gaze locked onto Wally for a split second—cold, menacing—before he snarled, the sound reverberating through the clearing.

The Thanators paused.

Then the Na’vi moved.

It was impossible. One moment he was grounded; the next, he was airborne, twisting through the air like an acrobat, blades flashing. His legs kicked out, sending a Thanator sprawling. He landed with feral grace, spinning to slash at another, his twin weapons slicing through muscle and scale with a sound like ripping silk.

He leapt again, somersaulting over a charge, blades arcing in a deadly cross. A Thanator’s jaw snapped at his ankle, but he kicked it in the face, the impact shattering its snout. He rolled, came up behind another, and streaked a line across its side. The creature wailed, steam hissing from its wound as blood pooled.

Wally could only watch, muscles locked, heart jackhammering, spear half-raised and mouth dry.

This wasn’t just fighting. It was 𝘢𝘳𝘵. A lethal dance. The Na’vi vaulted off a fallen log, flipped over a charging beast, landed on 𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬, driving one blade deep into its spine. He yanked it free, spun, and 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘸 the second blade—impaling another predator through the eye. The beast ran like its tail was on fire.

And all Wally could think was: 𝘐’𝘷𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘰𝘯 𝘣𝘢𝘴𝘦. 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘐’𝘷𝘦 𝙣𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨.

Then came the realization—slow, creeping, dawning like the first light after endless night.

This Na’vi. The one who’d 𝘪𝘨𝘯𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘥 him only hours ago when Wally tried to speak. The one who’d vanished into the jungle after giving him a look so cold it made Wally’s blood freeze accompanied by words that were somehow even icier. The one who’d made it 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 clear he wanted nothing to do with Wally. Was 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦.

Fighting a pack of Pandora’s apex predators.

𝘍𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘪𝘮.

Wally’s breath hitched. All those times he’d felt eyes on him in the dark weren't just animals—it wasn't just the forest. It was 𝘩𝘪𝘮.

He’d been 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨.

The thought should’ve made him angry. Violated. But instead, beneath the fear and the pain and the exhaustion, something else stirred—warm, fragile. Gratitude. Something deeper, 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘦𝘳, that he refused to name.

He gripped his spear tighter, heart pounding. He wasn't useless. He wasn't just some damsel in the dirt. He could 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘱.

He took a shaky step forward—

And suddenly, the world flipped.

One second he was on the ground. The next, he was 𝘢𝘪𝘳𝘣𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘦—lifted with terrifying ease, one arm hooked under his legs, the other around his chest. The Na’vi moved like he weighed nothing. Wally yelped, flailing instinctively, but then he was 𝘶𝘱, perched on a thick, high tree branch, the forest sprawling beneath him like a dark ocean.

His spear clattered to the ground below.
Before he could protest, before he could even catch his breath, the Na’vi turned—just for a second—and locked eyes with him.

Gold. 𝘗𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘳 eyes. Slitted like a cat’s, glowing faintly in the firelight.

One word, guttural and fierce left his mouth: “Stay.”

Wally blinked. “Wait—what? No, hey! I can 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘱! You can’t just—just 𝘱𝘶𝘵 me up here and tell me to stay like some—some—𝘥𝘰𝘨!” He leaned forward, voice rising. “I’m not helpless! I built that hut! I lit that fire! I—”

The Na’vi snapped his head back toward him, fangs bared in a silent hiss.

Another: “Stay.” Deeper this time. Commanding. Final.

And Wally—𝘞𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘞𝘦𝘴𝘵, the guy who talked back to teachers, who joked in the face of death, who 𝘳𝘢𝘯 when the universe said 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱—felt actual 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘴 race down his spine. Not just fear.

𝘚𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘦𝘭𝘴𝘦.

His mouth shut. His hands lifted, palms out. “Okay. Okay. I—I’ll stay.”

And for the briefest moment, something like 𝘴𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘴𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 flickered in the Na’vi’s face. A twitch at the corner of his mouth. A tilt of his head. Then—gone.

