Chapter Text
Wet bodies, sticky thighs. They are running through a forest, and there is an ikran, and there is fear burning so hot that the stink of it fills the air. A blue body crashes through leaves and branches, crushing insects underfoot with no care. A palulukan howls, or maybe that is the boy running. There is blood running down legs. There is semen splattered over the boy's skin. It burns like fire, and there is fire, inside him, outside him, surrounding him as the large blue body slams into his back and forces him to the ground. There are hands on his arms, on his legs, in his holes.
There is someone screaming.
Kiri presses herself flat to her ilu's neck, urging her to swim faster, please, thank you, her brother needs her. She is still learning to pronounce her ilu's name—the sound coral makes when it breaks deep under the water—and so she doesn't say it, just says thank you, thank you, please, thank you. There's salt in her mouth, grit caught in her teeth, and the screaming sounds like the wind, the waves, Spider's voice, the creaking metal of a sinking ship, the catch in her father's throat when he's scared. She hates that she doesn't know if it's real or if it's in her head. (She knows that she's not crazy. But some days—some days, she thinks she might be crazy.)
She left Tuk with Tsireya, bobbing together in the ocean. They called after her and she shook her head, already on her ilu, screaming in her ears, Spider's name echoing in every beat of her heart.
She doesn't know why he needs her, but she knows that he does.
They reach the village and she brushes her hand over her ilu's head, thanking her for getting them here so fast, and she runs along the walkways, almost knocking someone off their feet and calling apologies over her shoulder. Her grandmother would tell her off, a sharp hiss about manners, Kiri, but her grandmother isn't here. (And, oh, Kiri aches for her some days. For her sharp tone, for the way they used to bicker, for the light touch of her hand in Kiri's hair when she's proud.)
She runs to the marui as quickly as she can. She runs through the door, skidding on the floor and almost losing her balance. Both her parents are there and, good, that's good, they'll know what to do, they can help her, they've always helped her, even when she was little and felt like she would collapse in on herself from the weight of the world pressing in around her, so many voices and so many lives, when everyone else was too scared to touch her, Mom would gather her up in her arms and Dad would kiss her forehead. They'll help. They always help.
"Spider," Kiri gasps. "It's Spider, he's—" But she stops, cuts herself off and snaps her mouth shut; her teeth clack together painfully.
Something is wrong. There is the smell of vomit in the air, sharp and acidic, familiar to Kiri from all the time she has spent tending to the sick with Grandmother. Dad's sitting cross-legged on the floor, so pale that his skin is almost grey. Mom stands and takes two quick steps towards Kiri, moving in front of Dad like she's trying to hide him. Kiri stands on her tiptoes, trying to see over Mom's shoulder. "Dad?" she says. "Are you okay?"
He stands and puts an hand on Mom's arm—she's seen them touch each other like that a million times, a quiet reassurance, I'm all right, but this time, she also sees the tiniest shake in Dad's fingers. "What is it, babygirl?" he says. Up-close, he looks even worse—heavy rings under his eyes, dirt under his fingernails and more smeared over his chest. There is a leaf in his hair and Kiri reaches up automatically to pluck it out.
Her palm brushes his cheek and lightning shoots up her arm. She is running, chasing, hunting. Something throbs between her legs and is it so hot hot hot, she is on fire, she is burning, her heart pumps like it might explode, she knocks a smaller body into the ground and there is a voice at the back of her head screaming Spider's name, why is everyone screaming, it screams son and it screams brother and it screams Dad, don't and Kiri doesn't know which voices are hers.
She snatches her hand back. The smell in the air isn't just vomit, it's guilt, thick and acrid. She stumbles backwards. Dad tries to catch her by the arm and she jerks away from him. "Dad," she says. The word grinds in her throat, raw with all the salt water she swallowed. She can still hear Spider's screams. "Dad, what did you do?"
She has never seen her father's face crumple the way it does in that moment.
*
Spider knows about running. He's been running his whole life.
He grew up running with the Sully kids, through the trees and rivers of Pandora. He ran with Norm, who saw Spider growing too tall too fast, who saw his restless energy, and tried to help him burn some of it off, tried to help him feel more at home in his body. He ran on his own, too, away from Norm and his endless lessons, away from the Sully kids, even Kiri, because they loved him, but some days, they just didn't understand, not when they had parents to run home to, always waiting for them.
