Chapter Text
There was a leak in the ceiling, a constant drip flowing down into a tin bucket. It glistened along the stained wall, illuminated by weak light filtering through thick plexiglass windows. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. That pipe had burst years ago, shuddering the entire building, nearly crumbling it into rubble under their feet, never to be fixed by a professional hand. Once decades ahead of its time, now a structure falling far behind. Hell’s Gate could hardly keep itself up anymore on steel beams and corroded metal. Arthur prayed for its downfall, clicking his heels together in a nervous tempo outside Leviticus Cornwall’s office, hoping that one day it would take the greed-ridden filth with it.
Locks clicked on the other side, and the door swung open to the shoulders of a sturdy, straight-backed man dressed in delicate, rich black silk. A rare fabric now, used only for the wealthiest. Stitched for the envy of men like his father, Arthur having caught Dutch admiring the extravagant costumes with covetous eyes on many an occasion.
Perching in a cushioned chair behind his mahogany desk, Cornwall leveled a warning smile at Arthur, daring him to make a comment about the room he’d never set foot in. The proprietor of countless trades across Earth and Pandora, the head of every operation searching for Unobtainium, the iron fist that ruled the world and all those beyond it, yet his office appeared like it had come from a yellowed magazine in the nineteenth century. Arthur had read of men like this, ones seeking oil, selfishly driving the natives from their homes. Humanity hadn’t changed. “Care to explain why you are pounding on my door at seven in the morning, Mister Morgan?”
Opposing him on his feet, refusing to take either seat available that would stoop him before Cornwall’s burning stare, Arthur spoke with more confidence than he had, “I came to talk ‘bout the minin’ facilities out on the plains.” He couldn’t attach emotion to this, not at the risk of damning the Tunwinzaw to an agonizing death from bullets of copper and lead. Foreign material. “I was talkin’ to a clan out there, and apparently, they’re gettin’ killed ‘cause of ‘em.”
Flicking his gaze down to the paperwork splayed out in front of him, Cornwall seemed unfazed by Arthur’s accusations. What did the lives of a tribe matter to him? “None of my teams have reported any casualties. Far as I’m concerned, there’s no reason to pull out. ‘Less you are planning on paying for the loss, but we both know you can’t.” Chuckling to himself, the scratch of a pen filled the room, their conversation over.
But Arthur had yet to learn when to yield. “They drove off the Winz…the Arrow Deer. Maybe they ain’t killin’ ‘em directly, but that’s their food source. Without ‘em, they’re starvin’. ‘Sides, there ain’t much out there anyway for you to lose. And what ‘bout Milton’s idea? Heard he’s got quite a few lookin’ to make big bucks.”
Striking his heel on the desk, Cornwall jolted to his feet, smoothing out the wrinkles bunched around his broad waist, “Milton is brimming with them, always has been. My question, however, is, why were you out on the plains in the first place? That isn’t your domain, and I will remind you that your squad is the reason we have territories to begin with. Just because Colm O’Driscoll is dead, and I decided not to punish you for your involvement in the matter, doesn’t mean you and your…alien can run amok!” Brushing a thumb over his lips, he inspected Arthur like a lamb for the slaughter, calming his nerves. “Having relations with one of those savages doesn’t give you free rein of this land; my land, Mister Morgan.”
It had been less than a week since he last saw Charles, since he had tasted bliss only to be shunned back into the gutters, made sick with stress. The jabs at his alliance with the Na’vi had been ruthless, officials marking him among the crowds now that he was out and about, throwing remarks his way regarding the incident prior to Colm’s death and following Arthur’s return. This meeting with Cornwall had been nigh on impossible to get because of it, forcing his hand. So the mockery was easy to spot before it landed, his only positive remembering that he would be above it all soon, and nothing the other could say here would matter in the end. “Didn’t say it does, but if I ain’t able to do my job, especially now that I’m stuck here till I die, I gotta find somethin’ else. We was supposed to be learnin’ ‘bout ‘em, not killin’ ‘em. ‘Sides, they’re an…elusive clan, and I got an inside.”
Bile churned hot in his belly. Offering that information, even if it was enough to convince him, ached. Arthur wouldn’t tell, wouldn’t betray Charles’ trust, but the promise could still shatter this fragile new thing. But instead, Cornwall laughed, blinding white teeth flashing perfect at him in a sneer. “You think I give a sh*t about some tribe no one’s heard of? You barely know me, yet you wanna sit here and try robbin’ me, Mister Morgan. Do you take me for some kinda fool?”
“‘Course not…Sir,” the word left an acerbic tang on his tongue, biting. “Just thought we’d go back to our roots. Whole point of this was to share in this world, weren’t it? Save those still on Earth, but we’re killin’ this one, too. It’s gonna cause a war if we ain’t more careful.”
Taking up a stoppered bottle filled with fine red wine, Cornwall rounded the table with two glasses in hand, passing one to Arthur as the tangy scent permeated his nose. “It sounds almost like you’re threatening me, boy. Is your…intention to use that leverage against me? Because I hope you understand that arrows and spears aren’t going to win a war. They never have.” Slinging the alcohol back like it were a strong whiskey, Arthur relished in the clench of Cornwall’s jaw, insulted.
“No, Sir. That ain’t my intention. I just know them better than ya’ll.” It was a lie, all of his knowledge, Charles’. But if he was going to face ridicule over his Na’vi, then he would spit that venom in return. “I know what they’re capable of; you don’t. And I know they got a lot more people than we do on Pandora ‘cause it ain’t just them. Everythin’ will wanna kill us if givin’ the chance, ain’t that what ya’ll preach to the recruits? Second we go out there; we’re done.” Guns and AMPs would get them far, but they’d all be losing more than they could afford. “‘And as I said, there ain’t nothin’ out there. How many times ya’ll scour that area and found anythin’ worth a damn?”
Cornwall took a sip, the noise of it obnoxious and familiar. Dutch used to make that sound like he was a connoisseur of the cheap-watered down swill because a proper bottle was hard to find even for the prosperous, much less for a man who’d spent his whole life parodying something he wasn’t. “It was Milton’s idea to mine there. Said with the way Colm spoke, that there was much to find. But you’re right, for once. We haven’t found even a trace of Unobtainium. Now, the real treasure is under that tree of theirs. That one that they, uh, claim harbors their ‘ancestor's spirits’ or whatever. Think you can keep them away if we started there?”
Shaking his head, Arthur spat out, “No. It’s the most sacred thing to ‘em.” And to me, but the thought would get him killed. “Moment they catch you sniffin’ ‘round, they’ll attack. Even if it kills ‘em, and people on Earth ain’t gonna look too kindly on that. Nor can we risk it. I only got say in one clan, not all of ‘em. ‘Sides, there’s more…more places ‘round there. Where Na’vi ain’t. Where they ain’t as likely to fight.” Listing a few zones he’d memorized, vomit clawed up his throat. This wasn’t right, but the Tunwinzaw needed protection. “At least go there till Milton’s able to get into the Tree of Souls.”
Arthur would be there the moment they dared, fighting for what he believed in. Sending them digging somewhere else was one thing, but when it came to the defense of Vitraya Ramunong, Arthur would make his loyalties known. This had to be enough for now, a promise to Cornwall of more to come, even if it was not today.
