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The Sully family tent glowed softly in the slow breath of evening, its woven walls catching the bioluminescence of the forest outside and diffusing it into gentle blues and greens that pulsed like a living heartbeat.
Far off, the clan’s voices drifted and faded—laughter tapering into murmurs, the last calls of hunters returning, the forest settling into its nocturnal rhythm. Leaves rustled. An ikran cried somewhere high above. The world was winding down.
Inside the tent, it felt strangely hollow.
Jake and Neytiri had gone out together to hunt, moving with the quiet efficiency of people who trusted the night and each other completely. Without them, the space seemed to stretch, the shadows pooling in corners where Jake’s presence usually anchored everything. The air itself felt expectant, as though it were waiting for something to happen—or for someone to break the stillness.
Neteyam sat near the center of the tent, legs folded neatly beneath him, posture straight without being stiff. He had one of Jake’s knives balanced carefully in his hands, running a stone along the blade with slow, even strokes. The motion was deliberate, almost meditative.
Every so often, he paused to inspect the edge, tilting it just enough to catch the light, his brow furrowing with concentration. Responsibility sat on him easily, like a mantle he had learned to wear young, and in moments like this—quiet, purposeful—he looked every bit the eldest.
Across from him, Lo’ak was anything but still.
He lounged on his stomach, tail flicking back and forth with restless energy as he worked at a half-finished shawl. His fingers moved deftly over the fibers—smooth, precise, the hands of someone who clearly knew what they were doing—but the pattern was uneven, the tension inconsistent, betraying his impatience rather than his skill.
Lo’ak tugged at a stubborn section, frowned, then redid it with practiced efficiency, only to abandon it entirely moments later and roll onto his back with a dramatic huff. He was good at this, but weaving felt tedious tonight, and every precise stitch only reminded him that he wanted to do something far more interesting.
“It’s too quiet,” Lo’ak complained, staring up at the curved ceiling of the tent as though it had personally offended him.
Neteyam didn’t look up from the blade. “It’s evening. It’s supposed to be quiet.”
Lo’ak scoffed. “That’s what you always say.”
“And I’m always right,” Neteyam replied mildly, running the stone down the blade one last time before setting both aside with care.
Lo’ak sat up again, eyes wandering, landing—inevitably—on the space near the back of the tent where their parents’ belongings were kept. His gaze lingered there, thoughtful now rather than bored.
“I don’t get it,” Lo’ak muttered, tossing a loose fiber aside. “He never talks about Earth.”
Neteyam paused. Just for a moment.
“He talks about it,” he said, though there was less certainty in his voice than usual.
“Yeah,” Lo’ak said, pushing a loose fiber through the weave with unnecessary force, “but not really. Not like he talks about here. Or about Toruk. Or about us.”
Neteyam glanced at him then, studying his younger brother’s expression—the way his ears tilted slightly back, the restless curiosity sharp beneath the casual tone.
“We’ve seen the video logs,” Lo’ak went on. “The ones he made when he first got here. He talks so much in those. Explains everything. His voice sounds different.”
Neteyam nodded. He remembered them too: Jake sitting stiffly in a human chair, speaking into a small floating camera, his words careful, his eyes tired. The man in those recordings felt distant, almost unreal—a version of their father flattened by time and memory.
“He doesn’t look like our dad in those,” Lo’ak added. “Not really.”
“No,” Neteyam agreed quietly. “He doesn’t.”
There was a beat of silence between them, heavy with shared thought.
Lo’ak’s eyes flicked again toward the back of the tent. Toward the trunk.
It was large, reinforced with metal at the corners, its surface scarred with age and travel. Jake rarely opened it, and when he did, it was with quick, efficient movements, as though he didn’t like lingering over what was inside. To Lo’ak, that alone made it fascinating.
“You know,” Lo’ak said, trying—and failing—to sound casual, “Dad keeps all his human stuff in there.”
Neteyam’s ears twitched. “I know.”