He leapt down like a thunderclap, landing in a crouch, blades already in hand, reclaimed from the earth with a motion too fast to follow.

The remaining Thanators circled, growling. One lunged—massive, faster than the others. It slammed into the Na’vi’s side, knocking him off balance. The blades flew from his grip, skittering across the stones.

Wally’s breath 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘥.

The beast loomed over the Na’vi, jaws dripping, fangs bared—ready to crush his skull.

Time slowed.

Then—𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵.

The Na’vi 𝘬𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘶𝘱𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘥 with both legs, striking the beast square in the chest, throwing it off. Rolled. Snatched one blade from the dirt. Spun—𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘦—and 𝘥𝘳𝘰𝘷𝘦 the blade upward, through the creature’s jaw, into its brain.

It twitched. Collapsed.

The Na’vi rose, breathing hard, eyes blazing. He picked up the second blade, then let out a 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥—not a yell, not a scream. A 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘦. A guttural, resonant snarl that echoed through the jungle like a war cry from Pandora itself.

The remaining Thanators 𝘧𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥. Backed away. One whimpered. Another turned and 𝘳𝘢𝘯. The rest followed, melting into the shadows, tails tucked, quills flat.

Silence.

Only the crackle of the fire. The distant hum of bioluminescent flora. The slow, steady rise and fall of the Na’vi’s chest as he stood amidst the carnage, blades dripping crimson blood.

Wally stared.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. His body was still trembling—adrenaline, exhaustion, something 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦. His mind raced with questions. 𝘞𝘩𝘺? 𝘞𝘩𝘺 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘦? 𝘞𝘩𝘺 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘦? 𝘞𝘩𝘰 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝘺𝘰𝘶?

But none of it came out.

Instead, after a long, breathless moment, he whispered—

“...Wow.”

The Na’vi turned.

Slowly.

He wiped his blades on the hide of a fallen Thanator, then slung them back into their mount across his back. He looked up—𝘸𝘢𝘺 up—at Wally on the branch.

And 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘥.

And oh—

𝘍𝘶𝘤𝘬.

Wally felt his heart skip a beat. He exhaled, long and shuddering. Then he looked down at the dead Thanators. At the fire. At his hut—crude, lopsided, but 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨. And then he looked back at the Na’vi, still surrounded by corpses, still 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨, and could only think one thing:

He was 𝘴𝘰 screwed.

But he didn’t get to dwell on that revelation for long because the next thing he knew, the Na’vi exploded upward in a motion so fluid it looked like a dance. A single, powerful leap—legs coiling like springs—and then he was airborne, spinning once in midair, landing beside Wally on the branch with the grace of a panther touching down on moss.

Wally barely had time to react before the Na’vi grabbed him again—same grip, effortless—tossed him over one shoulder like a sack of grain, and leapt back down.
There was no gentle placement into the grass.

No soft landing.

Just a brutal 𝘵𝘩𝘶𝘥 as the Na’vi let go, sending Wally tumbling forward into the dirt, rolling twice before skidding to a stop. He groaned, clutching his ribs—already aching from the earlier fall—and pushed himself up onto his elbows, wincing.

“Hey! 𝘊𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘧𝘶𝘭!” he snapped, voice cracking. “I’m 𝘪𝘯𝘫𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘥, remember? Or is this just your idea of fun? ‘Let’s throw the human around like a stress ball’?”

The Na’vi didn’t answer. Didn’t even glance at him.

Instead, he turned—deliberately, purposefully—toward the fire pit Wally had spent hours building.

“No, wait—don’t—!” Wally scrambled forward, one hand outstretched.

Too late.

The Na’vi stomped—once, twice—mashing the embers into the soil with heavy, deliberate steps. He kicked dirt over the logs, scattering glowing fragments. Within seconds, the fire was gone. Only a faint curl of smoke remained, whispering upward before vanishing into the humid night.
Wally stared at the blackened patch of earth.