Returning to his chair, cup empty of all but the dregs, the man steepled his fingers, an unreadable expression on his face. “If we leave, then you owe me. And one day, when I call upon you, you will answer.” Spoken like he was an unruly toddler, needing coaxing to be put to bed. “Do we have a deal?” It was a death sentence agreeing to Cornwall’s terms, laying waste to all he’d worked for, but Arthur was dying already. Saving a clan over his own pride, his own life, mattered more.
With sweaty hands, Arthur gripped onto his exopack, prepared to take his leave as he huffed out an agreement. “‘Course, Sir. Wouldn’t even dream of cheatin’ you.” The sarcasm laced his words despite his best efforts, frustration and rage getting the better of him.
“I am not a man to be messed with by the likes of you, Mister Morgan. So I will tell you this once, and only once. If you so much as think about betraying me, I will kill everyone you love, and you want to know who I will start with?” Charles. They were demonstrably wrong if they suspected they had the upper hand when it came to his Na’vi, the one who taught him all he knew and shaped his love for Pandora into something beautiful. Charles could care for himself. It wasn’t Arthur rescuing him when danger approached. They underestimated the Na’vi’s strength. Arthur would not lift a finger if they were content to doom themselves. “And I know what you’re thinking, that filthy half-breed of yours, but no. I got someone in mind that I know would ruin not just you but your entire sham of a family, and you will be to blame.”
The delighted face of a child flitted through his head. Eyes that shifted color in the light exactly like his father, fluffy brown hair always sticky with something or other, and the sweetest smile that tore old wounds of grief for a kid he’d never got to raise. Jack, his gentle nephew who didn’t understand pain besides a scraped knee and didn’t know despair beyond a dismissing word from a parent trying his best despite his failures. So tiny, so vulnerable. “But he’s barely five…”
Then Isaac pried his way into the forefront, blonde and bright-eyed, with a love for sugar that rivaled anyone Arthur had ever met. Always with something blotching his mouth that his mother hadn’t approved of him having. Dead before he had even gotten the chance to live by monsters who claimed God. “About the same age your son was when he passed, right?” Murdered, not passed. “How history does love to repeat itself. Now, have I made myself clear?”
Arthur couldn’t refuse. The military had power, not him, not the Tunwinzaw, and not Jack. “Yes, Sir.”
Glancing him over with composed professionalism, Cornwall nodded. “That is what I like to hear. I won’t penalize you for your half-breed or your…adventures in the plains; in fact, I welcome it. We need that, someone they trust, luring them in. But if I discover that you’ve been plotting or turning your back on those that matter, count that kid dead. And unlike your son, there won’t be enough of him to bury. Now get out of my office.”
Tumbling away on awkward legs, an insult rose on his tongue that he had to swallow. You don’t yell at a feral dog and expect it not to bite. Arthur knew that better than anyone, all gnashing canines and snarling desperation throughout his life. If Abigail discovered what he had done, she would kill him for making this bargain with her baby boy. Hell, John might, too. No amount of explaining could erase his mistake; not even claiming ignorance about Cornwall's knowledge of the boy would make this go away. He had made his bed, and it was time to lie in it. But honestly, he hadn't known that it would be Jack on the line. Thought Cornwall's head was so far up his own ass, he wouldn't think twice about a child on the base. Not after Dutch and Hosea had a new stray with every mission.
Shoving his mask on and puffing in deep breaths, Arthur stalked from the room, outside, and across Hell’s Gate, feet slipping on oil. Soldiers marched by, talking quietly to themselves, eyes trained on him. Gossip was a common ground for even the lowest ranks. It was like being in one of those high schools depicted on television way back when. Humanity never changes.
Bolts of ice webbed through him, all the sensation that remained in the dead mass of his left arm as Grimshaw weighed the heft of it in her palms. Frozen fingers pried his jaws apart to inspect the gums, and when they moved on to tug his lids wide enough to sting, Arthur flinched away. Held firmly in place, the bite of a stethoscope finished off the routine check-up, his shallow breaths cut short as he rattled with vicious coughs. The older woman scowled at him, “Your lungs don’t sound too good, Arthur. You been breathin’ alright? Takin’ your medicine?”
As if it was somehow news to him. “When have they ever?” Taking a pop to the temple, Arthur yelped, almost falling off the side of his mattress, having been allowed to return to his near barren ‘bedroom.’ “Christ, woman! Actin’ like you want me to die, smackin’ me like that! ‘Course I been takin’ my medicine; they ain’t get any worse, did they? No? Then I’m fine!” He wasn’t okay, but Arthur had come too far to sink back into that depression, into that cold abyss, the reminder of it in Grimshaw’s glacial paws . There wasn’t a day that went by that he didn’t silently beg for mercy from that clinical grasp, never awarded a moment of reprieve. But he saw it from Grimshaw’s perspective now, tried to, at least. A woman obligated to watch the boy she helped raise, the boy she cared for every day since the second he fell ill, decay slowly over the course of years. It would harden the softest of folk burdened with such a task.
That usual divot formed between her plucked brows, anger or perhaps anguish, Arthur hadn’t learned to tell the difference with Grimshaw. “You ain’t fine. I’m just-I’m tryin’ to help you. Why do you insist on fightin’ me way you do? Do you wanna die?” A stupid question, one she already knew the answer to. Arthur had spent most of his life nonchalant about death, always waiting for it to come, and he’d wanted incessantly since Isaac and Eliza, impatient for oblivion. But he was fulfilled, for the first time in so long, with only a few months to spare. Sighing, Grimshaw patted the top of his head, “Sorry.”
Apologies scarcely came from her, and it sent the hair on his neck rising at how often he’d heard them since waking. Breaking the tension with a gruff joke, Arthur nudged her with the tip of his boot, “Least Marston’s kept himself outta here. Think you’d have your hands full with both of us.”
Quick as a whip, she grumbled her retort, “That ain’t sayin’ much. Always scraped to hell when I see him, but Abby’s picked up a good bit. He’s her responsibility now. A toddler and Jack, don’t know how she does it.” Sometimes, he forgot how funny she could be, quips dwindling with his health. Afraid to rekindle that bond destroyed by a bitter man.
Barking with laughter, Arthur doubled over, his mirth temporary, punctuated by a dry hack, “f*ck!” Taking the canteen of water handed to him, he choked down more tacky saliva than anything. “Can’t say that kinda stuff to me no more, I guess. Little sh*t ain’t even here, and I’m dyin’ ‘cause of him,” Croaked, his throat rough as gravel.
Geared up to respond, lips parting with a hiss of air to put in his place as she so often did, Grimshaw was interrupted by the door sliding open. Arthur's squad was swarming into his cramped room, struggling across the gap until they piled on top of one another. His fathers’ weren’t there, and neither were Micah or Trelawny, but Bill and Javier were, all of them slack-jawed in stunned silence. Intense gazes centered on him, not a word cracking above the hush. Jostling bodies just standing there, staring like he were an alien rather than a friend. Like he wasn’t Arthur Morgan but some outsider who’d taken his spot.
