"Drop me off over there," Parker instructed the driver; he had bargained a ride from the sanitation worker in charge of Homestead's latrines. His fee was reasonable but a strain on Parker's tight budget, nonetheless. It was night when he arrived at the recombinant lodge, and he could tell by the obnoxious noise that the whole dozen were inside. The clamour was enough to make Parker want to circle back, but the driver had already pulled out. After swallowing the lump in his throat, Selfridge braved the building.

The house was filled with boisterous activities. Some recoms were playing darts, having custom-made their own set using rifle bullets. Being limited in what goods were available to them brought out their creativity. Their taste in music didn't need to be custom-made, however, and the rock hits from the past played for their pleasure. Selfridge feared getting stomped on as he shoved his way past the sinewy recoms towards the centre, where Warren was regaling a story with Quaritch.

"—slapped me full across the face, shrieking, 'I thought you said you'd treat me like one of the guys.' I'm like, 'B****, have you seen Marines? That was equality.'"

Quaritch burst out laughing when he caught sight of Selfridge from the corner of his eye. "Oh, hey. Lookie here." He sniffed. "You don't often pay us a visit."

Soon, all the devious recombinants gathered too closely around Parker. He fidgeted, trying to give himself space from their fanged smiles and hot breath.

"Hey, little man," sang Fike.

Johnny loomed over his ear. "I can smell your fear."

Parker threw retorts from "cut that out!" to "rude!"

CJ waved Zhâng over. "Hey, Z-Boy, come help Pops up so we can all see him."

Zhâng mischievously rubbed his palms together. "You got it, Z-Dog."

Parker could only hurl protests as he was hoisted above the crowd to be plopped on the island in the centre. Standing on the counter, he was now above their eye level, but he felt far from respected as he hastily tucked his ruffled shirt back under his pants.

"So, what brings you to our neck of the woods?" Quaritch asked.

He straightened out his tie before replying. "I got word of your guys' next assignment. You're going to be leaving Bridgehead for a while."

"Where are we going?"

"The Omatikaya's old village—Hometree. The dozers have finally finished clearing a path, and we're ready to mine. From what I've learned, they want you to guard the site till the bucket-wheeler gets there, which will take about two months. So I came to ask if there's anything you need ahead of time."

"Pads!" Walker blurted out from across the room.

"I thought I dealt with that?"

"Things suck at absorbing. It's like they're made of cardboard."

Brown winced. "TMI, Walker."

"Could use some drinks." Warren shrugged, but his commander gave him a look.

"For a mission?"

"I mean, when we come back to celebrate. We have to settle for water," he explained to their overseer.

Parker spotted the glass at his feet, and sure enough, it was filled with the clear liquid. "What's wrong with the beer Bridgehead makes?"

"You wanna drink the brand they send us?" He reached behind the counter and brought up a can for Parker. The unimaginative label simply read "Viperwolf Beer." "Viperwolf Piss, more like," Warren remarked. He tried opening it for Parker, but the recom couldn't work his elephantine fingers under the tab, so he punctured it with his teeth. He then handed it to Selfridge, who was slightly grossed out by the polite gesture.

Parker held his breath, removed his visor and took a quick swig before setting it back on. He smacked his lips. "What's wrong with it?"

"Must be our taste buds, then," Quaritch sighed.

"You guys can't drink this?"

"We can't use most of the stuff they send," CJ explained.

"Why not?"

She cocked her shoulder. "Too big. Too small. Doesn't fit. You name it."

This was news to Parker, as he had been too busy arranging things from behind his desk to ask how they were doing and was now finding out that no one else had either, except for their psychiatrist, and he was contractually obligated. "What's it like for you guys? Being Na'vi?"

"We're not Na'vi," Quaritch corrected.

"You know what I mean."

"It's…" Brown started up, then stopped. He looked to Prager, who gave a shrug, then to Lopez, who was just as uncertain.

"It's different," Lyle droned.

"Like how?"

"You mean aside from banging our heads against doorways?" Johnny half-smiled.

"Howbout threading your tail through the hole in your boxers?" Quaritch added.

"Do you trip on it when you get out of the shower?"

"Yeah, sometimes," he chuckled.

"Hey, at least you guys are living someplace where it's quiet."

"Not quiet where you live?" asked Zhâng as he leaned against CJ; the two were always resting one limb off the other's shoulder.