Then he huffed, kicking at the dirt. “Great. Just 𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵.” He rubbed his temples, muttering, “Hot alien shows up, saves my life, then 𝘴𝘯𝘶𝘧𝘧𝘴 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘦 like I’m some kindergartener playing with matches. Real subtle with the hero complex, buddy.”

He turned to glare at the Na’vi—only to freeze.

The spot where the warrior had stood was empty.

No footprints. No rustle of leaves. Just silence.

Wally’s breath hitched. His pulse spiked. The jungle, already thick with shadows, suddenly felt 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘦𝘳. Colder. Like the trees themselves were holding their breath.

“…Hello?” he called, voice too quiet.

Nothing.

He stood, dusting himself off with shaking hands, scanning the darkness. “Okay, not funny. Seriously. If you’re trying to scare me, 𝘪𝘵’𝘴 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨.” He swallowed hard. “I don’t need this right now. I’ve had 𝘦𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩.”

Then—movement.

To his right.

A silhouette, tall and still, standing near the edge of the clearing.

Relief flooded through him—warm, dizzying. He nearly laughed. “Oh, 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘬 𝘨𝘰𝘥. You scared me for a second, you—”

The words died.

The Na’vi wasn’t looking at him.

He was dragging a Thanator corpse by its hind leg, muscles corded in his arms as he pulled the massive beast across the dirt. Then another. Then a third. Then a final fourth.

One by one, he arranged them—side by side—like offerings on stone. Their jaws hung slack, eyes dull. Slit pupils frozen in death. Blood oozed in slow, dark trails from their wounds.

Wally tilted his head, frowning.

This wasn’t butchery.

This was… ritual.

The Na’vi crouched beside the first, pressing a palm flat to its chest. Slowly, he began to run his hands along the creature’s body—from throat to flank, gentle, almost 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨. His fingers lingered at the base of its skull, then traced the curve of its spine. His lips moved, whispering in a low, rhythmic cadence—words Wally didn’t understand, but felt. Felt in the way the air hushed, the way the bioluminescent vines dimmed slightly, pulsing in time with the chant.

Wally’s breath caught.

He didn’t know what he was seeing.

Respect? Grief? A prayer?

Whatever it was, it 𝘩𝘶𝘳𝘵.

And Wally—never one to sit quietly when he didn’t understand—finally stepped forward.

“Hey,” he said, voice softer now. “Look. I don’t know how much of what I say you can understand, but, um…” He hesitated, glancing at the corpses. “What are you doing?”

The Na’vi didn’t answer. Didn’t pause. His hands continued their slow, reverent path over the beasts, his voice a steady hum beneath the jungle’s breath.

Wally sighed. “Okay, fine. Don’t tell me. Keep your secrets.” He crossed his arms, trying to sound annoyed. “Not like I care. Totally cool. I’m not pouting. Definitely not.”

He 𝘸𝘢𝘴 pouting.

A little.

But then he thought about it—really thought about it. This guy 𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 humans. Hated what they’d done to Pandora. Hated their noise, their machines, their 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘱𝘪𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘺. And yet—𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘮.

So Wally exhaled, rubbing his neck. “I guess… this is the part where I should say 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘬 𝘺𝘰𝘶, right?” He forced a small smile. “So… you know. Thank you.”

The Na’vi 𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘦𝘥.

Not anger. Not fear.

Something sharper.

His hands stilled. His chanting halted. He turned his head—just slightly—and looked at him.

Wally’s breath caught.

𝘗𝘳𝘰𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴.

Hope flared. Maybe he 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 get through. Maybe there was a bridge here, fragile and thin, but 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦.

So he kept talking. “That was… pretty amazing what you did back there. I would’ve been 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘸𝘦𝘥 if you hadn’t—”

“Don’t.”

The word cut through like a blade.

The Na’vi stood in one smooth motion, towering over Wally. His tail lashed. His ears flattened back against his skull. His golden eyes narrowed, glowing with quiet fury.