Innocent Tilly’s bearing shifted, fond and soft with a gummy beam. Taking that first stumbling step, she barreled into Arthur with a hug tighter than her thin frame would suggest. “Oh, Arthur!” Usually spoken laced with sadness or exasperation, she said it with a fierce joy, the girl squealing with excitement, a passion he thought she had lost as her faith waned. Rightfully so.
Seizing his cheeks in adoration, his sister smacked a kiss on his forehead, shaking him by the jaw. Arthur sputtered, “What’s wrong with you?” Peeking at the cluster, curious of their buzzing surprise, none of them explained away her animated display. “Did somethin’ happen?” His query was accompanied by a punch to the bicep from John. Too lax for his scruffy brother. They had thrown fists all their youth, expressing their fury with bloody knuckles and split lips. “Why ya’ll actin’ so strange?”
A flash of contemplation rippled over Tilly, “Why…why didn’t you tell us you’ve got an Avatar, Arthur?” Gulping, the trail of spit noisy in his own ears, everything stilled. But only for a moment, dissolved into an escalating clamor, voices climbing in pitch as they interrogated him. Most were exuberant and breathless, but angry tones echoed among the thrill. “It came in with one of the shipment crews. Hosea needs you in the Biolab soon as you can!”
After a month of waiting, years of it, it was finally over. Freedom was close enough to touch, to taste. Leaping up on shaky limbs, Arthur floundered, the floor coming up to greet him before he was caught by John’s bony grip around his ribs. Righting himself, his brother struck his shoulder. “Few of us are gonna come with you. Wanna see this Avatar you been hidin’ from us.” Stated in jest, he noted the twang of pettiness underlying it. Arthur had committed treachery by lying to those he called family. Sadie slipped from the mob to join the trio, less huffy than John but certainly less giddy than Tilly. The middleman to ease the strain while Arthur got himself in order.
With his siblings to the right of him, Sadie on his left, and Grimshaw trailing behind like a fretful mother, Arthur was forced to shuffle forward through the throng, the probing ceaseless, yet all he could hear was an endless ringing. Sunk into a dizzying stupor, a dense fog clogging his senses, he sought out one person. Someone who’d once been the most vocal against Dutch stripping him of his prospects.
In the rear idled Javier, eyes downcast and gloomy, teeth bared for a snarl that didn’t come. Exhaustion creased his features, and Arthur recognized that this was the final nail in the coffin. Javier was not happy for him, and he didn’t have it in him to blame the Mexican. This was a dream they had shared, but, in Javier’s view, he had caused more harm than good and was no longer deserving of this. Was no longer worth the effort of defending. Whatever relationship they’d had was over. Ash scattered to the wind. But he also didn’t have the energy to feel guilty or even pretend to be. Not with the chirpy bunch congratulating him, jovial whispers exchanged as their grins calmed his worries.
Mourning the loss of his partner, predicted to go down in a blaze of glory alongside him, Arthur turned from the vindictive poacher and exited the room into the empty hallway. Tilly looped her arm with his, vibrating with exhilaration. “Why didn’t you tell us, Arthur? We wouldn’t have told nobody, you know that.” Agreeing with Tilly’s statement, Sadie elbowed him, warmth shining in an open expression that felt wrong to see. But John sulked, arms crossed with his head low. “And why’d you wait all this time to use it? This was all Dutch used to talk about, gettin’ us Avatars. After everythin’, none of us would’ve blamed you.”
Interjecting, John spoke over him, understanding the situation marginally more than Tilly did. Their sister had been heartbroken enough when first told the news that more would have devastated her. “Back after Arthur got sick, the RDA offered, but Dutch said no. Weren’t supposed to get one till the rest of us could afford our own.” Sadie snorted, grousing about the oddity of their father’s decision. But it was a decision Arthur had lived with for years, clutched close to his chest, resentment a black smear on his soul.
“Then…how’d you get one? Ain’t they special made for their drivers?” In truth, Arthur didn’t know much about the creation process of Avatars, hardly recalling those hazy hours when they’d taken his DNA only to be told it was for nothing. Would it resemble him, details apparent to the last freckle?
So much to learn for a man with no time. “Hosea went behind his back and had ‘em create it anyway. Told me ‘bout a month ago, but he’d had it made back when I went in for the testin’. We were tryin’ to keep things quiet, so Dutch ain’t know till it got here. Was just…better for everyone, even if you could keep it secret.” But now it was here, and Arthur hadn't considered how the confrontation with his father might unfold. It was too late to devise a plan, facing his father's caprices unprepared. Dutch might return to his former self, accepting this for what it was, wishing to see his son happier than he'd been. He could be enraged by Hosea's deception yet not hold Arthur accountable. Or it could end in disappointment, the father he knew gone, stripping him of his Avatar and leaving Arthur to die in solitude.
Pressure welled in his throat, coming out in a harsh wheeze, waving Grimshaw away when she went to assist him. No, Arthur needed to work through this on his own. Scant conversation rang in his ears, mostly contained between Tilly and John, commenting on Hosea’s willingness to do the unthinkable for his eldest. He was typically one to shy away from Dutch’s challenge, giving his opinions but ultimately letting their leader make the choices. Until it came to their children, Hosea more the parent than Dutch had ever been. An adequate right hand to his former lover but a true father at heart.
Taking the exopack handed over by Sadie, they head up through the rowdy dining hall. A few familiar soldiers waved, Hamish the only one Arthur returned the greeting to, his head lost in the clouds. Metal turned to warped pavement, thick plumes of smoke blinding him, and AMPs scanning his every move. The entire world was on guard against their troop of misfits, on Arthur, who had done what no other on Hell’s Gate had been able to do. Over two centuries spent attempting to develop a union with the Na’vi, all resulting in failure, turned on its head by a dying man who didn’t know when to quit.
The Scimod came into view, pristine in comparison to the smog-stained barracks, concealing the Biolab within its walls. Arthur had never been inside that section, avoiding the door beckoning to him for Dutch’s sake. Not that he had cause to go in, having been rejected from the program by the man whose goal it was to infiltrate. The building's proximity to the sanctuary was difficult enough without seeing it in action. Countless days had passed him by already as he pleaded for something that wasn’t his to a god that didn’t care. If given the chance to witness human become Avatar, Arthur might have lost his temper at being denied peace for so long.
Few acknowledged their entry into the bustling station, gazes trailing over before returning to the captivating tasks at hand. Decomposing corpses splayed out on tables, their entrails rotting on trays, disgust twisting his stomach. It’d been ages since he visited Hosea there with his haul, and he was thankful it wasn’t where fate took him today. The very sight of their poor attempts at dissection was appalling; no better than the O’Driscolls who’d killed Kxaylkxa for the fun of it, for the hunt.
The Biolab was dark; faint flickering glows all that lit the way into a compact room stuffed with equipment and technology unknown to him. The scientists didn’t pay them any mind, likely aware of their arrival or too busy with their work to care as long as they stayed out of the way. They all had a role to play, and Arthur wasn’t a part of it, darting around corners cast in inky shadows.