“And we’ve never really looked at it.”
“We’re not supposed to,” Neteyam said immediately, the responsible answer springing to his lips before he could stop it.
Lo’ak grinned, sharp and unapologetic. “That’s never stopped you before.”
“That’s different,” Neteyam shot back. “Those were—” He hesitated, frowning slightly. “Those were clan things. Or training things. Or you things. This is… personal.”
Lo’ak rolled his eyes. “C’mon bro, you never wondered what’s in there?”
Neteyam opened his mouth to argue—and then closed it again. “You wouldn't like it if dad went through your things.”
Neteyam wasn’t wrong. He guarded his belongings carefully, the few things that were truly his, and he bristled when anyone touched them without asking. The thought of doing the same to their father made his chest tighten with unease.
Still.
The image of Jake in those videos lingered in his mind. The strange stiffness. The sadness Jake never spoke of but carried anyway.
“I just want to know him better,” Lo’ak said, softer now. “Don’t you?”
Neteyam looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers. He told himself he was thinking logically, weighing right and wrong—but beneath that, there was something simpler and more dangerous.
Curiosity.
“I don’t like the idea of sneaking,” Neteyam said at last.
Lo’ak’s grin returned, triumphant but restrained. “You’re not saying no.”
Neteyam sighed, long and quiet, then lifted his gaze to meet his brother’s, shaking his head with a huff. “Just looking,” he said. “And we put everything back exactly how it was.”
Lo’ak’s smile widened into something conspiratorial, his eyes bright. He nodded once, sharp and eager.
They didn’t say anything else.
They didn’t need to.
Together, they rose and moved toward the back of the tent, steps light, hearts beating just a little faster, as though the quiet itself were daring them to break it.
Neteyam led despite himself, steps measured and careful, shoulders squared in that unconscious way he had when he felt responsible for something important. Lo’ak followed close behind, mirroring him with exaggerated caution—tail low, ears twitching sharply at every rustle of fabric or distant call from the forest beyond the walls.
The trunk sat where it always did, half-hidden beneath woven mats and spare gear, its dark surface dull in the low light. Neteyam crouched first, bracing his hands against the wood as Lo’ak knelt beside him. Up close, it looked even older than Neteyam remembered—scratches scored into its sides, the metal fittings worn smooth with time.
When he lifted the lid just enough to peer inside, a scent rose up that didn’t belong to Pandora at all. Metal and oil, sharp and cold, layered with something dry and distant—an echo of places with no trees, no damp soil, no living breath. Earth, though neither of them had ever been there.
The lid creaked.
It was faint, barely more than a whisper, but both boys froze instantly.
Lo’ak’s eyes went wide, his ears flattening as he glanced toward the tent entrance, half-expecting Jake’s silhouette to appear in the doorway. Neteyam held his breath, muscles taut, waiting.
Nothing happened.
Slowly, carefully, Neteyam lifted the lid the rest of the way.
Inside, everything was arranged with a precision that felt almost ceremonial. Nothing was loose, nothing out of place. Each item had its own space, as though Jake had packed and repacked this trunk a hundred times, committing the layout to muscle memory.
Guns lay along one side, cleaned and oiled, parts disassembled and wrapped neatly in cloth. Lo’ak leaned closer, peering at them with a mischievous glint in his eye.
“We’ve seen those,” he whispered, clearly unimpressed. Then, pointing to the biggest one, he added with a grin, “But I know how to use this one.”
Neteyam’s eyes narrowed, and before Lo’ak could do more than point, he pressed his hand gently but firmly against Lo’ak’s head, pushing him down slightly. “No, you don’t,” he said firmly, though the corner of his mouth twitched. “It’s bigger than you, little bro.”
Lo’ak wriggled, tail flicking in irritation. “I do too! I just… haven’t practiced in a while,” he muttered, clearly not admitting defeat.