"Hardly. Every other hour, I get a lovely siren blaring outside my window. I'm like, 'Thanks, I needed that. Yes, scare me out of bed with an ear-piercing scream so I know it's time for other people to get to work. Thank you.'"

Lopez patted him on the back. "Least you don't have overly sensitive hearing."

Parker laughed. "Yeah, that's gotta be hell." Deciding it was worth it, he removed his visor to take another dangerous sip. "It can't be all bad, like you got those long legs which makes walking easier. Me—I have to walk a mile and a half just to get to my apartment. If I want to rent a ride, it's from an operator of heavy machinery. You think something with sixteen wheels would go fast, but no. Course, my apartment overlooks the sanitation plant. Since those aren't anywhere near where the rich people live, they don't bother dousing the smell. No. I get that privilege."

The recoms concurred with Parker as he assuaged his skittery nerves with yet another swig. Quaritch was surmising that if he kept drinking this way, he'd pass out from lack of oxygen; however, as the evening wore on, Selfridge proved to be more resilient than he thought.

His brief popover extended into the witching hours as the overseer exchanged with his recoms like-minded testimonies of their new life within Bridgehead. The alcohol intake, on top of regularly depriving himself of air, meant Parker's choleric temperament melted away till he was positively giddy, resulting in him leaning back on the table with his tie undone and hair dishevelled from all the times he brushed it. In this unflattering state, the human happily regaled his "kids"—by no prompting, just a drunken man's caprice—about their early days in space.

"I think I came by your guys' tank at least three times a week to watch you grow. I mean, what else are you going to do orbiting a moon for five years?"

The team blinked and exchanged glances. Considering they were naked and vulnerable, floating inside an amino tank, it was unsettling to learn they were being observed.

"You were watching us?" CJ inquired anxiously.

"Oh yeah, I was—" He burped, and the man had to detach his EXO pack briefly. "I was there watching all of you."

Walker crossed her arms and discreetly covered her chest.

"You started this small." He cupped his two palms together to cradle the invisible fetus. "Then you got this big!" He demonstrated by fanning out the whole of his arms. "Somewhere during that time, they said to me, 'You-you gotta take care of these guys.' I'm like, 'Whoa! Hold on there"—he hiccuped—"they're like, how many pounds? Five hundred? And pure muscle!' I was all, 'Oh, no-no-no. Why do I have to be in charge of them?

"You were the most twitchy!" he blurted to Lyle. "Every time I came by your tank, one of your limbs always smacked the side. Felt like you were trying to grab me." Fike chortled at the way his buddy's freckles brightened in embarrassment.

He turned to Zhâng. "You were the most behaved. I liked you. Let's see where's…" He searched the room until his eyes fell on Brown. "I remember you. Your forehead pattern looked like, uh… Like, uh… It was like one of those damn Rorschach tests—reminded me of a…" Parker repeatedly snapped his fingers. "Of a wolf!" he beamed, happy to have finally remembered.

No one made a peep, not even a cough, as Brown went completely still.

"I spent hours watching you guys. Especially you," he stupidly admitted to Quaritch.

"What?"

"To see you was…something else. First, you were this tiny, little baby—kind of cute, actually. Had to keep reminding myself that that adorable thing was you." Parker issued a wheezy laugh; the humour he saw in it escaped everyone else. "You were so peaceful, sleeping in your amino tank like a babe in a cradle. What a comparison, right?"

Quaritch said nothing as he deliberated on taking Parker home.

The room went quiet while the man, filled to bursting and completely inebriated, slumped over on the counter and curled up to sleep.

"Alright, who's got the car keys?"

Walker jingled them in the air at Quaritch. "I do. Shall I drive him back for you?"

"No, I'll do it."

"You want the keys? You let Bridgette drive." Mansk grunted. "She's protective of her baby."

Quaritch cast a wary look at Walker.

The new vehicle issued to them, known as The RTV (Recom Transport Vehicle), was a behemoth that could hold all twelve and required special training to drive. Walker took to it from day one, and the others had to rely on her for rides. They discovered she was an expeditious driver who could weave through the densest traffic thanks to her right-of-way attitude. Quaritch wasn't keen on being escorted by her; her driving was enough to put anyone on blood pressure medication.

"Throw Papa in the RTV," she instructed and strutted outside before her commander could decline.

With little choice, Quaritch sighed and went over to Parker. He was the size of a child compared to him, and the recombinant reluctantly cradled him in his arms to proceed on out.