He abandoned his lagging group, navigating through the dozens of shelves, sweat pooling under his clothing in the sweltering heat. Past the final bend, Arthur went motionless, his legs threatening to collapse underneath him. Huge Amnio Tanks took up the last of the space, all but two empty. Submerged in a viscous fluid with blue light meant to imitate Pandora’s, reminiscent of his medication, were Avatars. Born in vitro and grown so very large over a period of a few years, connected to the machines through umbilical cords. While mature, it was like staring at twitching newborns, but with no operator to give them sentience.
Hesitantly placing a hand on the glass, Arthur assessed the squirming creature under his fingertips. It was too human; both of them were. Their noses were narrow and arched, their eyes small in their oval heads. Dissimilar to Charles’ mixed features. Where his were strong, elongated, and broad, these barely looked Na’vi at all, and with that left what faith he might have had in their drivers. Was his different? Would what he felt reflect what he was to become? And where was it?
Someone crept up beside him, whispering as if they feared to speak any louder, “Think this is gonna be good for ya. Y’know, gettin’ a fresh start.” John, his lips curled in disgust as he drummed on the clear surface of the tank. “Creepy motherf*ckers, though, ain’t they.” Exaggerating a shudder, he muttered, “Guess it ain’t far from the Na’vi. Weird lookin’ things, you’re gonna fit right in.”
It was rich coming from him, face disfigured by Ikran claws, skin peeling with constant sunburn, hideous as sin. “Prettier than you. ‘Sides, you’re just pissy ‘cause Charles kicked your ass.” His brother sputtered out a raspy protest; cheeks doused red with embarrassment. “Don’t go gettin’ your panties in a twist. I was kiddin’. Kinda. Would’ve if I ain’t stop him. Was ready to put an arrow through that ugly mug of yours.”
A willowy figure crashed into Arthur, arms cinching around his neck in a faux strangle, careful not to hurt him. Tender; unfamiliar. It had always been all or nothing, never halfway. Grappling at him, their wrestling turned into a proper fight, both attempting to take the other down. It took a glare from a mechanic, gesturing for their silence, for Arthur to plant his knee in John’s gut, knocking the wind from him as he hit the ground. “sh*t, Arthur!” In a wild swing, panting for breath, John tried to scuff him in the hip, but he was quicker, scuttling out of reach. “I’m gonna beat you someday. Count on it.”
Arthur’s teeth clicked. He wouldn’t count on it, and John wouldn’t beat him because death had staked its claim with no hope of redemption. By the time he grew in strength, Arthur would grow weak, until someday became his funeral. “Beatin’ a dyin’ man ain’t gonna be so fun for ya.” Met with confusion, he gave a wan smile. “The Avatar…it ain’t for work, John. Just meant to give me some more time. This is-is gonna probably be my last year. Alive, I mean.”
Mouth falling apart into a speechless gape, John’s facade crumbled. He knew it was coming, they all did, but the reality of it was a far more daunting affair. Tripping over himself to come to terms with Arthur’s condition and what that meant for their bleak futures without him when he’d kept the whole thing running among Dutch’s deterioration. “Oh. f*ck. Um, I-I…y’know I ain’t too good at this emotion stuff, but-”
“Don’t, John. I know.” Slinging an arm around his brother, Arthur dragged him into a hug, stiff and clumsy. This wasn’t them. They weren’t haunted young boys stealing their father’s tea in the middle of the night when sleep wouldn’t come. They weren’t the damaged kids sharing a bed to chase away dreams of rope and filthy alleys. And they weren’t those same lonely children who wept for each other when separated, though they’d never admit it. Not anymore. “You’re here, and you’re my brother. Who cares ‘bout the rest? Ain’t need none of that mushy stuff when this was always gonna happen. Just…I just wanna know that you’ll take my side if things go south ‘tween me and Dutch?”
Distress wrinkled the corners of his mouth, aging him beyond what Arthur would live to see. John had once been the prodigy, the favored son, outcasted same as him, and yet he hadn’t asked how he fared in the fallout. Nor Tilly, and while not as close to Dutch as they had been, favoring Hosea’s paternal hand, she loved him dearly as they did. “‘Course, Arthur. But I doubt he’d listen to me now. Few times I seen him, he’s always…makin’ comments ‘bout me and Abigail workin’ things out. Think he believes I’m-I don’t know-some kinda rat. Way he keeps talkin’. Actin’ like me bein’ a real dad means I ain’t loyal to him no more.”
Loyalty. If Dutch knew its meaning, he would remember that he was a father in his own right and wouldn’t doubt the values of his sons. Instead, he expected it, like a false god craving validation from those who’d stood by him since the beginning. “You might’ve f*cked up…a lot , but he can’t really think you’d betray him? Hell, Dutch is the one who took you to Pandora and didn’t even try to get you to come home! He ain’t get to back out now.” Not after he chose John’s side and left us in the dirt. But Dutch wouldn't change, spewing his tainted gospel. “He-he’s been treatin’ me the same. Or just expectin’ me to give more than I got. Seems we’ve been replaced, Johnny. Maybe it’s time we do somethin’ with ourselves without Dutch’s permission, huh?”
Nothing came from his dour brother, picking absently at the scars marring his face, contemplating an existence away from Dutch’s stifling one. A moment later, heat radiated through his numb side, Sadie and Tilly joining their watch by the Avatars, its eyelids fluttering with stimuli. Enraptured by its sheer size, dwarfing them, it was easy to forget how massive they were. Charles had spent his visit in vigil, hunched over Arthur, shrinking into himself to protect the man he loved, rarely one to throw his weight around.
Memories of those solid fingers digging into his hips, on his knees in a fervor, and tongue laving pleasurable along the tendons of his throat, Arthur didn’t hear Hosea’s approach. A steady hand grasped Arthur’s good one, hung limply over John’s shoulders, making himself known with a muted cough, Grimshaw close by. “Hi, dear boy. Don’t mind me, but you can come see your Avatar now. It’s in decantation, so it’s not ready, but you should be able to take it out tomorrow.”
With an urging shove from Sadie, Arthur lurched after his father. Time turned slow and heavy, sinking on his chest until his breath was but sharp gasps, his lungs burning. A subtle quiver trembled through his limbs, cumbersome as rocks, useless. Into the first airlock, Arthur regained coherency as the room depressurized, bouncing on his heels, impatient as a child, when Hosea swung the last door wide open.
Bleached of color and vacant, two slabs of cold steel were awaiting them, a body atop one. Dressed in a flimsy hospital garb was his Avatar, its lavender soles flashing at him, giving way to cobalt legs. Akin to that of a forest Na’vi’s true hue, if the slightest bit darker. Caught somewhere between the plains and the impenetrable woodlands.
Its fingers spasmed, reacting to the nipping chill, and if Arthur didn’t know any better, he’d think it alive. Gliding his gaze up the expanse of its body to its head, he was met with his own face. Nearly identical to him, more to form than the ones in their makeshift wombs. A flattened nasal bridge and feline nostrils, big eyes angled into a more human fashion, downturned at the corners like his own were. There were two slashes under his lip, scars carried over as he’d received them the year prior to his diagnosis, no longer hidden under a tangle of stubble. Twisted into a braid, the hair was lengthier than his was now, designed to protect its neural queue. Tawny and delicate, a shade warmer than his own. Stars dotted the flesh, a promise of luminescence along the swirling patterns, just like Charles’, glittering when the sun couldn’t pierce the canopy. “It’s…” Beautiful? Everything I wanted? This was him, and there had never been anything beautiful about that, but it was. “It’s amazin’. You said I can take it out tomorrow?”