Spider has been running his whole life. It stopped the day he met Quaritch. And maybe, if he had realised then what it would mean, he would have tried harder, fought fiercer, run faster. And maybe, even if he had, it wouldn't have made any difference at all because if there's anything Spider has learnt in the last six months, it's that Quaritch's hands will always find him.
The first time he really got a chance to run—a chance that meant something, a chance that actually had some hope of working, a chance that was more than just flinging himself down a hallway before being grabbed and pinned by human and recom hands—came when they returned to the forest, on their way to the ikran. (And doesn't Spider hate himself for leading them there, for taking something sacred and putting it right into his father's hands.)
Spider waited and he watched, and when the time was right, he ran. (He has been running his whole life.) For a few glorious, heart-soaring hours, he was alone. He couldn't go home, not yet, not when he wasn't sure if the tracker in his mask was a bluff or not —but he was free. He could run far enough to fuck the tracker, if there was one, he was sure of it. (He's been running his whole life.) He ran up streams, rocks shifting under his feet, and he climbed vines and he scraped his hands on the bark of trees and he ran.
And when he heard voices, when he heard bigger bodies crashing through the forest behind him, clumsy and still so much faster than he would ever be, he knew it was over. He might be able to stay out of their grasp for a few minutes, maybe even a few hours, but it was only a matter of time before—
Wainfleet and Mansk shoved Spider to his knees in front of Quaritch. The tanhì on Quaritch's skin shimmered in the dim light as his nose twitched and he held a datapad up to Spider's face—a red dot flashed on the screen and Quaritch jabbed at it with his finger. "That's you, tiger," he said. "Did you think I was lying?" He crouched, bringing him closer to eye level. "You're quick, kid, but you're not getting away, not with this strapped to your face." He rapped the mask with his knuckles and Spider bared his teeth. He was bruised, scratched up, filthy. He didn't feel like playing Quaritch's stupid games, or listening to his smarmy voice, or seeing the way his tongue flicked over his teeth when he spoke to Spider.
He turned, ready to slink away into the tent because he hated it in there, hated the way humidity gathered and dripped down the walls, hated not being able to see the sky or the stars, but it was better than being here with these assholes.
Quaritch caught him by the arm. He shoved the datapad at Wainfleet and dragged Spider over to the fire. He ripped open one of the shitty, plastic-wrapped meals and shoved it at Spider. "Eat," he said.
Spider snarled and threw the tray of freeze-dried food at Quaritch. A muscle jumped in Quaritch's jaw, firelight flickering red over his skin. In the shadows it threw, his skin looked a deep purple. His kuru hung over his shoulder, and he had everything Spider ever wanted, and he'd taken him from everything he'd ever have, and now he was telling him to fucking eat?
"Fuck you," Spider said.
"Right," Quaritch said, and his fingers wrapped around Spider's arm again in a bruisingly-tight grip and he was yanking Spider to his feet and dragging him to the tent. He threw Spider to the ground and Spider scrambled backwards. His back hit the wall of the tent and Quaritch loomed over him in the dark. There was nowhere to go.
Quaritch fucked him for the first time that night. He crowded into Spider's space, grabbed him, held him still, wrenched his legs open. Spider lay frozen, the slippery material of the sleeping bags sliding under his body—and then Quaritch yanked his tewng down, spread his cheeks open, and spat on his hole.
And Spider could move again. He kicked and writhed and scratched, blunt nails down thick blue arms. It didn't do shit. Quaritch planted a hand on his back, fingers spread wide, and pinned him face-down on the tent floor. Thick fingers poked at his hole and Spider bucked furiously, futilely.
