I am on a roll!

General Blackwood

22

Quaritch looked heatedly at the general, his hands clenching tightly. His fingernails were digging into his flesh. Blackwood crossed his arms, smirking. Selfridge was looking at the clone, his face blank. Other soldiers filled the room, all strong and brute looking—all smirking. Rajian joined the room, looking around.

"Crap," he muttered.

A soldier pushed the Indian man into the room, and roughly closed the door. Quaritch glanced back, his face tight. He then turned back to Selfridge. "You . . ." he hissed.

"Quaritch, meet General Blackwood, your replacement," Selfridge sneered.

Blackwood arched a red eyebrow, smirking smugly. "Hey, man," he stated, holding out his hand.

Quaritch looked blankly at the hand, and then up at the general. His eyes narrowed, not wanting to touch this man's hand. Blackwood drew back his hand. "No hard feelings, right?" he asked, placing his hands to his hips.

The clone's face was firm, yet hateful.

"I guess so."

Quaritch turned to Selfridge. "Get him out of here!" he ordered.

"I don't think so," Selfridge grumbled. "You don't run the show here—I do. I know what you have been doing. I know about you making friends with those big blue monkeys. I knew, but I let it slide because he was coming."

Quaritch glared at the general, and then he turned to the business man. "You were planning this all along," he snarled.

Selfridge shrugged. "Yeah, I did," he stated with a smile. He turned to Rajian. "Isn't that right, Rajian?"

The Indian man glanced up, a ghost of a gasp going past his lips. He then hung his head, looking at the metal floor. Quaritch looked at his so-called "friend" with a surprised expression, just staring at him unbelieving. "Rajian? What is he talking about?" he demanded.

Rajian glanced at the clone through hooded eyes, and then glanced back down at his shoes in shame. Quaritch felt his chest rising up at down, his heart beating in his breast. His own friend turned on him. His face twisted in anger, looking at the Indian man. "How could you?" he snarled in a tone that was acid. "You coward! You God damn coward!"

The Indian man cringed at his friend, holding his hands tightly together in fear. He glanced at his shoes, not wanting to look into Quaritch's seething steel blue eyes. "I couldn't allow anyone else getting hurt," Rajian whispered. He lifted up his head, looking the clone dead in the eyes. "I'm so sorry."

Quaritch felt his upper lip twitch, stepping away from his once friend. "Coward!" he chafed heatedly, and then glared at the general. He then looked at Selfridge. The business man smirked, his arms folding over his breast. "And I know about that Na'vi girl you are going after," he stated.

Pure horror struck the clone's face, and his heart stopped for just a moment.

"That's right, we know," he stated, twirling his pen between his fingers. "Right, general?"

Blackwood stepped forward, towering slightly over the colonel. He was not afraid of the general. No. why should he be? Quaritch mimicked it, stepping forward in front of the army man's face. "You don't scare me," he snarled darkly.

Blackwood only deviously smirked. Selfridge's voice drawled: "Well, general, could you get rid of this trash? I don't feel like having him in my office."

Before the clone could react, Blackwood's fist collided with his face, and there was only darkness and pain.

The world around him was exceedingly fuzzy. His vision began to restore itself, and he looked at the smirking general. He quickly glanced around his surroundings. He was in an enclosed cell—metal walls surrounding him. His hands were handcuffed, and he hung from a thick metal pipe. His feet were tied by rope, and his gun was on a desk on the other side of the room. They were alone.

"So, Miles, right?" Blackwood asked. "Like your new room?"

Quaritch snarled, trying his hardest to squirm out of his holdings. Blackwood merely laughed. His laugh was deep, throaty, and diabolical. It was very disturbing.

"Don't even try," he said darkly. "You can't get out."

"Don't touch the Na'vi," the clone snapped.

"Hey, this is my job," Blackwood said, shrugging it off. "And besides, I like to kill."

"You bastard," he growled, shaking around in his confinement. "You god damn bastard. The Na'vi were here first! You can't take their land!"

"I think I can," Blackwood stated, laughing deviously as he did so. "It'll be very fun, I mean, I get to rape all the women I want."

Quaritch growled. "You sick bastard," he snarled.

Blackwood fumbled through Quaritch's vest pockets. "So, where's your cell phone?" he asked, plucking out a cell phone. He turned it on, clicking through the pictures section. "You, where's your bitch at?"

Quaritch thrust his feet out, Blackwood jumping back before it hit his body. "Don't you call her that! I never took a picture of her!" he yelled.

"Oh, really?" he asked, showing the phone to the clone.

The clone shivered when he saw the image. It was Tu'sky, and she was laying in the tree, her tail dripping lazily over the side. He remembered when he took that picture. It was about two weeks ago when he was allowed to see the Na'vi. He saw her in that tree, and he could not take his eyes off her beautiful body. Quaritch then remembered taking the picture. Blackwood's grizzled laugh brought him back to reality.

"Well, I can see why you like her," he stated with a twisted grin, looking lustfully at the image. "Hell, I like to fu—"

"Don't you touch her, or else," Quaritch hissed, his eyes firm.

Blackwood stared at the clone, grinning. "Are you threatening me, Miles?" he asked, tossing the cell phone into the air.

"No, that's a promise."

The general laughed, placing the cell phone back into the vest pocket. "You can't do shit," he stated smugly. "I can't wait for tomorrow. War. I love every minute of it. And I can't wait to find your girl, and kill her slowly as I rape her. I'll make sure to record it for you."

Quaritch spat on general, and Blackwood recoiled, whipping the saliva off his face. The general laughed, and then left the clone in the room alone. The clone felt utterly worthless. For a few moments, he just hung there, looking at the floor. There was nothing he could do. Nothing at all.

No.

He poked up his head.

No. You can do this.

Quaritch looked up at his handcuffed hands, and then he looked up at the ceiling. There was a sealed space. Air ducts. He turned his wrist around in the cuff. The metal began to dig into his flesh, blood rolling down his arm. The skin stung as he turned it around in the cuff. His wrist bled, and bled. The pain was gut-wrenching, but he ignored it. After five minutes of twisting his wrist in the metal cuff, his hand slipped through, and he collapsed on the floor. He groaned, gripping his wrist. It stung, and blood gushed out of his flesh. Ignore the seething pain. He pulled out his knife from his pant leg, ruining the other cuff, and it tumbled to the floor. The clone then cut the ropes. He lashed out his hand, rushing to the table, taking the gun. He placed the gun into his vest. Quaritch took the chair, moving it over to the ducts, and stepped onto it. He soon found himself crawling through the ducts. He had no idea where he was going, but when the bottom of the ducts gave under him, he fell on the floor. Quaritch was in Dr. Wolfe's office. The heavy-set man jumped, and looked at the clone.

"Miles?" he questioned.

The clone glanced up. "Doc," he breathed. "Please, don't turn me in."

"What are you doing?"

"I can't allow Blackwood and Selfridge to harm the Na'vi."

Dr. Wolfe sighed, walking over to the clone. "I understand," he breathed. "I don't either."

"So you're not going to do anything?"

"I can't, but you can."

Quaritch looked at his creator. Dr. Wolfe placed his hands on the clone's shoulders, gently squeezing. "Son, there's something I must tell you . . ."