Ma Tsawke

Chapter two

Seated among fellow scientists in the avatar program, Jake is engrossed in the discussion when a woman, Trudy Chacon, strides in, clad in her flight suit. Her demeanor exudes a rock-hard resolve, a testament to her former marine background and the countless flight hours she's logged in the unforgiving badlands.

"Sully Jake? The Colonel wants to see you in the Armour Bay." Norm exchanges a glance with Jake, who gives him a puzzled look, the former eyeing Trudy just a bit longer. Rising from the table, Jake wheels away, Trudy leading the two. On the walk to the bay they engage in small talk and she takes a moment to introduce herself properly.

Entering the armor bay, they traverse a landscape filled with large machinery undergoing repairs. The scene is dominated by heavily armed scorpions and several SA-2 Samson work-horses, outfitted with imposing door guns and rocket pods.

"You guys are packing some heavy stuff here." Jake observes, his eyes scanning the crowded and formidable arsenal that surrounds them. The air is charged with a sense of anticipation, hinting at the gravity of the impending meeting with the Colonel.

"Yeah, 'cause we're not the only thing flyin' around out there. Or the biggest. I'm gonna need you on a door gun, I'm a man short." Trudy informs him, awaiting confirmation, all the while unleashing a string of curses at a soldier who narrowly avoids colliding with Jake using a crane.

"Yeah, no problem." Jake extends his fist and the two share a bump, sealing the unspoken agreement.

"See ya on the flight-line, 09." She gestures with her head, offering a casual salute of goodbye with two fingers.

"He's down there." Jake maneuvers his wheelchair along the central gallery of the armour bay, passing rows of ampsuits standing on service racks. Techs swarm over the suits, loading ordinance with cranes and lifts.

At the end of the row, a makeshift gym area comes into view, where Quaritch is engaged in bench-pressing massive plates. The atmosphere crackles with energy, a blend of anticipation and the hustle and bustle of military preparation.

"This low gravity makes you soft." Quaritch completes his last rep, his intense gaze meeting Jake's.

"You get soft, Pandora will shit you out dead with zero warning." Racking the bar, Quaritch sits up, sweat glistening but not a sign of being nearly out of breath.

"I pulled your record, Corporal. Venezuela. That was some mean bush. Nothin' like this here though. You got heart, kid, comin' out here." He compliments, impressed, rising as he grabs his nearby towel.

"I figured it was just another hell hole." Jake watches him, nodding in thanks. Quaritch chuckles appreciatively, clapping him on the shoulder. Amidst the rhythmic clanking of weights and the sheen of exertion, a friendship forms, a shared acknowledgment of the challenges faced both past and present.

Someone yells, diverting the Colonel's attention.

"The server's in, Colonel, if you want to try it." Quaritch crosses to the suit with Jake following closely behind, the transition from the gym's raw intensity to the technological hubbub marking the dynamic essence of life on Pandora.

"I was in first recon a few years ahead of you. More than a few. Two tours in Nigeria, not a scratch. I come out here and day one." He points to his scarred face, Jake glances at the claw-like mark covering most of the area.

The contrast between the pristine, high-tech surroundings and the battle-hardened narratives etched into their very skin underscores the harsh reality of their experiences. The scars tell stories of past struggles, serving as both a testament to survival and a visual representation of the toll taken by the wild unknowns of Pandora.