Chapter Text
The eclipse was drawing nearer.
Lyle had gone looking for Quaritch. That conversation could no longer be put off.
He hadn’t planned what he was going to say - only that he needed to say something.
That the longer he stayed quiet about what he’d been seeing in the village, the heavier it sat in his chest. Things didn’t add up. People didn’t behave like this without reason.
And if anyone needed to hear that, it was his CO, his best friend.
He followed the sound of low voices toward the edge of the encampment, slowing as he approached one of the larger yurts. The light inside was dim, filtered through layered fabric. Shadows moved.
He meant to announce himself. He didn’t.
Because Varang was there.
He crouched into a position that allowed him to see inside through the gap between the hanging beads.
She sat close to Quaritch, her head resting against his shoulder in a way that was unmistakably intimate. Her posture seemed… relaxed.
Her body was loose, natural in a way Lyle hadn’t seen since they’d arrived. She still wore her crown, feathers framing her face, and the dark lines of her ceremonial paint traced her skin, but without the village watching, without an audience, the effect was different.
Less ethereal.
More real.
She murmured something softly, almost under her breath. A sound answered her from Quaritch - not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh.
She purred.
The sound made Lyle’s skin prickle.
Her face, turned slightly upward, looked… gentle. Lyle hated himself a little for noticing that she was objectively beautiful like this, stripped of ritual and distance.
Quaritch lifted his right hand.
The movement was slow, deliberate, tension visible all the way up his arm. His fingers trembled faintly as he reached for her, knuckles whitening with the effort.
Lyle’s breath caught.
Quaritch brushed his thumb along the side of her neck, then her cheek - careful, controlled, as if the act itself required concentration. Varang leaned into the touch without hesitation.
She shifted, turning just enough to look at his hand.
Her fingers closed around his wrist, not restraining, just steadying.
“How is your arm?” she churred quietly. Concern sharpened her tone.
She examined it with gentle precision, thumbs pressing lightly, testing. Lyle caught fragments of her statement - pain, strength, healing - enough to understand the question even without catching every word.
Quaritch shrugged, the motion uneven.
“Doc says it’s progress,” he said lightly. “Says I’m a walking miracle.”
He paused, then added, softer, “And with you around? Doesn’t hurt nearly as much, Sweetheart.”
Varang huffed - not quite a laugh, not quite approval - but she didn’t pull away.
She rested her forehead briefly against his jaw.
Lyle stood there, rooted to the ground.
This wasn’t posturing.
This wasn’t leverage.
This wasn’t some tactical arrangement or mutually beneficial alliance.
This was… real.
And that realization landed like a weight.
Because real things were dangerous.
Quaritch looked different like this. Less guarded. Less sharp at the edges. His focus narrowed to her, the rest of the world temporarily irrelevant.
Lyle had seen that look before.
On soldiers who were about to make decisions they couldn’t take back.
Sir, he thought, unease curling tight in his gut, you think you’re choosing this.
But standing there, watching Varang’s hand remain wrapped around Quaritch’s unsteady wrist. Watching the way his body leaned into her presence - Lyle wasn’t sure that was how choice worked anymore.
Not here.
Not like this.
Something shifted in his chest, a worry, sharp and sudden. This wasn’t about command structures or alliances or strategy. Those wouldn’t be all that bad.
This was about attachment.
About roots sinking into ground that didn’t belong to him.
Lyle took a step back, then another, the crunch of gravel loud in his ears. He forced himself to turn away before either of them noticed him there.
The conversation could wait.
Whatever this was, whatever Miles was becoming part of, it was already further along than Lyle had realized.
And that scared him more than anything he’d seen so far.
He’d already had enough - fuck, more than enough - of all those revelations. But the day had no intention of stopping its test of his endurance.
__________________________
Lyle had just started to convince himself that the village wasn’t actively trying to kill him when the first child appeared.
It came out of nowhere.
One moment he was walking safely back to his tent, keeping a respectful distance from anyone else, and the next, something small and blue darted across his path, narrowly missing his knee.
“—hey—!”
Too late.
The child skidded to a stop, bare feet digging into the packed earth, then turned around and stared at him.
Not afraid.
Curious.
Bold.
Assessing.
Great.
Another one popped up beside the first. Then a third. And suddenly Lyle became acutely aware that he was being circled by a group of Mangkwang children, ranging from definitely too young to be unsupervised to old enough to be planning crimes.
They whispered to each other in rapid Na’vi.
Lyle caught fragments.
Sky… metal… arm… weapon?
Fantastic.
One of them - a girl with a crooked stripe of paint across her cheek - stepped closer. She tilted her head, eyes flicking over him with clinical interest.