“Don’t thank,” he growled, voice low, guttural. “You don’t thank for 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴.” He gestured down at the dead Thanators. “This is 𝘴𝘢𝘥. Very sad. Only.”

Wally instantly backed up, hands rising in surrender. “Okay, okay! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to seem… inconsiderate. But—” He glanced at the corpses. “—from where I’m standing, they were 𝘵𝘳𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘦 as I slept. So—”

“You.”

The Na’vi stepped forward, voice rising like thunder.

“This is 𝘯𝘰𝘵 their fault.” He jabbed a finger at Wally’s chest. “It is 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴. Only 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴. They did not have to die.”

Wally blinked. Then chuckled—a nervous, disbelieving laugh. “𝘔𝘺 fault? How is this 𝘮𝘺 fault? I was 𝘴𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨. I didn’t—”

“Your fault!” The Na’vi roared, stepping into Wally’s space, forcing him back until his heel caught on a root. He stumbled, landing hard on his backside.

He swallowed thickly. The Na’vi loomed over him, golden eyes blazing, fangs bared.

“You’re like a 𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘺,” the warrior hissed. “Making noise. Don’t know what to do. You come here and light a 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘦—a beacon—and expect no consequences? Childish mind.”

Wally stared up at him, chest tight. Then, slowly, he nodded. “Okay. That’s… fair.” He rubbed his neck. “But in my defense, I was 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘥. And—𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘺𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯—I know this is my fault. I’m 𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺. Really. I… I didn’t want them to die either. I just—”

𝘉𝘦𝘦𝘱. 𝘉𝘦𝘦𝘱. 𝘉𝘦𝘦𝘱.

The sound cut through the night—sharp, insistent.

Wally’s Exomask flashed red.

His breath hitched.

Then—𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘥.

He gasped, clawing at his throat. The mask’s HUD flickered: O₂ CRIT: 0%.

No air.

Panic surged. He twisted, fumbling for his backpack, but the world was already tilting. Spots bloomed in his vision. His fingers trembled as he unzipped the pack—𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘦—𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦—but his hands were too weak. Too slow.

He collapsed onto his side, writhing, throat burning. His lungs screamed. His heartbeat pounded in his skull. 𝘋𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴 crept in at the edges.

And then—movement.

The Na’vi was 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦, on his knees beside him, ears flat, eyes wide with something Wally had never seen before: 𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘳.

“𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨?” he demanded, voice urgent. “𝘚𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘬!”

Wally couldn’t. He wheezed, weakly pointing at the bag, then at his mask.

The Na’vi didn’t hesitate.

He tore open the pack, dumping its contents—rations, tools, spare parts—onto the ground. His hands moved like lightning, searching, until—𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦. The spare Exomask.

He snatched it up, fumbled with the seal for a single, heart-stopping second—then 𝘤𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘥 it into place just as Wally’s fingers went slack.

Wally 𝘨𝘶𝘭𝘱𝘦𝘥.

Cold, filtered, 𝘨𝘭𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 air flooded his lungs.

He gasped, then 𝘴𝘰𝘣𝘣𝘦𝘥, dragging in breath after breath, his body trembling violently. His vision swam back into focus.

And there—𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦—was the Na’vi. Kneeling beside him. One hand still holding the new mask in place. The other braced against Wally’s shoulder.

Wally’s fingers, still weak, instinctively curled around the Na’vi’s wrist—warm, corded with muscle, slick with Thanator blood.

They stayed like that.

Breathing.

Alive.

Only once Wally was sure his heart wasn't going to leap out of his chest did he let go of the Na’vi’s wrist.

The silence that followed was thick—not with danger anymore, but with something fragile, almost intimate. Wally could hear the drip of sap from a nearby floral plant, the soft rustle of bioluminescent vines pulsing with their slow, alien rhythm. He’d just stared down death. Four times, actually. And two of those times, this warrior—this furious, silent, impossibly graceful alien—had been the one to pull him back.

And now? Now he was embarrassed. Not just embarrassed. 𝘔𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘪𝘦𝘥. Because the last thing a guy who wanted someone to respect them wanted to do was choke on thin air like some helpless damsel in front of that person.