Neteyam shook his head, laughter barely contained. “No, Lo’ak. I know how to use it. I’ll teach you—later.”
Lo’ak sat up straighter, crossing his arms, a sly smirk tugging at his lips. “I don’t need to be taught,” he said, but he didn’t actually say no, leaving the challenge hanging in the air.
Neteyam simply shook his head again, a soft chuckle escaping him as he glanced at the carefully maintained guns. These weren’t just tools, they were proof of how deliberate and precise their father had always been.
Beneath them were human knives, smaller than the blades Neteyam trained with but dense and heavy in the hand. Spare parts followed—oddly shaped components Lo’ak couldn’t begin to guess the purpose of—along with neatly folded loincloths, an extra bulletproof vest, and other Na’vi necessities Jake kept for travel and battle.
Lo’ak poked at a folded vest with one finger. “That’s boring too.”
“Don’t touch everything,” Neteyam murmured, though his tone lacked any real heat.
They shifted things carefully, stacking them aside just enough to see deeper into the trunk. With every layer removed, the air seemed to change, growing quieter, heavier.
And then Neteyam’s fingers brushed something smooth and thin.
He drew it out slowly.
It was a folded sheet of white paper, edges crisp despite its age, covered in tight rows of unfamiliar symbols and blocks of text. At the top, printed clearly, was a name they both knew.
Jake Sully.
Lo’ak leaned in, squinting. “What is that?”
Neteyam swallowed. “I don’t know.”
The paper felt fragile in his hands, official in a way nothing else in the trunk had been. Jake had taught them English well enough—spoken first, always spoken—along with a handful of important words and phrases, how to recognize names, warnings, commands. They could write their own names in the sharp, angular letters, read short labels and simple notes.
But this was different.
Lo’ak couldn’t read most of it, not the dense blocks of text or the long strings of unfamiliar words, yet even he could tell this wasn’t a map or a record of supplies. There was something final about it, something heavy, the kind of paper that decided things rather than describing them.
They set it aside gently.
Underneath it were photographs, bound together with a worn strip of material that had once been elastic and now barely held. Lo’ak lifted them reverently, flipping the stack over once before hesitating, as if unsure whether he was allowed to look.
Before he could, something else caught the light.
Metal.
Lo’ak reached for it instinctively, lifting a short chain that clinked softly in his fingers. Two small metal plates slid into view, cool and dull, stamped with letters pressed deep into the surface.
“Dad’s name,” Lo’ak breathed.
Dog tags.
They were heavier than Lo’ak expected, solid in a way that felt permanent. He turned them over once, tracing the stamped letters with his thumb. This was a name meant to last even when everything else was gone.
Neither of them spoke as Lo’ak set them down.
At the very bottom of the trunk, folded with care that bordered on reverence, were the clothes.
Neteyam frowned as he lifted one piece, then another, unfolding them slightly. There were so many layers—thick fabric, straps, buttons, seams upon seams. Lo’ak leaned over his shoulder, eyes widening.
“Why would anyone need all this?” he whispered.
Neteyam shook his head slowly. “It looks… heavy.”
“They’d overheat,” Lo’ak said immediately. “And how do you even move in that?”
The idea of full coverage—of hiding skin, of wrapping the body in fabric—felt strange and unnecessary. On Pandora, skin met air and water freely. Clothing was protection when needed, not a constant barrier.
They exchanged a look then, something quiet passing between them.
They had never seen their father like this.
Not clothed from neck to ankle, not layered and enclosed. They knew Jake as Toruk Makto, as olo’eyktan, as warrior and father, his body marked by scars and paint, open to the world. The man these clothes belonged to felt distant, almost like a story someone else had lived.
For a long moment, they simply knelt there, surrounded by the pieces of a life that existed before them, the weight of it settling slowly, unmistakably, between them.
Neteyam held the military uniform in his hands, the fabric heavier than anything he had ever worn, cold and stiff even in the warmth of the tent. He hesitated, biting the inside of his cheek, eyes flicking to Lo’ak. “We shouldn’t—” he began, voice tight with caution.