She reached out.
Lyle froze.
Her fingers poked his boot.
Solid.
She crouched, pressed again, harder this time, then looked up at him, unimpressed.
“You're real.” she concluded.
“Oh thank God,” Lyle muttered to himself. “I was worried I was a hallucination.”
She didn’t understand a word of that, obviously, but his tone seemed to amuse her. A grin split her face, sharp and delighted.
Another kid moved in, circling behind him. Lyle felt a tug at the hem of his vest.
“Nope. No stealing,” he tried his best in broken Na’vi, turning just in time to intercept a small hand reaching for a loose strap. “ My person space. That’s- that’s a thing.”
They ignored him.
One of the boys crouched near his leg, studying the seams of his pants like a mechanic inspecting faulty equipment. Another pointed at his comm unit and said something about ‘talking far’. Smartass.
Lyle looked around for help.
An elderly man, missing a piece of his nose, had stopped a few meters away.
He watched with no intention of intervening.
His expression was neutral, but Lyle could’ve sworn there was something dangerously close to amusement flickering behind his eyes.
Another little girl, no more than five years old, crouched beside him and tugged at his shoelace, completely undoing the knot.
“Oh no,” he whined quietly. “You’re enjoying this.”
She did not deny it.
The girl with the painted cheek - The Soup Girl! he realised - said something loudly and emphatically. The others reacted immediately, voices rising in overlapping chatter.
Lyle caught one word this time.
Demon.
Cool. Love that for me.
He raised both hands slowly. “Okay. Listen. I’m friendly. I don’t bite. I don’t explode. And I am not a toy.”
A small hand grabbed two of his fingers and tugged. Hard.
Lyle yelped. “Hey! Hey- easy!”
The kids laughed.
That was when one of the women, a mother perhaps, finally turned his way.
She said only a few words, but her tone alone reminded him of a good old spanking from his own mother.
The effect was immediate.
The children froze.
Then, with visible disappointment, they backed away - some slower than others - casting lingering looks at Lyle as if he were a fascinating but temporarily confiscated object.
Only the Soup Girl stayed.
She tilted her head, studying him with open, unsettling curiosity, utterly unbothered by the warning that had silenced the others. Up close, the paint on her cheek was uneven, smudged like it had been applied in a hurry. Or by someone very young.
She spoke again, slower this time, as if to give him time to understand.
He had to dig deep for patience not to roll his eyes. When Varang spoke to him - rare as it was - she used that exact same tone. The girl must have picked it up from her.
“Tsahìk said you fight from far away,” she announced. “You shoot instead of standing close.”
Lyle blinked.
Her eyes narrowed, not hostile, just blunt. Assessing.
“Isn’t that cowardly?”
For a second, Lyle honestly wasn’t sure how to respond. Of all the things he’d been called today - demon included - that one landed differently.
“…Wow,” he muttered. “Okay. Straight to the throat.”
She didn’t look offended. If anything, she seemed pleased she’d hit something.
“I mean,” he added, gesturing vaguely with one hand, “from where I’m from, that’s called tactics. Also survival. Mostly survival.”
She considered this, lips pursed.
“But you don’t look weak,” she said, squinting at him. “Weak people hide.”
“Oh, I hide all the time,” Lyle said dryly. “I’m very good at it.”
That earned him a faint smile, quick, gone almost as soon as it appeared.
“Hm,” she hummed. “Then maybe you’re strange. Not cowardly.”
He exhaled. “I’ll take strange. That’s an upgrade.”
She nodded, as if that settled the matter between them, and plopped down on the ground in front of him without asking. Close enough to be personal. Close enough to be dangerous, culturally speaking.
Lyle glanced around, half-expecting another reprimand.
None came.
Great, he thought. I’ve been adopted.
“Shouldn’t you be at home right now? Where’s your mother?”
The girl blinked twice. “Died in the Bay,” she said, as if stating an obvious fact.
Lyle rubbed his face with one hand. Fucking great.
“Well. Nice talking to you, but I really have to go now.”
Big eyes stared up at him, expectant.
“Buh-bye,” he muttered through clenched teeth.
The child sprang to its feet and vanished into the sea of tents.
He didn’t have the strength, nor the inclination, to think about what had just happened.
Instead, he headed toward the fire burning at the center of the village. It seemed like the safer option. Only adults were there.
Something in the village had shifted, again.
Lyle noticed it first in the fires. More of them, lit closer together, their flames fed higher than necessary. Smoke curled thicker in the air, carrying the sharp, mineral scent of burning resins.
People moved with purpose now, no longer wandering or lounging in loose clusters. Hands were busy. Voices were low.