So he defaulted—like he always did—into charm. Into the flirtatious, cocky grin that had gotten him out of—𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰—countless awkward situations back on Earth.

He took a deep, deliberate breath, and gave the Na’vi a slow, lopsided smile.

“Okay,” he said, voice still a little hoarse, but already warming with that familiar, unearned confidence. “Now I 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 have to know your name. You’ve saved me twice. That’s like… the full package right there.” He winked. “And honestly? I kinda need a name to etch into my pulse, so every time I feel my heart, I’m reminded who brought it back.”

For a heartbeat, the Na’vi didn’t move. Then—Wally 𝘴𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘦 it—he saw it. The tiniest tug at the corner of those full, dark lips. Just a flicker. Like gravity briefly forgot to pull down.

Then, with a shove of his hand against Wally’s chest—gentle, but firm enough to break the moment—the Na’vi released the mask and pulled back.

Wally yelped, instinctively twisting to check the seal, fingers scrambling over the cold polymer. 𝘚𝘦𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘦. 𝘛𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵. 𝘉𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨. He glanced at the HUD. Oxygen levels stabilizing. He exhaled sharply, then turned back—only to find the Na’vi watching him again, those golden eyes unreadable, but no longer furious.

And Wally 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘵 it—the blush creeping up his neck, burning hot under the moonlight.

He cleared his throat. “Uh. Sorry about that. I don’t know why I said—okay, that’s a lie. I 𝘥𝘰 know why I said that and 𝘐’𝘮 𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺. I really didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I mean, it's just when I'm, uh, 𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥 I go full… 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵. And… It’s just… I talk when I’m nervous, okay? And apparently, I’m very nervous.”

He rubbed the back of his neck.

“But, uh… yeah. I really 𝘥𝘰 want to know your name though. It feels… weird. Only ever thinking of you as ‘𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘕𝘢’𝘷𝘪.’ Like you’re a character in some bad adventure story. You’re not. You’re… you.”

The Na’vi tilted his head, studying him. The silence stretched, long enough that Wally’s fingers started twitching with the need to 𝘧𝘪𝘭𝘭 it.

So he did.

“Here,” he said, shifting to sit up straighter. “I’ll go first. My name’s Wally. Wally West.” He offered a hand, then realized how absurd it was. “Uh. You don’t have to shake it. Just… symbolic. Anyway. And you are…?”

The warrior stared at the hand, then back at Wally’s face. Another silence. Then, with the faintest huff of breath—almost a sigh—he spoke.

“Riktuykan.”

The name rolled off his tongue like thunder through the jungle, deep and resonant, each syllable layered with clicks and tones Wally’s human mouth wasn’t built for.

Wally’s eyes lit up. Riktuykan. He tried to repeat it. “Rick-took-een?”

The Na’vi’s face twisted instantly into a mask of pure, unimpressed disdain. His nose flared. His brow furrowed. He looked like Wally had just insulted his ancestors.

“No,” Riktuykan said slowly, enunciating with deadly precision. “Ri-k’tu-kaan.”

Wally tried again. “Ri-k’tu—uh—kan?”

Wrong again.

Riktuykan exhaled sharply through his nose, like he was already regretting his life choices. He said it once more, slower, emphasizing the guttural break between 𝘬’𝘵𝘶 and 𝘬𝘢𝘢𝘯, the final syllable rising like a howl.

Wally took a breath. “Ri… k’tu… 𝘬𝘺𝘢𝘳𝘯?”

And that was it.

The final straw.

𝘛𝘩𝘸𝘢𝘤𝘬.

Riktuykan's tail swung around and smacked him square in the back of the head.

“Ow!” Wally yelped, clutching his skull. “𝘋𝘪𝘤𝘬!”

The word slipped out before he could stop it. A reflex. An insult passed down through centuries of human annoyance.

Silence.