Nothing he did made any difference, and he kept fighting. Even when Quaritch grunted and shoved him harder into the ground, the edge of Spider's mask digging painfully into his cheek, even when his nail caught on something and bent backwards, even when Quaritch grabbed his hair in a tight fist and yanked on it, even when he knocked his mask off and Quaritch had to shove it back on, he didn't stop fighting. As long as he was fighting, he didn't have to think about what was happening, about the fact that this was real. (this could be a dream please let it be a dream maybe he got away he got away he fell asleep and he's dreaming he's safe this is just a dream it isn't real just a dream he's safe he's safe he's safe)
He doesn't really remember when he started screaming. Maybe when Quaritch pushed the first finger inside him, or maybe later, when he first nudged the head of his cock against Spider's hole, maybe when Quaritch pushed inside him and Spider was sure he would be torn in half. He screamed in fear, and he screamed in pain, and he screamed because someone might hear him, someone might help him. The recoms were monsters, demons, but even they wouldn't hear this and let it happen, they wouldn't allow Quaritch to—
(the word rape drifted into Spider's mind, and he took that word and held it in both hands and carefully tucked it into a box at the back of his mind, and he was never ever gonna open that fucking box again)
No one yelled stop, no one unzipped the tent door to see what was happening, and afterwards, lying in a puddle of sweat and come, Spider hated himself for being surprised. He hated himself for imagining Jake Sully, out with a hunting party, maybe, hearing his screams and bursting through the wall of the tent to rescue him. He hated himself for coming.
"You gotta pair of lungs on you, tiger," Quaritch said. He was lying on his back, one arm folded beneath his head, the other hand curled possessively over Spider's ass, and Spider was going to move away, he was, once he could breathe again, once everything stopped hurting. "Screamed just like a girl," Quaritch said. He pinched the meat of Spider's ass. "Gonna remember your lesson?"
The lesson: all the things Quaritch had grunted in Spider's ear while he forced his cock into his ass. This is what happens to disobedient boys who run away and you're mine, tiger and gonna fill you up with come so I can smell you no matter how far you get.
Spider wonders now if that's how Quaritch found him, the smell of come on his skin, smeared inside him, in his blood and bones and the slippery walls of his stomach. He wonders if everyone's been able to smell it on him. He wonders if that's why Jake knew he could fuck him, if he knew Spider was ruined
open your legs for anything, won't you, baby
if he knew he'd be easy prey.
Spider is hefted over Quaritch shoulder and his heart is pounding and his skin is clammy, but he isn't surprised. He's been running his whole life, but it didn't take him long to learn that it's impossible to run from Daddy.
*
There's something wrong with the kid. Quaritch has him slung over his shoulder, one hand bracketing both his thighs
thighs that are thick with muscle and still so small under his hands, spread wide around his hips, heels drumming on his back, sweaty throat under his tongue—but he can't get distracted, not now. He's got a mission, and it's unsanctioned, and he hates that he understands Sully a little better now, understands what love can drive a man to do. It's laughable, really, that he'd thought he'd known what love was, with Rosemary and then Duke and most recently with Paz. He'd loved 'em all, but he thought that was it, that affection and writing dumb poems that made his ears burn red and learning their little habits was all there was to it.
(Rosemary hated movies and loved when he'd get off the bus three stops early so he could walk her home after school; Duke lived off fast food and ReadyMeals (InnaCan!™), and would never ask for it, but always had second and third helpings when Quaritch cooked dinner for him, always watched Quaritch moving around the kitchen with awe in his eyes even if he was making something simple as pasta; and Paz…
Paz slept on her belly and stretched like a cat when Quaritch rubbed her shoulders. She loved the cafeteria's lumpy mashed potatoes and drank her coffee black and bitter as possible, always willing to finish off the burnt dregs at the bottom of the pot. Their sex looked a lot like fighting some days, leaving both of them with bloody mouths and bruised thighs, and the kid's more like his mama than he realises.)
But now he knows better. He's loved people before, but none of them have burned their name into his skin, none of them have hooked their fingers into his ribcage and pulled it open and made a home for themselves inside, nestled between his lungs, keeping him from ever taking a full breath again.
(If you asked Jake Sully what love is, he would say it was dreams of flying come true and finally being able to breathe. If you asked Spider Socorro, he would blink and think of big blue hands and big blue cocks and Daddy's voice in his ear, and he would think of running, and he would think of Kiri's hand in his and Jake's eyes when he looked at Neytiri, and he would tell you, "That's a weird fucking question.")
