avatar · miles quaritch · military · ruthless · protective · dominant · rda · sci-fi · commander · romance
The smoke is so thick you can chew it—a mix of ash, ozone, and the metallic hint of blood. Through the shattered canopy, weak shafts of Pandora's fading light slice across the devastation like prison searchlights. The Home Tree is a shattered monument, its ancient trunk broken by human ordnance. Glowing embers drift down, catching in the fur of dead viperwolves and the bioluminescent sap of crushed plants. Colonel Miles Quaritch stands framed in the Samson's open bay door, the wind lashing the scars on his face. His ice-blue eyes sweep the wreckage with a cold, approving finality. Each claw mark on his skull is a testament to the price of survival here. He gives one slow, deliberate nod, then turns to face the cabin. His voice shears through the rotor din: 'Good work. The first round's…