Then—Riktuykan turned. Slowly. His golden eyes narrowed. Not angry. 𝘐𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘶𝘦𝘥.

“What did you call me?” he asked, voice low, but not unkind.

Wally froze. His stomach dropped. “What? Me? I didn’t say anything. You must be hearing things.” He chuckled—nervous, high-pitched, 𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘣𝘭𝘦. “Just… uh… clearing my throat. Yeah. Sounded like ‘dick,’ but definitely 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯’𝘵.”

Riktuykan’s gaze didn’t waver.

Wally sighed. “Okay. Fine. I called you a… you know. A 𝘥𝘪𝘤𝘬. Happy now?”

And then—

Riktuykan 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘥.

Not a smirk. Not a grimace. A real, full, fang-baring 𝘨𝘳𝘪𝘯, bright and sudden like lightning over the Hallelujah Mountains.

“I like that word,” he said.

Wally’s blush deepened. He felt… unsettled for some reason. Like he’d handed over a key to something he didn’t even know was locked. “That’s… good. I guess.”

The grin grew. “You can call me that.”

Wally blinked. “Wait—what?”

“I want you to call me Dick.”

“𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵?” Wally’s voice pitched up, cracking like a teenager’s. “No. No, no, no. You 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 don’t want to be called that. It’s—look, it’s the name of a male’s—uh—𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵. On Earth. It’s… not exactly a nickname.” 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘐 𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘯 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘶𝘭𝘵, he silently tacked on in the safety of his own mind. There was no way he’d say that out loud though. He wasn’t looking to almost die a 𝘧𝘪𝘧𝘵𝘩 time, thank you.

Wally waved his hands. “If you want a nickname, I can help you come up with one! Like Rik! Or Tuy! Or… I don’t know—something cool! Something that 𝘪𝘴𝘯’𝘵 slang for—”

“Quiet.” Riktuykan’s voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through like a vine-whip. “I don’t want new name. I want 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 one.”

Wally yelped again, scrambling back slightly. “I 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 you want it! But it’s not—look, it’s 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘢 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘯𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦!”

Riktuykan tilted his head. “Nickname?”

Wally paused. “What? You don’t… know what a nickname is?”

Riktuykan frowned. “Should I?”

Wally couldn’t help it. He laughed. “Oh my god. You don’t. That’s—” He caught the dangerous gleam in Riktuykan’s eyes and cleared his throat. “—completely reasonable. Obviously. You’re not from Earth. You don’t know human customs.”

He took a breath, trying to stay calm, professional. Like he was explaining taxes to a dog.

“Okay. A nickname is, uh… a familiar, informal name for someone. Used instead of, or in addition to, their real name. It’s usually given by other people. Like, my full name is Wallace West, but everyone calls me Wally. That’s a nickname.”

Riktuykan hummed. Low, thoughtful. “And ‘Dick’—that is not a nickname?”

Wally rubbed his neck. “Well… 𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘩𝘯𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺, yeah. It’s an old English variation of ‘Richard,’ but—𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 people don’t use it like that anymore. And like I said, it’s… also a crude word for—”

“Then I want it.” Riktuykan crossed his arms. “You said it can be a nickname. I choose it.”

Wally stared. “You can’t just 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘰𝘴𝘦 a nickname that’s also a slang term for—”

“I can.”

“You—”

“I 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭.”

Wally exhaled, long and slow, running a hand through his hair. He looked at the leaves above, at the glowing forest, at the warrior who had saved him twice and now wanted to be called 𝘋𝘪𝘤𝘬.

𝘎𝘰𝘥, what was his life?

He sighed.

“Okay,” he said softly. “If that’s what you want… then fine.” He smirked, shaking his head. “It's nice to meet you, Dick.”

Riktuykan—𝘋𝘪𝘤𝘬—smiled.

And for the first time, under the moon of Pandora, the silence between them didn’t feel like a wall.

It felt like understanding.

“Good,” Dick said.

And Wally, grinning despite himself, thought: 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘢 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵.