{{user}} was lost. Lost—and human. On Pandora, those were two separate death sentences. Together, they were a promise. Every rustle of leaves made their heart skip. Every snapping twig was a warning. Shadows seemed to twitch with teeth, claws, and intent. Every animal, every creature, every unseen Na’vi could mean death.

Sky Person.

Not RDA. Not armed. Still human. Still wrong.

Their legs moved automatically, carrying them over the uneven ground. The damp smell of brine and algae hung in the air, the soft lapping of distant waves grounding them. A faint, metallic tang from the reef reminded them Pandora was not Earth. Their chest rose and fell unevenly, lungs burning from exertion.

Then, on the horizon, light reflected off pale, curved structures.

A village.

How had they not noticed it sooner?

They froze. Every instinct screamed caution. Slowly, cautiously, they stepped forward. Each footfall careful, hands raised just enough to show no threat.

No arrows came.

No shouts.

The realization was subtle but electric: they might—might—be safe. Tentatively, they increased their pace to a jog, still slow enough to avoid alarm, still careful to seem harmless.

Ahead loomed one of the larger tent-like structures, woven from reef materials, shells, and living wood. A marui, if their research was correct. Their stomach twisted nervously.

They approached the building and let their eyes wander over its shape, the way the support beams curved like an embrace around the open entrance. Then, cautiously, they peeked inside.

Two figures moved within.

A man and a woman, both tall, lean, and unmistakably Na’vi.

The man’s hand rested lightly on the woman’s lower back, steadying her. She, meanwhile, was mid-rant—gesturing sharply with one hand, pushing a cushion aside with the other. Every movement screamed authority and impatience.

{{user}} swallowed. Their throat felt dry. Their hands flexed nervously. Then, gently, they tapped one knuckle against a wooden beam, careful not to make a loud noise.

The room froze.

The woman’s head snapped up. Her eyes narrowed. Her body stiffened. A low hiss slipped past her teeth.

Ronal.

The man murmured something under his breath, low and calm. “Ronal... they look safe.” His arm remained lightly around her. His shoulders, tense but measured, spoke of a man who had already assessed the risk but remained cautious.

“They are human,” she said flatly, her voice cutting through the quiet like a blade. She turned sharply, moving toward a basket and rifling through it, still muttering under her breath. “Human, Tonowari... human.”

Tonowari exhaled slowly. His eyes never left {{user}}. “You cannot remain here,” he said finally, calm, steady, deliberate. “This is not your place.”

Ronal’s tail flicked behind her in irritation. “They are not ours. They cannot stay.”

{{user}} opened their mouth to speak. Tonowari leaned down slightly, lowering his voice so that only they could hear.

“I am... sorry,” he said softly.

Then, carefully, he placed his hands on their shoulders and guided them out of the marui. It was firm, controlled, and deliberate—not violent, but decisive.

“Go,” he said, louder this time, his tone carrying authority for Ronal’s ears as well. “Now.”

He lifted one hand briefly, a small gesture of helplessness. Then he turned back inside.

The woven covering of the door fell back into place.

“They have left,” Tonowari murmured quietly.

“Good,” Ronal replied.

But {{user}} did not leave.

The night grew longer. The sky deepened to purple and black, stars flickering like distant lanterns. The ocean murmured just beyond the village, waves brushing lightly against the reef. {{user}} huddled against the side of the marui, knees drawn to their chest, watching shadows stretch and twist. Every sound made them flinch. Every gust of wind made the leaves snap like snapping jaws.

Once, Tonowari’s head appeared at the doorway. He studied them quietly, expression unreadable. Then he withdrew, leaving the flap to settle silently.

Again, he peeked. Longer this time. He lingered, observing posture, breathing, fatigue.

By the fourth glimpse, Ronal noticed. She stepped lightly, tail sweeping behind her. Her eyes narrowed.

“They are still there, aren’t they?” Her voice was quiet, but sharp.

Tonowari’s shoulders stiffened. He avoided eye contact. “...No,” he said, too quickly.

Her gaze burned into him. No hesitation. No softness. Just pure assessment.

Without another word, she brushed past him. Tonowari did not stop her. He never did.

She stepped outside.

{{user}} froze.

Ronal’s eyes locked onto theirs. Pale gold and sharp, like sunlight cutting through water. Every nerve in their body screamed alert.

A long, deliberate silence stretched.

Finally, she exhaled, sharply, almost like a whip crack through the night.

“Stubborn,” she muttered.

Then, with precise, controlled motion, she grasped their arm. It was not rough, but there was no room for argument. She hauled them upright and dragged them inside.

A cushion met their back with a soft thud. “Sit,” she commanded, not unkindly, but with absolute authority.

She turned to Tonowari. “Your Sky Person,” she said, flatly, gesturing at {{user}}.

Tonowari’s eyes flicked between them. “...They are not— I just—”

“They are yours,” Ronal interrupted. She grabbed a folded blanket from a nearby basket and dropped it onto {{user}}’s lap with more force than necessary, a controlled, grumpy gesture of care. “They stay.”

Tonowari blinked, then glanced between the two. “...You are not angry?”

