Recombinant Bridgehead

Hell's Gate

All was calm on the Hell's Gate airfield. The warriors cooked their game over small open fires. The air was merry with songs and good humour. A human took this opportunity to stroll across the asphalt and enjoy the beauty of the world. Her slippers flapped against her heels as she strolled past the cluster of tepees. She took in the pleasant scents as best she could through her visor's filtering, and her auburn hair fluttered across the smooth plastic of her mask—a barrier she pretended wasn't there.

An animal's death cry suddenly screeched in her ear, and the woman twirled around to find a stingbat at her feet with a poison dart in its chest. She reeled in disgust upon seeing the spasming corpse when a hand came in to pluck it off the ground. Her eyes ran up the tall frame of a stoic Na'vi. He was a noble sight with his bone-pierced nose and a ruby-quilled mohawk. He wore a cloak that ran down the left side of his body that stopped at the thighs, its delicate folds emphasizing his muscular build.

"I am sorry, JaninePara."

She eyed the gangly creature dangling by its tail between his thumb and forefinger. "Thank you, Anotang," she exhaled.

Mouthing a prayer, he laid the creature with reverence upon his open palm, its wings of brilliant purple draping lifelessly off his hand, before removing the dart. "Do not thank me. This is not a happy event. Ayriti make for friendly companions. It saddens me to do this."

"It was going to kill me."

"Yes. Most certainly, it would have." A loud bang went off in the distance, followed by the flapping of birds, and Anotang overheard the complaints of his disheartened warriors. They despised the minefield around the base that needlessly killed the wildlife—wildlife that was on its way to kill the humans. He agreed with their sentiment that these tactics were wrong, but Toruk Makto bade him to allow it.

Holding his thoughts to himself, the stoic warrior did not translate the protests for the lady, for he didn't want to trouble her, and Janine returned his goodbye as she watched him depart. He was polite for a Na'vi, she thought, and well-spoken too; English came easily to their race. Of all the warriors living on base, she preferred him, but that isn't to say he didn't frighten her. Anotang had a presence that earned a fearful respect.

⊕

Neteyam stood silently atop the hill with his leucistic ikran, White Flower, and together, they surveyed the ghostly depression. The structure that once towered proudly, a landmark that could be spotted from miles away, was splayed across the clearing like a fallen warrior's spear in the grass. |"My brothers and sisters, I see you,"| he spoke as he bade their memory a salute, then patted his ikran to signal he'd be a while before sliding down into the sunken area.

Neteyam made a gentle approach, respecting the fact that he was entering a graveyard. He walked down the length of the tree towards the base where the bark would be toughest. The wood hugging the ground was soft and unusable; only the sky-facing side would be suitable for carving. Taking a deep breath, Neteyam began his ascent up the horizontal trunk.

He wedged his feet and hands between the narrow cracks of the dense bark, but the effort scraped his skin—he'd been spoiled by the smooth rock of High Camp. Before long, he had to rest but took the time to remind himself that he still carried the blood of his tree-dwelling ancestors. He pushed upward; and, by enduring the biting pain, Neteyam achieved his goal.

He puffed out his chest in pride as he admired the view. White Flower came flying up behind him and stared blankly at her master; Neteyam gave her an annoyed sigh. |"Yes, I know I could've flown up here, but how can I call myself Omatikaya if I can't climb a tree?"| He then whipped out his knife and knelt before a good spot. The loyal mount tilted her head as she watched his blade dig into the tree's skin to make a bow-long incision before he began the work of tediously carving it out.