Lo’ak, already crouched nearby with a different set of clothes in his arms, rolled his eyes dramatically. “Shouldn’t? Or scared you’ll look stupid?”
Neteyam’s ears flicked back. “I’m not—just… Dad’s stuff. We shouldn’t—”
But the pause stretched too long, the temptation too great. His own curiosity, the quiet longing to see his father’s life, won out. With a small sigh, he knelt, trying to pull the military jacket over his shoulders. The fabric was rigid, cumbersome, and awkwardly long in the sleeves. He struggled to snap buttons, fumbling with straps that seemed to have no obvious order.
Lo’ak leaned over, trying to help, hands clumsy and impatient. “Like this? No, no! Not that way!”
Neteyam groaned, trying to redirect him, but Lo’ak only laughed, a rich, teasing sound that bounced off the tent walls. “You look stupid!” he called, and his laughter was infectious, sharp with the delight only a younger brother could carry.
Neteyam bristled, snapping back a sharp glare—but the corners of his mouth twitched. He couldn’t help the quiet laugh that escaped, low and restrained, despite himself.
Meanwhile, Lo’ak had draped his casual outfit over a nearby mat and, with a mischievous grin, started trying it on. The RDA t-shirt he selected had a military-green button-down shirt over it and a utility belt he slung over his shoulders like a ceremonial sash. The belt refused to stay in place, sliding sideways as he laughed at the unfamiliar weight and stiffness. He didn’t even try to put on the boots; the idea seemed completely unnecessary, though he occasionally glanced at Neteyam’s uniform with a conspiratorial smile.
The button-down was crooked, collar popped, sleeves too long. The printed logo on the shirt—RDA—intrigued him, made him giggle nervously as he tried to understand its purpose. It wasn’t like the paint they used to symbolize stature and meaning.
“Don’t you look dashing,” Neteyam said dryly, adjusting a strap that refused to cooperate.
“Better than you,” Lo’ak shot back, puffing his chest out despite the shirt sagging over him.
Inevitably, the teasing escalated. One shove led to another. Fingers tangled in straps. Laughter turned louder, almost uncontrollable, and soon they were wrestling in the middle of the tent, tails flicking like twin banners of chaos.
Neteyam tried to pin Lo’ak down; Lo’ak wriggled, twisting and ducking, all the while snickering. They toppled sideways, hands gripping for leverage, the oversized clothes bunching and flopping in every direction.
The tent walls echoed with their laughter, bright and unrestrained, carrying the warmth of two brothers lost in their own little world, forgetting every rule, every caution, every shadow of consequence.
For a moment, there was nothing but this—lighthearted, chaotic, full of movement, and entirely, blissfully theirs.
The sound of laughter abruptly cut off when a shadow fell across the tent entrance.
Jake stood there, arms crossed over his chest, shoulders relaxed but unmistakably present. For a long moment, he simply watched, silent. The sight of his sons—tails flicking, shirts and straps twisted, laughter still lingering in the air—pulled at something in his chest. Amusement softened the lines around his eyes, nostalgia tugged at the corners of his mouth, and beneath it all, a weight that came from years of knowing both the joy and the danger of curiosity.
Then he cleared his throat, low and deliberate.
The sound was small but sharp in the stillness, and it was enough.
Instantly, Neteyam and Lo’ak froze. Lo’ak’s wide eyes snapped toward the doorway, and he straightened up, tail stiff. “Sorry, sir,” he said quickly, voice tight with sudden discipline.
Neteyam, already halfway into an apology, began stumbling over his words. “We—we were just—um, I mean, Lo’ak and I, we didn’t—well, we were curious, and we didn’t—” His ears flattened against his head in a mix of embarrassment and panic.