Colours appeared next. Bowls of pigment carried from tent to tent. Reds dark as dried blood. Blacks that swallowed the light. Na’vi smeared them across arms, shoulders, faces with practiced ease, as if preparing for something that required no explanation.
Weapons followed. Not battle gear, tho.
Blades polished until they reflected firelight. Spears decorated with feathers and bone charms. Decorative knives worn openly at hips that had, until recently, carried nothing but practical tools.
The air tightened.
Lyle couldn’t put his finger on when exactly his stomach began to knot, only that it did.
This wasn’t a celebration. Not the kind he understood, anyway. No laughter. No music. No chaos.
The air was thick with anticipation.
He stood near the edge of the central clearing, trying not to look like a tourist with a pulse rifle itch. No one explained what was happening, and no one seemed inclined to. He caught fragments of Na’vi as people passed, words he half-recognized, phrases that sounded final.
He scanned the crowd, instinctively searching for one person. The feeling in Lyle’s gut wouldn’t let him stay put.
He spotted Quaritch near the edge of the clearing, standing with one of the Mangkwang warriors - a big one. Bigger than most of them, broad in a way that immediately set him apart from the lean, sharp-lined bodies around him. He was almost Quaritch’s size. The man’s head was shaved bare, his skin scored with old scars that caught the firelight when he turned.
Quaritch didn’t look relaxed.
That alone was enough.
Lyle made his way over, weaving through bodies and half-finished preparations, eyes flicking to the blades being handed out, the pigments smeared with increasing urgency. He reached Quaritch’s side just as the big warrior finished saying something low and clipped in Na’vi.
Quaritch’s ears twitched.
Yeah. Definitely not relaxed.
“Hey,” Lyle said, casual on the surface, pulse ticking up underneath. “There you are. I was looking for you. Thought you’d wandered off. How are’ya?”
Quaritch glanced at him. “I’m fine.”
He didn’t sound fine.
His ears were set back just enough to be noticeable, not flat, but tense. The kind of posture Lyle had learned to read over years of combat briefings and bad news.
“Right,” Lyle said. “Because that’s the face you make when you’re having a great time.”
Quaritch huffed through his nose, eyes tracking something beyond the fires. “Everything’s under control.”
Lyle didn’t buy it for a second.
Quaritch shifted slightly and gestured toward the other man. “You met him yet?”
Lyle blinked. “No?”
“This is Wukula,” Quaritch said.
The name landed with weight, like it mattered.
“Oh.” Lyle straightened and extended his hand on reflex. “Lyle Wainfleet.”
Wukula looked at the offered hand.
Did not take it.
Instead, his gaze slid up Lyle’s arm, over his chest, lingered briefly at the weapon slung across his back.
Then he spoke.
“You are the one who kills from far away.” It wasn’t a question.
Lyle let his hand drop, irritation flaring hot and fast. “I guess so.”
Wukula made a low sound in his throat - not quite a growl, not quite a laugh. Something unreadable. He gave Quaritch one last look - loaded with something that made Lyle’s skin prickle, then turned and walked away without another word.
Lyle watched him go.
“…Nice guy,” he muttered, dry as sand.
Then he turned back to Quaritch, all humor gone. “Miles. Something’s up.”
Quaritch didn’t answer right away.
“He looked at you like he was mentally running through a thousand ways to kick your ass,” Lyle continued, lowering his voice. “And that’s me being generous.”
Quaritch’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “Yeah,” he said, distant. “He probably fantasizes about it at night."
That didn’t make Lyle feel better.
Quaritch’s gaze drifted back toward the heart of the village, where figures were gathering now — tighter clusters, deliberate spacing. Where Varang moved like a fixed point, people orienting themselves around her without a word exchanged.
“Come on,” Quaritch said after a moment. “We should get closer.”
“To what?”
“The ceremony.”
Lyle frowned as they started walking. “What ceremony?”
Quaritch shrugged, casual but not dismissive. “Sacrificial. Varang wants everyone present. Says it’ll help morale after the beating we took in the Bay of Forebears.”
Lyle stopped short.
“-the what ceremony?”
Quaritch took another step before realizing Lyle wasn’t beside him anymore. He turned, brow lifting slightly.
“Did you just say sacrificial?”
Quaritch regarded him for a second, then nodded. “Yeah.”
Lyle stared at him.
Then at the knives.
Then at the fires.
Then back at Quaritch, who looked annoyingly unconcerned for a man who had just dropped that word into casual conversation like it was a team-building exercise.
“…You know what,” Lyle said slowly, dread curling in his stomach, “I’m really starting to think I should’ve asked more questions when we got here.”
Quaritch snorted and turned back toward the gathering crowd.