From the lodge, the others watched the entertaining scene of their commander struggling to prop up Selfridge in the back seat. Blocking out their sniggers and Parker's drunken giggles, the irritable colonel rammed the buckle into the latch, then finished off by slamming the door. After a few brisk wipes of the hands, he strutted over to the front, gripped the RTV's frame, and hoisted himself through the window to slide into the front seat.

"What the hell are you doing!" shouted his driver. "You'll damage my seats with your boots."

"Walker, shut your pie hole and drive!"

She shifted gears while muttering unflattering descriptions, then, bringing her foot down upon the gas, made a sharp turn of the wheel that slammed Quaritch against the door. His harangue rolled into the night along with the vehicle.

With the fun was over, the recombinants decided to call it in. Lopez looked across the room and saw Brown crouched in a corner, deeply absorbed with feeling his forehead. His face was still, and his eyes were blank. "What's eating him?" Lopez leaned to Warren.

The burly man knit his brows. "You don't know?"

"Know what?"

"Tyler was eaten by viperwolves—ripped apart by them. Poor kid. I think his death was the most dragged out."

Thomas called it a night and walked off, but Angel lingered on the way Brown's eyes were glued to the floor like his mind was elsewhere.

"Tyler?" Lopez rubbed his shoulder to help stir him out of his trance. "You okay, amigo?"

His lifeless eyes gazed up. "Angel?" An outline of a faint smile appeared on Brown, and he nodded. "Yeah, I'm okay."

"We're packing it in."

"Oh, right."

Lopez helped him up and carefully watched Brown's eyes to make sure he wasn't slipping back into the void.

Led by the arm, Angel slowly escorted his brother back to his cabin.

Uniqueness was not the RDA's priority when they constructed the city of Bridgehead. The bastions against Pandora's forces all had to be well insulated to block out Polyphemus' radiation, resulting in a thick, unvaried appearance, which also made it harder for drivers to discern one building from the next.

Walker manoeuvred the RTV into a tight parking spot, and Quaritch hopped out.

"He's right. It does smell," Bridgette remarked, leaning out of the window. "You know what room it is?"

"I know it," Quaritch dismissed. He had obtained that information when he and Lyle returned Parker's point card; they had failed to reach him at his office before closing, resulting in another odyssey.

Moving into the building's cramped vestibule, Quaritch readjusted his grip on Parker, whose arms flailed about like a rag doll. The giant pulled his blue tail clear from the sliding hatch and was careful not to smack his overseer's head against anything—he wasn't successful. Once the room cleared of its excess carbon dioxide, Quaritch, while cradling the sleeping man with one arm, removed the EXO pack. The hardened Marine didn't like playing keeper, but he didn't want Selfridge sleeping in their lodge. Given how many swigs the man had, he thought it better for him to relieve himself in the sanctuary of his own apartment than risk falling into a recombinant latrine.

His one-room apartment was on the fifth floor, and Quaritch tried to quietly make his way up the stairs, muttering profanities under his breath every time he tripped on the narrow steps. When he reached the locked room, it dawned on him that he needed a keycard. He plopped Parker down to frisk him for his wallet while having to pause several times to use his breather. Frustrated to the brim with his large fingers unable to pinch out the darn thing, he decided to just tear the seam and hoped the complex wasn't under any kind of neighbourhood watch. In the end, the simple task of getting Parker into his apartment had become a monumental feat.

"Yah better 'preciate this," he grumbled as he slapped the opened wallet across the door sensor. The panel slid back and deemed him entry.

Taking him up once more, Quaritch manoeuvred his way into the tiny room, failing, once again, to keep Parker's head from hitting any furniture. When a bed was found, the colonel no longer made the effort to hush his cursing and dropped Selfridge onto his mattress like a bag of dirt. With his duty over, Quaritch flicked the EXO pack to a corner of the room and made to leave, but as he turned, his tail got caught between his legs, and he tripped full onto the floor. So much for the tail providing balance. The loud thud of his landing had jostled a picture frame onto his chest, and when he picked it up, Quaritch did a double-take; he was looking at his team on the day they graduated.

All twelve were happy to be wearing their team patch for the first time. Off to the side of the smiling Titans was Parker Selfridge, proudly holding up a plaque with their insignia. It depicted a human skull inside a Na'vi one, with the queue morphing into a snake. A cordon below boasted the phrase "Deja Blu. We will tread on you." Through Parker's help, the colonel had some say in its design. It wasn't much, but when the artist showed him the preliminary sketch, he scrawled three lines over the human skull, then gave it his approval.