Stroking its cool cheek with the barest touch, the head tilted sideways, Arthur silently agreed with John’s remark on its creepiness. An unoccupied vessel reacting to his ministrations. “Yes, but you’ll need to be up early. Practice makes perfect. Want you to get used to it before I send you off.”
Anxiety had been a bitch, and Arthur had hardly been sleeping because of it, awake well into the night with thoughts of Charles or his Avatar. Rising early wouldn’t be an issue; getting enough rest would. “‘Course. I…have you told Dutch, yet?” Everyone knew what he had done, but had his other father been informed? It was a heavy load to place on Hosea’s shoulders, but nonetheless, a problem that needed addressing.
There was a raw sorrow brewing in his father’s eyes, pupils blown with it. “I did. He said he was on his way before I came out to get you. I tried…I tried to convince him not to bring Micah, but he goes nowhere without him.” He assumed that would be the case, but not even that greasy sleaze could ruin his mood. “I’ll deal with it, though. Me and Grimshaw aren’t going to let him take this from you, Arthur. Not if we can help it.”
Pulling the lids apart, taking a page from his standard routine, A cyan iris peered back, milky and lifeless. “Alright…” He counted ten fingers and ten toes, traced bushy brows over sunken eyes, human. But it had a muscle-packed torso leading down to a tapered waist, native. It came from an embryo, not created in its final form by scientists in a lab. But had there been reconstruction of the body? Nearly as Na’vi as Charles, perhaps more so with its build. Lithe rather than stocky. “How’d ya’ll make it look so…natural? Shave the brows, and it’d be just like one of ‘em.”
“That’s just how it was born, Arthur. We didn’t make it look like anything. It’s all you and the Na’vi’s whose DNA they took, but I’m not sure where it came from. A deceased one, I believe they said. Old age, I think. I hope.” A more comforting thought to believe that was its origin, unlikely as that was. But other than the obvious, Arthur couldn’t see anything but himself in its frame. He prayed Charles would see it, too, and accept him like this as he had accepted him as a man. Know that this was him. Love Arthur despite becoming what he hated. “You like it then?”
Like it? That hardly did the feeling justice. “Yeah…I-I love it. I didn’t think-” This was everything he’d ever wanted, handed to him like he was worthy of more. “Thank you. I don’t know what else to say.” Sweeping his father into an embrace, Arthur clung to him, tighter than necessary to ease the knot forming in his chest that was suspiciously like the desire to cry. Hosea had seen enough of his tears; Arthur had seen enough of them.
Hosea chuckled, reassuringly squeezing the meat of his arm, "You don't need to thank me, son. Just... be happy. I understand it's easier said than done, but that's all I've ever wanted for you." How could he be anything else when his future was so splendidly arrayed before him? His dreams encapsulated in an Avatar, ready to be achieved in his few remaining months.
Arthur’s response never came. The airlock door buckled, and Micah and Dutch emerged into the otherwise quiet space. An arrogant smile graced his father’s cheeks, a sinister one plastering Micah’s, two sides of the same coin, both with more to say than what they had earned. “Arthur! My favorite son! We have gotten some news, and be it to my surprise that it appears to be true.” Stepping forth with no delay in his gait, Dutch pushed Arthur aside to inspect the Avatar himself with the appraising regards of a stranger. “Do either of you want to explain to me how this happened? Grimshaw, you, maybe? Considerin’ I am your leader, and any changes are supposed to be run by me, I expect some…honesty of my family.”
Susan stood resolute, her eyes rolling in exasperation at the younger man. Despite her respect for their esteemed leader, even Grimshaw's patience had worn thin with his antics. "She wasn't involved, Dutch. Neither was Arthur. It was all me, only me, and we both know why," Hosea declared, barging into his line of sight.
“You?” Attention fed his ego, nourishing his sense of superiority, but Dutch wilted under Hosea’s defiance. Reverence turned to the smoking embers of hatred, flames rising to consume them all. Again, suppressed, “You?”
Disbelief, but surely he must have known? Hosea had moved on, and while he didn’t flaunt it, there was a lightness to his stride Arthur hadn’t seen since before Annabelle’s death. Had Dutch not, too? The one who had spiraled them into chaos and destroyed a home in his grief? “Me. And I wouldn’t have had to do this at all had you not…not taken a chance away from your own son! If you had let him have this in the first place instead of thinking about only yourself!”
With a deliberate movement, Dutch was almost flush with Hosea, words dripping with honey but sharp as a knife’s edge, “Thinkin’ about myself? No, I was thinkin’ about us. All of us. There is more to this gang than our sons. How long, Hosea?”
Whatever game Dutch was playing didn’t cow Hosea, the man done with the dictatorship held over their heads, their possibilities decided by his impulses, and not just with Arthur but with all of them. He had taken John away when he needed to be a father but acted like he was a traitor in the next second, pretending like he had no involvement. He had ignored Tilly all her youth when he realized there was no leverage for him to sink his claws into her, to mold the girl into the prized jewel he wanted. They had all been on the receiving end of his criticism, unable to support themselves without his rule. “Since the beginning. I had them make it for him after you said no because he needed this. And it’s your fault I haven’t been able to give him this until now. But if you were anything like the man I fell in love with all those years ago, you would congratulate your son and move on.”
Hands in the air, Dutch smirked, a bitter look fastened on Arthur, possessive. He owned him, if not in name, in soul, and there had never been an escape. Freedom is not given by anyone but me. “Of course, my dear boy,” mocking the nickname gifted from Hosea, teased by Trelawny. “I am sorry for what a monster I have been. Could you ever forgive me?”
A grip constricted around his heart as if Dutch had reached up through his ribs and crushed it between his fingers. He hated him, but he loved him just as much, never losing that naive adoration. This was fake. Dutch would hang this over him like a flare in the night, signaling him out, and like Cornwall, he would be expected to make up for his insubordination. “I…you ain’t been a monster. I-I get it, but yeah, I forgive you.” Did he? It didn’t feel like it.
“Leave it alone.” Snapping from his daze, Arthur jerked sideways at Hosea’s biting voice. Micah was arched over his Avatar, dirty hands smearing brown slimy muck across its clean skin. “If you don’t mind your dog, Dutch, I have no problem putting him in his place.”
A singular warning. Arthur read it in Hosea’s eyes that he would not give another. But he didn’t have to because while Dutch had a hold on him, Micah sure as hell didn’t. A swift kick to the groin had him doubling over, cursing, much to his delight. “Dog’s too kind for him. A bitch, more like, and he can mind himself just fi-”
Gagging on his sentence, Arthur fought for purchase on the wall, hacking up a bloody glob of spit into his mask. Micah wheezed, “Did ya hurt yourself, Black Lung? Need daddy to take care of you?” Hands were on him, stroking his back with deft reassurance, Hosea and Grimshaw, aiding the passage of oxygen. He tuned out the argument, harsh words traded between fathers’ until the room was blissfully silent.