Jake’s lips twitched, and he pinched the bridge of his nose with one hand, letting out a quiet chuckle that seemed to shake off the tension in the room. His voice was calm when he finally spoke, warm and low: “Curiosity isn’t a crime, son.”
He took a slow step into the tent, eyes softening as he looked at them. “Sneaking, though… that’s a little different.”
Neteyam’s shoulders sagged slightly, the weight of being caught settling over him. Lo’ak’s grin faltered, sheepish but unwilling to disappear entirely.
Jake shook his head, a smile breaking through the quiet reprimand. “You don’t have to hide how curious you are. But next time—ask. You want to know about your father? You can ask.”
The words hung in the air, gentle but firm, a bridge between the two worlds they had been tiptoeing through—the world of their father as a human, and the world of their father as the leader of their people.
Jake stepped closer to Lo’ak first, crouching slightly so he could reach him without knocking anything over. He took the utility belt draped haphazardly over Lo’ak’s shoulders and lifted it gently. With careful, practiced movements, he threaded it through the loops of Lo’ak’s cargo pants, tightening it just enough to stay secure without cutting off movement. The oversized shirt hung loosely, sleeves bunched at his shoulders where he hadn't pulled them all the way down. Jake smoothed it down, folding the collar into place so it sat neatly, unpopping it where it had flopped awkwardly.
Then his hands paused at Lo’ak’s tail. He guided it carefully through the small hole at the back of the pants designed for it. Lo’ak wriggled slightly, puffing his cheeks as Jake gave the tail a playful tug.
“Hey—!” Lo’ak hissed as he twisted away. “You didn’t have to do that.”
Jake just snorted, giving the tail a light, final tug. “Yeah, I did,” he said easily. “You’d have tripped over it in about three steps.”
Satisfied, Jake moved over to Neteyam, crouching again with precise efficiency. The military uniform was stiff and heavy, sleeves dragging past the wrists, jacket long over the waist. He adjusted straps, aligned the seams, tightened buttons, and tucked in fabric where it sagged. Neteyam, watching closely, finally reached back and pulled his own tail through the designated hole. Jake paused for a fraction of a second, and the corners of his mouth lifted in a quiet smile, approving the independence without a word.
Stepping back, Jake surveyed them both. The clothes hung off their smaller frames, the sleeves flopping, the belts slightly loose. He laughed, the sound rich and full, echoing softly in the tent. “You look… enormous in all the wrong ways,” he said, shaking his head, but the laughter never left his tone.
His eyes softened, and for a moment it looked like he was about to say something else entirely. He stopped himself, exhaling through his nose. “It’s just…” Jake said quietly, shaking his head. “It’s…not bad—just different. Not really how I’m used to seeing you, all covered up.”
The boys looked at each other, half-proud, half-embarrassed, unsure how to respond. Jake crouched again and gestured toward the papers and photos now spread atop the trunk, noticing them for the first time since he walked in. His voice was calm, inviting, the shift in his expression subtle but real.
“Alright,” he said gently. “You’ve found some of my old things. Now… what do you want to know?”
Silence followed. Both boys exchanged glances, the weight of unspoken questions and assumed boundaries hanging between them. They had always assumed this side of their father—his human past—was off-limits, something sacred they weren’t meant to touch.
Finally, Lo’ak spoke, voice small but steady, pointing toward the folded white sheet with his father’s name on it. “What… is this?”
Jake’s gaze softened. He picked up the paper, letting it unfold slightly in his hands. The first words left him quiet, measured, carrying the gravity of memory. “That,” he said, “is the story of how I got hurt back on Earth… and how I tried to fix it.”
He glanced at his sons, meeting their wide-eyed expressions. “It’s a long story, but you’re old enough now to hear it.”
And for the first time, the quiet of the evening held something heavier than curiosity: a bridge, a connection, and the unfolding of a past they never knew they wanted to touch so badly.
The crisp white paper carried the weight of a life he had lived in silence, and the boys’ eyes widened as they leaned closer, their tails brushing each other unconsciously in shared wonder.