Quaritch reminisced over the graduation day with a soft chuckle. Following the ceremony, they had kidnapped Parker for their graduation party. Prager had stolen his tie and wore it for a headband while Lopez juggled his cufflinks. After a few rounds of tossing the little man around in a crowd surf, they stranded him on top of a forklift, where he yelled at them profusely. Seeing how hot and bothered it made him, they offered him a drink to cool down—by dunking him in a water barrel.

It didn't escape Quaritch's attention that Selfridge chose to hang the photo in the privacy of his room rather than his office. Dwelling on that thought, Miles realized Parker never displayed any photos of family and concluded it must be because he had none.

The whole thing was becoming a surreal experience for Quaritch. His relationship with Selfridge back in the old days was far from friendly. He tolerated the choleric blowhard to a point, but when push came to shove, it was only because Parker was too weak of an opponent that the powerful Marine didn't pop his head off his shoulders. Yet, here they were, in what may as well have been another dimension—him in an alien body, squatting in an impoverished apartment before the same Parker Selfridge, snoring away on an exposed mattress—and there, in Miles' hands, was evidence that the lonely man would rather have his pocketful of bastards than nothing at all.

He set the photo back on the shelf and left the room.

Walker inquired as to why he was so quiet during their drive back, but Quaritch dismissed her with a terse remark that he only wanted sleep.

In the jungles below Mt. Txurseng, Mo'at stood before a bonfire. She was adorned in her blue feather shawl that bounced from each spastic movement of her bizarre dance. She repeated a strange litany, answered by the congregation of Na'vi crouched around her fire. She cast into the embers a mixture that made it burn brighter. The fire blazed, and the intensity of her dance heightened. Many Na'vi watched the esoteric performance with bated breath. Her lithe body flowed in strange ways, contorting effortlessly with the spirit that moved around and through her. Kiri studied intently on what is required of "she who interprets the will of Eywa." Upon finishing her dance, Mo'at slammed her palm against the grassy floor and went completely still. The breathing of the crowd ceased, and only the crackling of the fire could be heard. Mo'at gazed darkly into the flames before turning to her people.

|"We cannot force our Mother to talk."|

|"This drought is worsening,"| a Na'vi decried.

|"When will we hear Her voice again?"| a woman threw in.

|"Ask not when. Let us ask why? Why has She been silent?"|

|"She is displeased. We have fallen too far from The Way."|

|"What of other clans, Zuzey?"| spoke Mo'at with great authority. |"The other tsahìks have said the same. The breathing of the world is incoherent. The ayatokirina' move mindlessly. This silence is across all clans."|

|"But other clans are holding us at fault. Lesser tribes look down on us like Anurai. We of the Blue Flute, one of the oldest and most revered of people, now a clan to be pitied!"|

Another joined in. |"Since the Time of the First Songs, we have done nothing differently except use the methods of the Skypeople—our enemies. We are losing The Way. Eywa hasn't gone silent. It is us who have gone deaf!"|

Norman of the Skypeople rose up. His garments were Omatikaya save for his field vest and belt. His avatar stood tall over the others. |"You have Skypeople living among you who cherish your ways, but we are forced to use the ones known to us in order to live."|

|"Na'vi live as Na'vi. Skypeople live as Skypeople. Olo'eyktan of the Dreamwalkers, it is different for us. You of another star have never heard Eywa before. You do not know what it is we have lost."|

|"True, Äi'ut. I have never seen or heard Eywa, but I have still developed a faith in Her."| He smiled humbly.

|"Rider of Last Shadow, what do you say?"| spoke the unhappy Äi'ut.

Neteyam was kneeling by his father when he looked at him. Jake was in deep contemplation. He was impressive in the firelight with his hair ornaments of sharp red quills. The three fangs of his collar, a trapping that once belonged to his fallen clan brother Tsu'tey, were just as threatening in appearance as his black feather mantle. |"That I see into your complaints. But I also know this enemy and their weakness. I have only been protecting my clan using the methods I know will work."|

|"Yet they slaughtered so many of us, and now they're on their way to Hometree. And you've forbidden assault on their machines!"|

|"We cannot afford to attack until we learn more of these new warriors."|

|"Olo'eyktan, these methods we agreed to have cost us in ways too great. We gave in to their ways, and now the enemy grows ever stronger, and us weaker!"|

Jake could only listen as the others began hurling blame at him for leading them astray. Mo'at tried her best to tame the row, but each voiced complaint fueled the fire.

|"The silence began the moment a demon entered Eywa!"|

Kiri gasped. The thoughtless remark humiliated and disgusted the Tskaha family, and Jake was incensed. He was preempted by his mate, who sprung to her feet to face off the dissenter. |"Do not speak of our school mother in that way. She is not a demon,"| she growled fiercely.

