Hey, look at this. This is my second Avatar fic, my fist being a one-shot. Well, here we go. This is going to be eight years in the future, so eight years after the movie. Like you read in the preview, Quaritch has returned. But as a clone. :D I love that bastard.

Anyways, I always thought when I was watching the film, besides it was a Pocahontas/Dancing with Wolves in alien form film; that if they were able to create Avatar bodies, why not clones? I mean, we can clone animals (which I do not approve of), why not humans? So, here we go.

Oh, slight spoiler: Quaritch's clone has a serious flaw to it. I want to see if anyone can catch it. You'll see it in the next chapter.

And I like creating fan-characters. You'll see a total of four or five in here. I promise not to make them Mary-Sues or Stus. I promise. I look to Twilight as my inspiration to not make those kinds of characters. Thank you, chick who made Twilight, you allowed us to see how crappy characters can become.

Enjoy. :D

Just a Copy

Creation

1

Selfridge stood in front of a large glass cylinder container. There was a being submerged in water. It was Miles Quaritch. However, he was not the real Miles Quaritch. He—it—was just a clone. Well, he. The clone was male. Selfridge was lucky. When the real Quaritch had died, his body was partly devoured by Viperwolves and other animals. He was missing a right leg, a few fingers, and his right hand. But his head was still intact. That meant that they could recreate him, which they did. But now he was a soulless body. The clone was naked, wires connected to his head, upper torso, and hands. His finger twitched, and along with his upper lip. Rules when dealing with clones:

One—never tell the clone that it is a clone.

In other experiences when the creator told the created that it was just a copy off of someone who had died, clones tend to become overly depressed and commit suicide. Seventy-five percent of all clones commit suicide after finding out that they were clones. Then there are the other twenty-five percent did not give a damn.

Two—make up stories.

Never tell the clone the truth. Always make up a story and prepare for unexpected questions. Transporting memories from the real brain and into the clone's fresh brain, memories will become distorted and fragmented. The clone might ask questions. Make up shit beforehand.

Three—don't connect to the clone.

Anything could happen. It is best not to connect to any clone.

Selfridge tapped his fingernail against his teeth, looking at the clone. It looked just like him. The scientists even added the scars that marked up his face. They had to make everything perfect. If Quaritch clone was to see a picture of the original Quaritch with the scars, he would start to question. Better to be safe than sorry, right? Selfridge was also several steps ahead. He knew what to tell the clone the minute he woke up. He been under a coma for ten years, and his memories were fragmented. Selfridge then would tell the clone colonel about Pandora.

Dr. Wolfe walked over, scribbling on his clipboard. He was the scientist that created the clone. He was heavy-set and short. His hair was brown, his skin was copper-coloured, and his eyes were green. He had a beard that lined his jaw and a tuff of hair under his lower lip. Dr. Wolf was one of the best cloning doctors in the world. Selfridge wanted to make sure that things would go perfectly well.

"So, when can we start?" Selfridge demanded, still staring at the clone.

Dr. Wolfe glanced up from his clipboard. "Soon," he answered, clicking his pen. "So, you created a story for him?"

Selfridge coolly stared at the scientist. "Yes, of course I do," he answered in an icy tone. "What do you take me for?"

The scientist exhaled through his nose. "Just making sure," he grumbled. "Don't have a cow."

Selfridge glared at the copper-skinned man. "Uh-huh," he snarled. He stared deeply at the clone that was inside of its container. "I want him up and running," the rich man then stated. "Those big blue monkeys think they might have won, but they will be surprised."

He walked over to the window, staring outside. They were in space, the stars twinkled brightly. Below, there was the moon of Pandora. Selfridge glared at the moon. Dr. Wolfe glanced at the rich business owner. "Um, sir, I know you want to have revenge on them," the doctor began, "but you never told me the real reason as to why."

Selfridge stared at the lab-coated man. "Well, when we first arrived on Pandora, we found out about a huge deposit of a very rare mineral," he walked over to his desk, which was located just ten feet away in the next room. On his desk was a tiny machine that levitated a shard of small grey rock. He picked it up between his middle finger and his thumb. Selfridge displayed it before the scientist. "You know what this is?"

Dr. Wolfe knew what it was the moment he laid eyes upon it. "Yes, unobtainium," he answered.

Parker tossed the rock in the air, and then caught it. "Right," he stated. The rich man then retreated to his small make-shift office quarters, and placed the rock back onto its hovering device. Selfridge then came out, standing before the clone. "That sells for 20 million a kilo."

"Of course, it is very rare," Dr. Wolfe stated. "We use it for rockets and such."

Selfridge waved his hand dismissively in the air. "Yeah, yeah, I know," he grumbled. Then he moved over to the window, pointing at the lush moon below. "Those smurfs have shit-loads of it in the ground, and that was why we came to this planet."

"Oh."

"Yeah, as you can see, we got screwed."

"Jake Sully, right?"

"Correct."

"And you want him dead?"

"Not just him!" Selfridge exclaimed heatedly. "I tried being nice to those barbarians, but they would not just leave! I had to get rough with them."

Dr. Wolfe frowned. Then a coy smirk spread across his lips. "And how did that work out?"

"Shut up," Parker growled, his hands flying behind his back. "I just want that mineral; I want that planet to be mined of everything they've got. After that, I can care less of what happens to those big blue freaks."

Dr. Wolfe then heard a beeping sound, and then he turned to the container. Parker followed the scientist's gaze, and noticed that the light was glowing red. The clone was ready. Dr. Wolfe smiled, walking over to the container. "He's ready," the man stated.

The other man looked at the container. Quaritch's leg twitched, and his body trembled. Even though he was not alive, the body would twitch. It was normal. Parker placed his hand on the container, patting it gently. "Well, let's do this," the rich man stated.

Quaritch was wearing a hospital gown. The colour was a sickly blue. Just like an Avatar, he was laying stilly on the examination table. Wires were connected to his head, and the wires were hooked up to several very expensive computers. Other lab coated men and women ran back and forth between flipping switches and turning other switches. Parker watched from the other room, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. Dr. Wolfe stood next to him, staring blankly at the clone. He then chuckled.

"Feels like Frankenstein," Dr. Wolfe whispered in a low chuckle.

Parker was still-faced, and did not respond to the scientist's crack. Dr. Wolfe frowned, and turned to the other scientists. A female scientist glanced up at her boss, her hands hovering over a series of switches. Dr. Wolfe nodded, and she flipped the other switches. The screens of all the computers flashed out numbers and such. The electricity slowly coursed through the wires, and to the clone. The Quaritch clone started to twitch more. A screen that showed the clone's brain began to show life. Electricity currents were shown, and the brain was becoming active. Then there heart rate began to start. It was slow, and then it began to pick up on speed. Breath filled the clone's lungs, and then . . .

Quaritch opened his eyes.