He's not meant to be here. He's meant to be in Bridgehead, a good soldier, making amends for his fuck ups with yes, ma'am and no, ma'am and three bags fucking full, ma'am. Ardmore is furious and he can't say he blames her, not with how fucked things got on the Sea Dragon, not when he returned to Bridgehead broken and bloodied, with only one member of his billion-dollar team left. (Ardmore makes sure to remind him of the billions of dollars every damn time she speaks to him.)
He should have stayed. Six months ago, hell, three months ago, he would have stayed.
But the kid—
Quaritch has been dreaming about him. His body burning like a small sun against Quaritch's chest, the way his kicks and punches grow weak and start feeling like the helpless flutterings of a trapped butterfly, the brightness of his laugh as he runs pell-mell through the forest. But the dreams always return to the same image— his teeth bared in a hiss, salt crusted in his golden hair, body scratched and muscles trembling with exhaustion as he danced backwards, light on his feet as always, and flung himself into the ocean. Quaritch wakes up soaked and it takes several seconds to realise it's sweat, not the splash of waves, that's it come cooling on his thighs and belly, not blood.
It wouldn't take long to find him. That's what he told Ardmore and she peered at him over his coffee mug and asked if they could offer him a chemical castration if he insisted on being led around by his dick. And he'd said, No, thank you, ma'am, and she'd told him to get the hell out of her office, and an hour later, he'd found himself on Cupcake's back, flying up and away and towards the sea.
But there's something wrong with the kid. He isn't fighting, he isn't cursing, he isn't calling Quaritch a motherfucker and kicking him in the jaw and dropping to the ground and running. He hangs over Quaritch's shoulder, limp and heavy—though he's lighter than he was the day Quaritch found him, when he first saw Paz's eyes in someone else's face and hefted him over his shoulders and carried him home. His breathing is ragged. He smells strange.
He smells like Sully.
Quaritch sets the boy down on his feet and drops to one knee in front of him. He runs his hand through Spider's messy hair, trails his fingertips over the scratches littering his chest and arms. "Hey tiger," he says. They're not far from Cupcake now; he landed her a ways from the camp and hiked the rest of the way in, not wanting to risk anyone seeing them, not wanting to risk Mrs. Sully shooting his girl down. Another half hour of easy walking and they'll be on their way. "I'm gonna take you home."
Spider barely even blinks at his words. He's swaying on his feet and he digs his fingers into his arm and he mumbles, "Yes, Daddy" without needing any prompting. There's a fresh scab on his lower lip.
What in hell has Sully done to his boy?
*
If Spider returns to Bridgehead, it will swallow him whole. The walls will close around him, corridors will loop endlessly, and every path will lead back to Daddy, running running running (Spider has been running his entire life) until he hits his knees at Daddy's feet.
(look, the guy's a monster)
(so fuckin' pretty, kid)
He'll be blinded by fluorescent lights every time he opens his eyes, the floors will be made of hands and teeth that reach for his ankles and latch on tight, he will dance and he will open himself up wide and he will be a wet warm willing empty hole.
I'm gonna take you home, Quaritch says, and if he does, Spider will die.
(and is it better, he wonders, to return to the halls of Bridgehead, to jump neatly back into his steel cage, than it is to meet Neytiri's knife or Jake's betrayed eyes or Tonowari's deep voice telling him that the Metkayina will not house a
humanmonsterrapist
is it better, he wonders, to tip himself forward into Daddy's hands and let him scoop out his insides and smear them bloody on the ground until Spider is a pretty husk with come-matted hair and a rubbed-raw cock)
"Where—" His voice rasps up the back of his throat, scratching, hurting, and he has to stop and swallow and try again. "Where are the others?"
A muscle in Quaritch’s jaw jumps before he clenches down on it. "They're dead, kid," he says. He says it like it's Spider's fault, and maybe it is, maybe Daddy wants an apology and maybe Spider wants to spit at his fucking feet.
But Quaritch's hand is gentle when he cups Spider's cheek. "I missed you, tiger," he says. He sways forward and Spider grinds his teeth, screws his mouth into a tight purse, and tells himself he won't open it, not this time, but Daddy licks slow and soft and patient against the seam of his lips, hand sliding around to cup the back of Spider's head, his thumb brushing the shell of Spider's ear.
"Give Daddy a kiss," he murmurs, and Spider's mouth falls open, his head tips back, he bares his throat.
And Daddy smiles like he's going to eat Spider alive.