The Na'vi bowed his head low and cast his gaze away. He had attended Grace Augustine's school alongside Neytiri. In those days, the children referred to her as Sa'nok (Mother), and she was greatly loved by them. Sadly, over the years, only a few held a torch of her memory as others favoured forgetting her benevolence.

|"Why, then, can we not hear her spirit when we connect to the Tree of Souls?"| another countered.

Jake and Neytiri always championed for Grace, but they had no answer for this reasonable question. For reasons unknown, no one could commune with Grace Augustine's spirit. Grace had died while she was linked to the Tree of Souls, but despite this, she never once appeared before anyone who connected. It was as if she never existed. It troubled Jake greatly, and rumours began to spread that Eywa did not accept Skypeople spirits. Neytiri would silence this blasphemous talk by reminding her people that this same logic would be applied to Jake. Would their own Toruk Makto, whom Eywa, Herself, selected, also be turned away? The doubters argued that Toruk Makto did not count, for he was no longer a Skyperson once he became Omatikaya, unlike Augustine.

All the talk of spiritualism gave Jake a headache. Of course, the scientists had explained to him that the Na'vi did not actually communicate with spirits. When they connected to neural trees, they were, in fact, uploading a "screen capture" of their minds, and it was this copy of themselves that other Na'vi could talk to, leaving Jake to conclude that Grace must have been too weak to perform her backup. It wasn't an uplifting explanation, but it was the one that satisfied scientists; however, deep down, Jake hoped that they were spirits so that one day he could talk with her again. What an obstinate thing hope was, he thought with a smile.

|"Before Grace died, | Jake proclaimed with an authoritative tone. |"She told me, 'I am with Her, Jake. She is real.' My daughter does not talk. Does that mean she is not here? No. She is with us. Just as Grace is with Eywa."|

Kiri saw into her father and thanked him with misty eyes.

|"But why is Kiri silent?"| a new voice contended. |"We don't even know whom she mated with. Was that also unnatural, like her daughter's birth?"|

|"Is it safe to even train her to be tsahìk?"|

|"Silence! I will not stand here and have my family insulted,"| Neytiri hissed. |"Kiri is my daughter. Who here will accuse her of being born of a demon? You dishonour GraceOgusteen's memory with such talk!"| Neytiri looked to Kiri, and the mother saw where she was needed. First signalling to her husband with a subtle nod, which he returned, she led their daughter away so as to spare her from further pillory.

Jake came to his feet. He stretched his arms out to signal to his clan he was going to speak. |"It is not The Way for us to interpret the will of Eywa. Mo'at, what do you say?"| He bowed his head to her.

|"I cannot speak on behalf of one who has said nothing. If we have been wrong, Eywa would make it known to us. But I will say this. I train my granddaughter because out of all of us, she is the most like our Great Mother—for she, too, is silent."|

Once far enough away, in the quietude of a peaceful glade, did Kiri give in to her emotion, but gentle hands turned her around.

"Kiri…" the mother soothed.

"Do they speak truth? Eywa is quiet because of Mother?"

Neytiri shushed her gently. |"Daughter, why would this be?"|

"I do not know…" she signed in defeat. "I know I cannot talk with Mother. I think because I am different."

|"Come. Come here."| Neytiri pressed her frail daughter to herself. She smoothed out Kiri's wavy hair and recalled the time she tried to braid it. The fussy child had no patience for sitting, let alone having her hair pulled into tiny knots. Only after coaxing her with a bead worn by her mother's avatar was she able to do something with her hair. Even Jake was impressed by Neytiri's accomplishment and gave her a thumbs-up when he saw their little daughter stepping out of their tent with that single triumphant braid.

Neytiri looked down into her daughter's doe eyes. |"Your father is different, but Eywa still chose him,"| she reminded, holding the five-fingered hand between her four.

"The others say I should not be tsahìk. I think they are right."

|"They are not right. They are only afraid. They seek something to blame."|

"I don't know what Eywa sounds like. I don't know what I sound like. How can I interpret Her?"