Arthur’s body was leaden, dragging him to the tile, “Gimme a minute. Just…can I-can you leave me alone? Both of you? I’ll be out in a bit.” Above him, they exchanged glances, but they wouldn’t dispute with him. There was nowhere for him to run, to hide, and he wasn’t at risk of dying, not yet. So they left him, too, Arthur tucking his knees under his chin with a whistling sigh, picking at a hole in his jeans. Settling his temper, he watched his Avatar’s tremoring. Just a bit longer, and he’d see Charles. Then it would all be okay. Right?
An hour before the dawn, a gentle hand stirred Arthur from his slumber, petting his hair like when he was a young boy sobbing through his nightmares. Hosea crouched on the floor by his head, whispering something Arthur’s half-conscious mind couldn’t make out, but he hauled himself up, bones creaking with disuse. Huddled into the corner was Trelawny, the man roused from a deep sleep by the look of his sagging eyes and mused hair. Not even he had escaped his father’s punctuality, though he didn’t have much to do with Arthur’s ongoing dilemma. “Rise and shine, dear boy. Don’t wanna miss your first day of training, do you?”
Exhaustion trickled through his skull like molasses, leaving his thoughts muddled with syrup. Sleep had evaded him until the wee hours of the morning. Ensnared by bad memories and a stuttering cough, rest became ever distant with the growing pain in his chest. This is what the body is for. So you ain’t so pathetic. “Mm up. Let me get ready.” Fabric was dumped into his lap before he could pitch from the bed, clothes that weren’t his. “Christ…least get gone so I can change.”
Flicking his nose, Hosea chuckled at him, much more awake than he or Trelawny was, alive with an energy Arthur hadn’t seen in years. A pleasant sight, to be sure, but not one he could handle so early.
Once left to his own devices, Arthur stripped down, frowning at the depletion of his body mass. Almost withered. Meek. He’d shed nearly forty pounds and was left a broken object. Brawn turned to frailty. The inability to keep food down, to rise for more than an hour at a time from his bed, had taken a toll, evident in the outline of his ribs.
Arthur hurriedly dressed, not wanting to look at himself anymore, ashamed of what he’d become. Dragging flimsy material over his frame, loose around him, Arthur curled into himself. He might have been healthier, mentally at least, but that soul-sucking revulsion carried with him, and it would as long as he remained human. Raking bitten nails through his stringy locks, he gave up trying to groom himself. There would be no need once he’d shed his flesh.
The halls were empty save for Trelawny and Hosea, the pair pulling away from a kiss that had Arthur stooping to avoid their gazes. He hadn’t liked seeing any of his parents share affections, much less with a man Arthur didn’t know much about, darting in and out of their lives. It was a miracle he’d stuck around this long.
Hosea grasped his good arm, tugging him along, Trelawny trudging behind them, Arthur unsure as to why the conman was even there to begin with. Perhaps it was the discomfort prickling up the back of his neck or common sense telling him a sweet-talker didn’t have any business with the Avatar program that led him to ask, “You comin’, too, Trelawny?”
“Hosea wanted me to come along, but I can leave if you’d prefer?” Some spiteful part of him wanted to say yes, to tell him to get gone, but Arthur shrugged instead. He liked Trelawny, really; they used to have a bond. Not a strong one, diminished now with his relationship to Hosea, but it was far from distaste. It had just become awkward, but he made Hosea act like a kid again, in love, though neither of them seemed to notice it. That was why it didn’t matter that Arthur craved for the days that it was Dutch and Hosea; those were never coming back, and his father had found someone worthy of him. “Good to know. Figured I could help keep an eye on things, as well. I am sure Grimshaw will appreciate it.”
She wouldn’t, juggling Arthur’s issues like she had done all her life, but he wouldn’t tell him that. Wouldn’t make it seem like he was trying to drive him away. It wasn’t Trelawny’s fault their family was a shell of itself, barely a mark on humanity's bloody history when they’d fought to be so much more. All he had done was comfort Hosea, and how could he be angry at that?
Hell's Gate was cold and shrouded in mist, a stark contrast to the day, the air clear as it could be. A shiver inched beneath Arthur's thin shirt, regretting his unwillingness to take a jacket. He wasn't used to this, seeing the facility so dead and chilly, usually dense with people, boiling hot. Gazing skyward, he could just make out the stars, yet their splendor crumpled in comparison to the beauty of that first night outside the site's barriers, where the heavens stunned, unmarred by pollution.
It was a slog across the paved roadways, weaving between guards suited in AMPs and RDA officials patrolling the grounds before they arrived at the vacant Scimod. It was too soon for work; the lights shut off, a blanket of shadows covering them. The link room itself was adjacent to the ambient room, circular with hulking units in a lazy spiral along the walls. There was only one open, prepped for Arthur with Grimshaw standing by its side, a tablet in hand. Finally, it was happening. Apprehension sparked low in his gut. What if something went awry? What if he was not built to withstand this? “You ready, Arthur?”
Poking at the gelatinous material lining the unit, he nodded, “Yeah…I think so.” Removing his exopack, he was urged inside. Sinking into the mysterious substance, it was snugger than it appeared, hugging his curves, molding to his shape as Grimshaw lowered a wire-bound metal cage over his torso. “Does it hurt?” Not that he minded. It could burn through his marrow like liquid fire, and he would gladly do it all again just to flee from the sack of meat he inhabited. “Don’t matter if it does, but I wanna be prepared.”
Adjusting Arthur’s head every time he lifted it to make his comments, Grimshaw sighed in defeat at his insistence to squirm. “No, it won’t hurt, Arthur, ain’t supposed to. Might feel weird goin’ in, but that’s it. Now keep your damn head still ‘fore I strap it down!”
Blinking up at the three figures hovering over him, Arthur relaxed his shoulders, melting into the narrow chamber like it were a bed, warmer than his own. “Thank you.” It was all he could think to say when there was so much emotion crushing his ribs. They muttered their well wishes and sparse good lucks as the top closed around him, dim lights flicking on overhead, an odd whirring filling the machine. A minute passed or maybe an hour before Arthur finally shut his eyes, putting his trust in Grimshaw and Hosea.
A static sensation flooded his mind, enveloping it to the point where he felt his brain might explode. Like an itch he couldn't quite scratch, so deeply burrowed within him that it juddered through his muscles, becoming a part of his very being, consuming him until it was all he knew.
Then everything went dark, and Arthur couldn’t make out a thing, could barely think through the numbness, the flashes of color bursting behind his lids as movement jolted him awake. “Arthur?” Grimshaw. He would know her nasal tone anywhere. “Arthur, can you hear me?” The persistent ringing receded into the background as Arthur slowly opened his eyes, squinting against the glaring brightness. "There you are. Open your eyes nice and slow."
It was the ambient room again, the plain ceiling familiar. What wasn’t familiar, though, was when he inhaled, a deep sucking breath to regain himself, and he met no resistance. His chest rose and fell without pause. Artificial oxygen unhindered on its path to his lungs. No ache, no hoarseness, a feeling he hadn’t known since he was a boy, long before his illness. He had forgotten what it was like, a simple thing such as respiring. An ecstatic laugh burst out of him with no cough to follow. “You alright, son?”