“Welcome to Pandora,” he said.
Lyle swallowed hard and followed. Against his better judgment.
Yeah. This is definitely going to end well.
__________________________
Fire exploded into the night.
Not one blaze, dozens. Rings of flame flared to life across the clearing, fed with oils and resins that burned hot and bright, smoke curling thick and sweet in the air.
Drums joined in, deep and uneven, their rhythm pressing against Lyle’s ribs like a second heartbeat.
Bodies moved.
Too many of them.
Mangkwang warriors and elders alike swayed and spun, paint smeared thick across skin now slick with sweat. Powder was blown from cupped hands into the flames, into the air, into open mouths. Someone laughed - high and unrestrained - before dissolving into a coughing fit that sounded almost ecstatic.
Lyle’s stomach dropped.
This wasn’t celebration.
This was intoxication.
Varang stepped into the firelight.
The knives in her hands caught the flames and fractured them, twin arcs of molten orange as she moved. She danced, not wild, not frantic, but hypnotic. Every step deliberate. Every turn measured. Her body spoke a language Lyle didn’t understand but instinctively feared.
She cut the air.
Turned.
Lifted her arms and exhaled sharply, sending a cloud of shimmering powder outward. It coated skin, hair, feathers. People leaned into it, eyes glassy, mouths parted.
She sang.
Not loudly, but clearly. A low, rising cadence that threaded through the drums instead of fighting them. As she moved, she revealed symbols painted along her torso and arms. Markings Lyle had seen fragments of before, now laid bare in full. The eye tattoo on her hand guided her through the trans.
The crowd roared.
Lyle backed up a step, pulse hammering.
He looked for Quaritch.
Found him near the inner ring.
And stopped cold.
Quaritch wasn’t tense. Wasn’t wary. Wasn’t scanning for threats.
He was smiling.
Not wide. Not foolish.
Peaceful.
As if the noise, the heat, the sheer madness of it all had settled something inside him. As if this- this chaos, made sense.
“Jesus…” Lyle muttered under his breath.
The drums shifted.
Slowed.
The fire flared higher, and the crowd parted.
Two warriors dragged someone forward.
A Na’vi - a different one. Blue-green skin marked with the patterns of the reef clans. Bound. Bleeding. Barely conscious.
Recognition hit Lyle like a blow.
He saw it in the woman’s face first - the same one who had brought the infant earlier. Her expression terrified him.
The second warrior - Wukula - stepped forward.
His jaw was set. His eyes dark.
The prisoner was forced to his knees.
Varang stopped dancing.
Silence rippled outward from her like a held breath.
She raised one blade and spoke.
Lyle didn’t understand every word — but he understood enough.
Chosen by fire.
Strength through offering.
Victory born in blood.
The crowd answered her.
Chanting. Screaming.
Varang moved.
The knife flashed.
She cut across the prisoner’s chest, shallow but deliberate. Blood welled, dark against glowing skin. The man cried out, once, before Wukula seized his braid and yanked his head back.
Lyle’s hands curled into fists.
“What the fu-” Varang’s blade descended again.
Scalp parted.
The kuru was torn free.
A sound rose from the crowd that turned Lyle’s stomach.
Varang held the severed neural queue aloft for a heartbeat - then cast it into the fire.
Flames devoured it.
The clearing erupted.
Lyle staggered back, heart pounding so hard it blurred his vision. He had seen executions. He had seen war crimes. He had seen men kill in the name of orders, ideology, survival.
This was different.
He had seen cults before. Fringe groups. Messianic leaders. People who replaced reason with belief because belief was easier.
This felt… older.
And stronger.
Someone murmured her name as she passed.
Another voice echoed it.
Then another.
Not chanting. Not quite.
Acknowledgment.
Lyle shifted his weight, suddenly very aware of how out of place he was. Boots on soil, gun at his side, thoughts rooted in a world that didn’t apply here.
Varang paused briefly near the center of the village, exchanging quiet words with a few elders. They listened the way soldiers listened to orders - attentive, focused, unquestioning.
When she moved on, they dispersed immediately, purpose snapping back into the air like released tension.
Lyle exhaled slowly.
Jesus Christ.
She’s not just their leader.
He followed at a respectful distance, eyes still scanning, but his sense of threat had shifted.
If something went wrong here, it wouldn’t be because someone attacked her.
It would be because someone believed in her too much.
And for the first time since landing, Lyle wondered - not for the last - whether Quaritch truly understood what kind of force he had tied himself to.
He watched Varang’s back as she walked ahead, feathers catching the firelight, posture unshakeable.
This isn’t power, he decided grimly.
This is faith.
They were in a fucking cult.