Neytiri thought for a while as she stroked her daughter's back. |"Do you know how I first met your father? I found him trespassing in our forest. I was ready to shoot an arrow through his heart."| She felt Kiri shudder. |"Then an atokirina' came down and landed on my arrowhead. Without speaking, I heard it say no. Without speaking, that one pure spirit changed everything."|

Kiri was still downcast, but to hear Neytiri say these words, spoken in the warm tone of a caring mother, served to calm her.

|"You are different, Kiri,"| she whispered with her head pressed against hers. |"You are my little atokirina'."|

Jake was melancholy when he returned to his grotto. The yawning Omatikaya retired for the night, but he traipsed the cave with a troubled mind, so it was a welcome thing for him when he picked up the hints of inviting pheromones. He turned around and faced Neytiri; she had just put their daughter to bed and had purposefully sought him out. With a resolute nod, she beckoned him to follow her to the mountaintop. Yet, instead of fluttering her lashes at him, she aggressively stripped her husband's feather mantle and set it respectfully on a moss-covered rock.

"Uh, Honey?"

She faced him with a grimace. "Teach me."

"Teach you what?"

"To fight like the warriors of your clan."

Jake's eyes bugged out. "You want to learn how to fight like a Marine?"

"You say many times you know how to fight this enemy. Teach it to me. I want to be ready when I face these demons using our skin."

He was still recovering from the shock of his wife—a royal descendant of a clan older than humanity—a people who fought with bows and arrows, spears and bolos—demanding to be taught martial arts. "Well…I guess I can," he said, running his hand across his neck.

Jake instructed Neytiri to back away a few steps to give herself a wide berth for their training session. He stalled, deliberating on what fighting style would suit her best. Since she was small, he decided to go for Krav Maga, as it served to give users an advantage over much larger opponents. The Israeli martial art was an ugly but effective fighting style with its origins rooted in helping civilians defend themselves against fanatics. It aimed for the quickest takedown, regardless of what it takes to get there. For Neytiri, it was a perfect fit; Jake's only problem was having to ignore that she was his mate long enough to teach it to her.

Looking at her slim build compared to his, he was starting to have second thoughts. "You sure you want to do this?"

He didn't need a reply; her resolute scowl was enough.

"Alright then."

He began with the jabs, keeping fists close to the most vulnerable area, the neck, then proceeded to strike at his opponent. Neytiri mirrored him, and her speed was impressive. It was something else for Jake to see her boxing the air; it was the first time a Na'vi practised a human's fighting style. The Omatikaya did not specialize in combat like their aggressive Tipani brothers, but that didn't mean they weren't skilled.

Impressed with her agility, he decided to move on to the next phase: how to disarm your opponent. He drew out the RDA tactical knife that had killed Anotang. He kept it on his person as a dark memorial and a reminder of what was out there. He first shielded the tip with a cloth before guiding her on the many ways to work it out of his hand. One way was to thrust her clamped fists over his bicep and push downward, deflecting his oncoming attack. Most people freeze up when an enemy comes at them with a weapon; however, Neytiri fought viperwolves and slinths. She rode both the thanator and the great leonopteryx. She had the self-control to remain calm in situations that would otherwise induce panic.

In their tussling, the cloth came off the blade, and Neytiri was cut. Jake panicked when he saw the blood on her arm. He reached to help her, but she pushed him away. "No."

"You're bleeding."

"I've bled before. Again," she ordered, her forearm quivering in pain.

Jake cleaned the knife and put it away. It was late, and they had been practicing for over an hour. "I think we better call it a night."

"No. I can keep going. Ma Jake, I want to do this."

"Why's it so important we do this now?"

Neytiri sighed wistfully. She unclasped her wound, and Jake saw the blood run down Neytiri's fingers. "I want to protect Kiri. This, I can do for my family."

Jake understood and, if it was possible, admired her more than he already did. He took her arm and patched her wound. "Crazy Sheila. You're my wife. You've borne my son. You've raised my daughter. You've devoted your whole life to protecting us. You're already a badass, what more do you want?" he chuckled. She briefly smirked back but dipped her head; Jake gave her shoulder another rub. "Let's not cram it all in one night. We can pace ourselves learning."

Neytiri perked up. "You will still teach me?"

"Of course."

Jake hugged her and thought about how lucky he was to have her. He was a simple everyman, but of all the people in the universe, the one for him existed on another planet. What a special magic it was that the invisible link between soul mates could be so powerful it could unite people light-years apart.