Arthur lifted his left arm first, moving when he told it to. It had only been a few months without mobility, and yet it felt like years had passed since he’d seen it outside a cast. Stretching the arm over his head, spine fluid and agile as he arched, Arthur had never felt more right. Awed that his limbs were doing what he told them to. No sickness scorching his insides, no damage scraping his throat raw. Home. Himself. “I’m…I’m me.”
Easing him up into a sitting position, Arthur peered down, wiggling his fingers and toes like he wasn’t sure what they were, admiring the motions. A mirror was placed in his pale palm, his father snorting when Arthur compared the size of his new hand with Hosea’s head. They were larger by a few inches, but they made all the difference. “That you are, son. Can you breathe alright? Your arms are doing well, moving properly.”
“Yeah, yeah, I can breathe…just fine. Perfect. Ain’t got that scratch no more.” How could he ever return to anything else? Curling his fingers around the mirror, Arthur barely caught Trelawny’s joke on his thick accent coming from the mouth of an Avatar, too focused on his appearance. Not an Avatar. A Na’vi. It was as if the entire world had shifted into place, stark blue eyes staring back, glittering with joy and vitality . This was what it felt like to be alive. Arthur had never known. “Can I go outside?”
Instincts honed, Arthur could feel the involuntary twitching of his ears, catching the slightest sounds of the others' activity, not yet used to their own existence. He had a tail, too, swinging erratically, the brush of its tip soft on his ankles. Just like Charles’, though his was more attuned to his emotions, lashing and knocking into Grimshaw and Hosea. Arthur would feel guilty if not for his elation. Learning to control it wasn’t his first thought when a wildness sang through his veins. “Let Grimshaw check your vitals first, then we’ll set you loose. And for god's sake, Arthur, get a hold of that tail.”
Sitting through her poking and prodding only served to make him more antsy, desperate to feel the wind on his sensitive skin. Grasping the hefty tail to keep it still, he did as Grimshaw asked, the questions flying in one ear and out the other. “Everythin’ looks fine, but I’ll make sure nothin’s off with the rest of you, alright? Now get goin’ ‘fore you snap one of our necks.” Leaping to his feet, stumbling forward, unused to maneuvering such a large frame, Arthur tripped into the equipment. Beakers shattered, and needles went tumbling to the floor with him, “If you don’t kill yourself first, Morgan!”
Using the wall as his guide, he rocked back and forth on the heels of his feet, biting his tongue before he snickered at the mess he’d made with his tail. An entirely different experience, a new appendage he couldn’t command, yet to find that part of his muscle memory, but no less entertaining as the rest of him.
Opening the barred door to let him through, Arthur found his legs staggering forward without his input, eager to clumsily sprint from the confined room into the fresh air of the Avatar sanctuary. It was real. Natural. Like the thirty-six years of surviving in his own skin was a build-up to this. And breathing in untainted oxygen was enough to make it all worth it. Survival of the fittest, but he’d beaten the odds.
Was this what everyone else felt? To be able to run without losing their breath the moment they started? To be at home in themselves without imploring something to take them away, even if it was only for a short while? It wasn’t fair, but Arthur wouldn’t admit that because he’d always known; he just never understood how it could be any different.
Halting among a field of crops, Arthur didn’t pant, didn’t need to regain his strength, catch his breath. Chortling, he snagged a bright red fruit from its vine. The same one he’d seen Charles eat, gaze locked on the flicker of his tongue. The one plumping his own cheeks in a hazy dream, but without his Na’vi there to pull him from it with a longing kiss.
Clutching it tightly until juice spilled over his hand, Arthur sank his fangs into the fruit, tearing off a piece. Yet, still, there were no words to capture the taste: sweet and wonderful, but nothing to draw from. Too good for anything Earth had offered. No granules of sugar stuck between his teeth, no tacky residue in his mouth. It was delectable and all his. "Arthur?" Hosea called out, his face morphed into a kind expression, "Are you having a fun time?"
Swallowing down the saccharine liquid, Arthur grinned to himself, the only thing he seemed to be able to do anymore, with no room for rage inside of his chest. He had never felt this before, so void of anger. Not with Mary and her delicate treatment, as if he might shatter with a wrong word. Not Charles, who handled his attitude with a grace Arthur wished he had. Hell, not even Isaac, his angel of a toddler who knew nothing of malice. Because he’d hated himself through all of it, still did, but there was something radiating out, a bit of the dignity Lyle had taken with him to his grave. “I’m…yeah. I’m great.”
Arthur returned to his father and hugged him, mindful of his sticky hands and their differing heights making the angle awkward. He had never felt so above it all, towering with nothing to pull him back down to the dirt, but he knew this was temporary. By day's end, he would return to his own body to endure the pain anew until his final moment. "Grimshaw says your brain is more active than it's been in months."
A subtler jab at his melancholy or perhaps his intelligence. Knowing her, probably both. “She phrase it like that, or’d she call me stupid to boot?”
“Miserable was the word she used, actually.” Hosea chuckled at him, patting his waist, the highest he could reach. “Come on. We still need to run some tests and make sure everything is functioning as it should. But first, you need some proper clothes. I don’t think it’s appropriate to run around with your ass hanging out.”
It hadn’t registered, Arthur unashamed in his partial nudity. Baring his arms once mortified him, always finding an excuse to tuck them in close on missions. That was until Charles, the other wonderful about holding his tongue in regard to Arthur’s embarrassment. Of course, he felt none, exposed as most Na’vi were, with a cloth to cover his groin and ornamental strips decorating the rest of him, but not much else. A state of dress he’d grown used to and thought he’d be comfortable with, but with attention drawn to him, it would not be today. “Do I gotta wear them skimpy Na’vi clothes?”
Skimpy wasn’t the appropriate word, maybe for Charles, but not for the rest. Everything looked damn near obscene on his Na’vi, Arthur’s eyes straying down his backside on more than one occasion, but he hadn’t known why until now. Somehow, Charles's efforts to dress more modestly for Arthur's benefit only heightened the attraction. He was trying to put Arthur at ease, but Charles hadn't considered the way fabric contoured to him, accentuating his form, nor the emotional toil it took on the human, forcing him to acknowledge his own importance to the Na'vi. So significant, he'd abandon custom for him, Arthur unsure how to tell him it wasn't a bother. “Whatever you want to wear, but I think we’ll put you in what the RDA has in stock. Sure Charles wouldn’t mind sharing, though. You’re a little smaller than him if I remember right.”
His father had begun to speak fondly of Charles, and it always sent his stomach fluttering. He didn’t know what he would have done had Hosea disapproved, but his father had a knack for ignoring the dangers if it made his children happy. And if Charles was anything, it was a gentleman when he wanted to be, at least. Arthur knew him well enough to recognize that wasn’t the case. His Na’vi was more teasing than his own family was, and that said a lot. A better actor than Arthur, that was to be sure. “I don’t know. Might ask him later. What tests you need me runnin’?”
