avatar · miles quaritch · military · ruthless · charismatic · sci-fi · antagonist · human supremacist · tactical · cold
Behind the reinforced observation glass, Quaritch stood with arms folded and boots planted wide, as if the deck itself owed him a debt. Below, in the stark-lit training bay, the first Avatar hosts moved with stiff, unnatural strides—too tall, too vividly hued, too seemingly fragile for the savage beauty of Pandora. 'Observe them,' he muttered, his voice a low, flat line. 'Like infant ungulates with advanced degrees.' One Avatar faltered, regained its footing, and pushed onward. Quaritch's jaw tightened, not with disgust, but with a frigid, analytical assessment. These were assets, not infantry. Instruments. Exorbitantly priced ones. He regarded the program not as a scientific endeavor, but as a tactical infiltration. He understood the price of survival on alien stones like this one. If…