Jake held the paper lightly, letting it rest against his palm as he met their eyes, his expression softening with the weight of memory. “I got shot in a war,” he began quietly, voice even but heavy with remembrance. “A bad one. Changed… everything. I couldn’t feel from the waist down after that. Couldn’t move like I used to. Couldn’t do what I thought I’d always be able to do.”
He paused, letting the words settle in the quiet of the tent. “Back on Earth, there are… things called veterans benefits. They’re supposed to help people like me—cover surgeries, rehabilitation, help you get back on your feet.” He let out a short, humorless laugh. “Supposed to. But in reality… it’s never simple. There’s always a form missing, a signature, a bureaucrat who doesn’t understand what it means to need help. I tried, over and over. Tried to get the surgery covered, tried to get enough money to pay for it myself… it was exhausting. Frustrating. Sometimes I thought I’d never get it. Sometimes I didn’t care if I did—I just… I just wanted the chance to stand again.”
His thumb brushed the edge of the paper, slow and absent, and a faint smile touched his mouth—more memory than humor. “Quaritch…” he murmured, shaking his head slightly. “He gave me this after we came back from our… retreat. Norm, Grace, and I.”
Jake paused, eyes unfocusing as if the tent walls had thinned, replaced by open sky and stone. For a moment he was somewhere else entirely—wind cutting clean and cold through the Hallelujah Mountains, Grace’s voice sharp and relentless even when she was exhausted, endless nights by lamplight while Norm hammered Na’vi history into his skull. Days spent learning, hiding, surviving. Nights filled with arguments, breakthroughs, quiet laughter.
“Grace hated that place at first,” he said softly, a hint of fondness in his voice. “Said it was impossible. Too high, too unstable. None of her machines ran as smoothly as they should, claimed the lab would fall out of the sky.” His mouth curved into a small smile. “But she loved it. Both of them did. The isolation. Being that close to the forest, to Eywa. Norm used to say it was the first place that ever felt real.”
Jake’s gaze drifted, distant but warm. “Grace thrived there. Taught us everything she knew, pushed us harder than anyone else ever had. Said if we were going to be there, we were going to do it right.”
He looked back down at the paper, grounding himself in the present. “When we finally came back… Quaritch handed me this like it was just another piece of gear.”
The memory settled, heavy but familiar. Grace was gone—had been for a long time now—but the echo of her presence still lived in moments like this, tucked between words Jake didn’t always say out loud.
“Said it covered everything. All the surgery, everything I couldn’t get through on my own. I kept it… because it was the closest I ever came to having what I wanted. But by the time it really mattered, I didn’t need it anymore. Pandora… the People… my family. It made everything else… irrelevant.”
Lo’ak’s ears flattened and he leaned forward, anger sparking in his eyes, small fists clenching. “That’s… that’s not fair!” he burst out, voice tight. “You…no one helped?”
Neteyam, quieter, didn’t speak. His lips pressed together, eyes tracing the paper in his father’s hands. His tail curled tightly, the grief he felt silent and private, a deep ache for a pain Jake had carried without telling anyone, without letting anyone see.
Jake’s gaze softened toward them both, and he shook his head lightly. “I didn’t carry it to burden anyone,” he said softly. “I just… adapted the best I could. And that’s all anyone can do sometimes.”
The tent felt heavier after that, the sounds of the forest pressing in around them, the boys’ hearts echoing with something they had never imagined before: the knowledge that their father had known fear, frustration, and longing long before they had even existed—and that he had carried it silently, as quietly as the night.
Neteyam picked up the first photograph gently, turning it over in his hands. The image was faded at the edges, sepia-toned, showing a tiny human swaddled in blankets, eyes closed, head impossibly large for the body.
“Is this really you?” he asked quietly, something close to a laugh hidden underneath.