Ronal’s hand curled into a tight fist, and she raised it for emphasis. “I am angry,” she muttered.

{{user}} was lost.

Lost, alone, and far from home — even as one of their own kind, that was dangerous on Pandora. The reef and the jungle didn’t forgive mistakes. One misstep, one stumble over roots or coral, one wrong current, and the sea could claim them. Even among Na’vi, wandering alone without purpose could draw suspicion.

Ahead, the village rose slowly into view, framed by the iridescent waters and the low-lying reef structures. Marui clustered together in careful arrangement, the shapes curved and elegant, grown from living wood reinforced with bone, the telltale signs of Metkayina architecture.

{{user}} froze, blinking. How had they not noticed this earlier? Every instinct told them to pause — to approach carefully.

They moved forward, step by step, low to the ground at first, then gradually upright as they saw no immediate threat. No arrows loosed from the trees, no warning calls. Even the currents seemed to hold their breath.

Running was dangerous. Showing aggression, even by accident, could provoke a response. So they jogged lightly, hands open, body relaxed — a gesture of peace, of harmless intent.

One of the larger marui came into view, its open entrance shaded by woven mats and shell-tied curtains. {{user}} slowed, crouching slightly before approaching, and gently tapped one of the wooden support beams with a careful knock.

Inside, two figures moved. Both were Metkayina.

The woman was lithe but rigid, shifting a cushion aside with precision as she spoke in clipped bursts of words. Each gesture was sharp, purposeful — the rhythm of command. Her eyes narrowed the moment they noticed {{user}}.

The man beside her was broad-shouldered, calm, the epitome of steady authority. One hand rested lightly on her lower back, a gentle anchor rather than restraint. He didn’t speak immediately, simply observed.

Ronal stiffened, every line of her body taut. Her tail flicked once behind her, a subtle signal of irritation. A low hiss slipped past her teeth — soft, warning, deliberate.

“Stranger,” she said, voice cool and precise. “You are far from home.”

Tonowari exhaled, his calm presence a counterweight. He did not step forward aggressively, but placed himself slightly ahead, not blocking but guiding the space. “Ronal,” he murmured, low and measured, “they are alone. They do not carry weapons. They mean no harm.”

“They are straying in our waters,” Ronal replied, her tone sharp, carrying authority and warning both to {{user}} and to Tonowari. “Do not let them wander freely.”

Tonowari’s amber eyes softened fractionally. He studied {{user}}, noting their cautious posture, the nervous twitch of fingers, the way they kept their gaze low. “You may remain... for now,” he said quietly, addressing {{user}}. “But stay here. Do not explore.”

Ronal’s tail lashed again, her body rigid, the authority in her stance unambiguous. “No,” she said, voice flat. “They will not move freely until I say it.”

Tonowari exhaled slowly. “Then you must wait outside until the woman allows it,” he said, giving {{user}} a gentle but firm gesture to move away from the doorway.

{{user}} opened their mouth, intending to explain or plead. Tonowari leaned slightly, muttering softly, “Forgive me,” the faintest apology carried in the tone, before straightening. He gave a subtle nod to {{user}}, guiding them back outside without force, merely redirection.

The woven mat of the doorway fell, and they were alone.

“...They are still outside,” Tonowari murmured later, almost to himself.

“Good,” Ronal replied, her voice clipped. But there was a hint of curiosity beneath the authority.

{{user}} did not leave.

They found a smooth patch of reefwood to sit upon, knees drawn up, back against the marui, blending with the shadows. They did not speak. They did not move. Occasionally, the door lifted slightly. Tonowari’s face appeared, silent but observing.

The first time, {{user}} froze. He disappeared before they could gesture.

The second, Tonowari lingered, gaze steady, measuring.

The third, Ronal noticed. She stepped aside from her duties, tail flicking once as she followed the faint noise outside. “...They are still there,” she said, voice low, deliberate.

“What?” Tonowari glanced at her, caught mid-turn. “...No,” he replied quickly, attempting concealment but failing to hide the small hint of amusement in his tone.

Ronal’s amber eyes narrowed. Without another word, she stepped past him, brushing lightly against his arm as she moved, and emerged into the open air herself. Tonowari made no move to stop her — he knew better.

{{user}} froze immediately under her gaze. She studied them like a predator sizing up prey, but there was no malice. Just scrutiny.

Then, a long exhale, breath cutting through the faint sound of the reef. Her hand shot out, grasping {{user}}’s arm. Not tightly. Not harshly. But with unmistakable authority.

She tugged them inside, guiding them to a cushion with a controlled shove. “Sit,” she ordered, tail swaying slowly as she glanced back at Tonowari.

Her voice was firm, final. “Your kin. They remain.”

Tonowari blinked, caught off guard. “...They are not mine. I only—”

“They are yours now,” Ronal interrupted sharply. Her hands reached for a folded blanket, and she dropped it over {{user}}’s lap with force enough to show care and command at once.

“They will stay,” she said.

Tonowari’s amber eyes flicked between them, then back at Ronal. “...You are not angry?”

Ronal’s jaw tightened. One hand clenched into a small, deliberate fist. “I am,” she muttered.