“Don’t worry about it, son. Nothing you can’t handle.” Grinning and winking at him, Hosea led the way through the compound toward the training grounds. It was going to be a long few hours, but it’d be worth it in the end.
Ejected from his Avatar back into himself, Arthur shot awake, gasping for breath, his body left on the ambient room table. The oxygen crushed his lungs, insufficient, not after he’d had a taste of what it truly felt like. His left arm was paralyzed again, unyielding when he attempted to lift it. Coughing as he acclimated to his surroundings, someone new appeared to have joined their motley crew. Dutch, thankfully, this time, without Micah at his side, slavering into his ear. “You seem to be doin’ well, son! Would you boys mind givin’ us some privacy? I’d like to speak with Arthur alone.”
Hosea went to protest, eyes alight with rage, but Trelawny hooked their arms, yanking on his lover until he caught his footing. “We will leave you to it. Should wake the others, right, Dear Heart? We’ll be back soon.” Arthur almost heaved, suffocating on his own air while dissociating from what was happening around him. Then Grimshaw left, too, banished to another corner of the room, little seclusion awarded to them, but enough to send Arthur’s skin crawling. When had being alone with Dutch become so terrifying?
Swinging his legs over the edge of the unit, Arthur lowered his head, his gaze fixed on the floor. "Did you need somethin', Dutch?" he asked, though he knew the answer. Dutch always wanted something from Arthur, demanding more until it was too much. Like he was a machine built only to serve. But now, Arthur had to find the strength to refuse his father's requests. If he could manage. Meeting Dutch's eye was the surest way to break his resolve, forcing words behind his teeth until he choked on them, all for just a scrap of his father's praise. He was less of a son and more of an obedient mutt, come to heel at his feet despite the blows he'd been dealt.
The hand clamping down on his left shoulder hadn’t been what he was expecting, coercing a hiss out of him. Though incapacitated, he could still sense the tenderness when touched over the area where he had sustained the most severe damage. Ravaged from the inside out, wounds a bone-deep thing. “I don’t mean to interrupt your fun, but I’m sure you’ll be back at it here shortly. I was just wantin’ to come by and spend some time with you. Been a while, hasn’t it?”
And whose fault is that? It wasn’t from a lack of trying on Arthur’s part. He’d been desperate to be around his father, to snatch him away from Micah’s poisonous lilt. “Dutch, I ain’t really in the mood. Need to…prepare some more, so I can work proper today.”
A hand lifted his chin as Dutch derided him, “Oh, don’t play dumb with me, boy. We both know you ain’t workin’ no more. Just goin’ to see that Na’vi of yours, and hey! I am not here to judge. I have realized my mistake. Bein’ angry with you was…’cause I care too much! You are my son, always will be, and I didn’t want to see you get hurt. Now, I understand that you are an adult and I need to give you your freedoms, but I do still need you. See, I’ve got a plan, a big one! A last score to get the rest of us Avatars, then ain’t none of us got to work anymore! You’d like to see that, right?”
Another plan; that was all he seemed to talk about these days. The strategies, the elusive goals. Yet Arthur, once privy to these discussions, was lost as everyone else. Yet, here Dutch was, standing before him, demanding his aid. How much more failures and grief would it take for him to learn? "Whatchu talkin' 'bout, Dutch? What goddamn plan now?"
“I can’t reveal it yet, and I would ask you not to speak to me like that, son. I need you to trust me because your Avatar is gonna be real important to us. All of us. You could be helpin’ everyone, just like you always wanted to. A bit too much like me for your own good, now do I got your faith?” Put into the role of the Van Der Linde’s brute once again. He should have known that the second Dutch figured out a way to use him, he would take it. No, Arthur was nothing like him, not anymore.
But he couldn’t say no, the word trapped in his throat. And how weak was he when he could only gape at his father and whisper, “I’ll think ‘bout it. Can’t guarantee I can use my Avatar for anythin’ too big. Might…might cause problems.”
Pressing down once more on his arm, Dutch eventually withdrew, taking his deceptive warmth with him, his face settling into an inscrutable expression. “Alright. I understand, but remember who saved you, Arthur.” Walking away, tension pulled his father's shoulders tight. Arthur sighed, his frame shaking with the relief of escaping those scrutinizing eyes. This was it. Dutch had concocted yet another grand scheme, and Arthur was in the dark about where it would lead them all. The possibility of dying without knowing the fate of his loved ones was more petrifying than death itself.
Sunlight was cresting over the horizon, and Charles was half asleep on Taima’s back. Their connection was all that kept him conscious in the early morning. He should have just been waking up, making the short journey to his and Arthur’s clearing, but instead, here he was, heading for the plains. There hadn’t been a day he’d missed that hour of waiting, but for the past week, after promising Arthur he would be there to welcome him, he hadn’t shown up once. Not because he didn’t ache to, but because one of the Tunwinzaw’s youngest, a babe, had died. Starved on the night Charles had last seen Arthur.
Those hauls, his scrounging, wasn’t enough. So Charles had been up before dawn, trekking his way there, hunting larger game to bring with him. He’d never been so tired, so longing for his hammock, for Arthur by his side.
His human would understand, though, and he would likely assure Charles that it was for the best. He also knew where the Tunwinzaw clan was now. Hosea could bring him at any time he wished, hailed among their ranks. Guilty as he felt for not being there, the tribe was more important than his eagerness to see the man again, to hold and kiss him as he had only once before, desiring to go further but too afraid of hurting the other.
As Charles crested the hill, a peculiar sound reached his ears, one that was familiar yet out of place in the realm of the Tunwinzaw. Among a clan so fractured that even the faintest whisper of joy was seldom heard. It was the sound of laughter.
Halting Taima, Charles froze, understanding now the cause of the Tunwinzaw's cheers and celebrations. At first glance, it was just a splash of color moving through the tall grass. But they slowly doubled in numbers, and upon closer inspection, he realized it was the Winzaw, congregating in the field, shepherded by Tswayon and Txep. They were returning. But how? "Charles! Come see!"
Kicking his Pa'li up into a trot, Charles approached them, a look of confusion etched on his face while Tswayon chuckled at him. "It appears your little human has kept his promise! The mining has ceased! At least in this area. They cleared out last night after your departure. Took everything with them!"
And the Winzaw were already returning that soon. Like just the presence of man was enough to blight the soil. A flesh wound healed, allowing for Pandora to recover what it had lost. Possibly because of Arthur. But he couldn’t think of any other reason why the humans would just up and leave in the twilight when nothing else seemed to sway them. Not even the threat of war. What had he offered to make this happen? Charles could only hope that he hadn’t given a piece of his own soul to protect those who weren’t his own, but knowing him, there was no telling. “Is it just this herd, or have you seen more coming?”
“There are more! Traveling from the north!” They didn’t belong in the north. It was too cold, but they had chosen to freeze rather than suffocate on the toxins Hell’s Gate brought with them. “We sent out scouts a few hours ago to bring the rest home and to clean what is left.” There had been few casualties since Charles had begun to help, mostly the elderly and the sick, but he had grown weary. Unable to keep up with the onslaught. Something solidified in his chest. The next time he saw Arthur, Charles wasn’t sure if he’d ever be able to let him go.