Jake’s lips curved into a small, tender smile. “Yeah,” he said, voice soft. “That was me. Not much different from any other baby, except… maybe a little louder.”
Lo’ak leaned closer, squinting at the photo. “Weird,” he said thoughtfully, his voice tinged with curiosity rather than judgment. “Human babies… their heads are huge. And their bodies… tiny. They look wrong.”
Jake chuckled, a sound unguarded and warm, filling the small space of the tent. “That’s one way to put it,” he said, eyes crinkling with amusement. “They’re fragile. Needs a lot of attention. You’d never survive like that on Pandora.”
The next photo was different: two lanky teenagers, standing side by side, grinning awkwardly at the camera. Jake’s arm draped over the boy next to him. Lo’ak immediately recognized him. “Tommy,” he whispered, pointing.
Jake’s gaze softened, but the edges of his mouth pressed into a thin line. He didn’t need to explain; the boys knew who Tommy was. He spoke quietly, almost as if remembering a distant echo. “Our thirteenth birthday,” he said simply, and for a moment, the laughter and chaos of their earlier play seemed far away.
Neteyam carefully lifted the next photo, and his eyes widened. Jake was younger, standing tall in a military uniform, expression serious, shoulders squared. “That looks like the uniform I’m wearing now,” Neteyam murmured. The connection struck him immediately: the same structure, the same straps, the same insignia he had wrestled with only moments ago, only bigger now. He looked up at his father, awe in his eyes.
Jake nodded slowly, letting the memory linger. “That’s me before Pandora. When I thought my life was just about orders and missions… before everything changed.”
Finally, the last photo lay in the pile, edges frayed from handling. It showed two boys—Jake and Tommy again—standing with two older adults the boys didn’t recognize. Lo’ak’s brow furrowed. “Who are they?”
Jake smiled faintly, the warmth in his eyes tempered by memory. “That’s your grandparents. My parents. They… they raised me, guided me. Made me who I am, in ways you’ll never see but will always feel.”
Neteyam and Lo’ak exchanged a glance, tails brushing instinctively. There was a silence, gentle and almost sacred, the kind that stretches across time and space.
For a moment, the weight of generations settled softly around them: Earth and Pandora, humans and Na’vi, past and present—all connected through this fragile, living history. The family of Jake Sully had always existed, even in worlds they could barely imagine, and now, in the quiet glow of the tent, it felt achingly, beautifully real.
------
Slowly, carefully, the boys began to return everything to its place. Neteyam folded the military uniform with as much precision as he could manage, smoothing the fabric flat and tucking the straps neatly. Lo’ak stacked the other clothes, slinging the utility belt over the folded layers before setting the worn RDA shirt on top. The photographs were wrapped gently in the same faded band that had once held them, placed atop the paper Jake had shown them. Every item returned to its home in the trunk with quiet reverence, as though they were handling not just objects, but pieces of memory.
When the last item was put away, Neteyam exhaled softly, looking up at Jake. “Thanks,” he said, voice steady but carrying an undertone of relief. “For… trusting us.”
Jake crouched down in front of them, his hand resting lightly on the trunk’s edge. His eyes softened, scanning their faces, taking in the tails curled nervously, the flushed cheeks, the small, proud grins. “You don’t have to be like who I was,” he said, voice warm and steady. “You already are who you are, and I couldn’t be prouder of that.”
He stood slowly and set the trunk closed, not slamming it shut, not hiding it away—simply letting it rest, a quiet, tangible record of the life that had come before and still shaped them all. The tent, once heavy with secrets and curiosity, settled back into warmth.
The soft bioluminescent glow bathed the family in gentle light. Nets of shadows and colored flickers danced across the woven walls, echoing the gentle rhythm of shared breaths and quiet understanding. In that moment, the Sully family felt whole—not just in the present, but across the years, across worlds, across everything they had carried and discovered together.
And for the first time that evening, the tent felt full—not with things, or secrets, or curiosity, but with the quiet, enduring pulse of family.