The tumultuous uproar of Bridgehead's residential sector was not unlike the cities of Earth during rush hour; the unpaved roads were abuzz with activity, ranging from haggard construction workers to impatient men in suits, each one on their way to do more work.

For the recoms, school was out; but, contrasted to the tired workers, these soldiers were heading back to camp for some leisure. The obnoxious bunch clambered onto their transport, pushing and shoving limbs to make room; Quaritch didn't bother climbing in. "You head on without me. I got business here." He waved on.

Lyle leaned over the truck's edge. "Is it private, sir?"

"Why, you wanna join?"

Lyle nodded eagerly, and with a gesture from his colonel, he hopped out of the truck with a loud "whump." Quaritch rolled his eyes at Lyle's grunt of satisfaction upon hearing the sound.

"What are you staying in the city for?" Fike asked aloud.

"I'm going to discuss our pay with the boss."

The recoms looked at each other stupefied; they had completely forgotten about wages. Before they could ask further questions, they were jerked rearward by the truck's propulsion and sent away.

Left in the wake of the curling dust, Wainfleet turned to Quaritch. "We get paid?"

"That's what I want to find out."

With tails bobbing behind them, they set out to find Parker's office, a location the overseer had conveniently forgot to mention. Wainfleet followed suit but was distracted by all the sights of the unfinished city. An ugly cloud of dust and dingy smoke perpetually hung overhead, yet Lyle still spun on his heels to take in every angle with boyish curiosity. Every so often, he had to jog to catch up. The colonel's eyes widened when he spotted an oncoming vehicle headed for his distracted companion. Quickly, he grabbed Lyle's queue and whipped him out of the way. Wainfleet was thrown against a wall as the machine sped past. He could only blink at Quaritch.

"Eyes up front, Lyle!" he snarled.

"Sorry, sir."

Quaritch arched his lip as he surveyed the area. "Now then… Where the hell is Parker?" They looked about the intersection when Lyle caught sight of something above.

"Hey, sir. Look!"

He directed him to a twenty-metre-wide digital screen bolted to a communications tower. It displayed an artistic rendition of the recombinants; they were depicted suited up in tactical gear and brandishing rifles. The artist's cubic style blacked out their faces, favouring, instead, to emphasize their alien strength. A bold white caption read "Humanity's Last Hope."

"Guess we're celebrities."

"Yeah…" Quaritch bobbed, a little less certain about the propaganda. "I wonder if the folks around here realize we're reanimated." He took several pauses to look around. Quaritch knew very little about the layout of the settlement, and with construction going on everywhere, it was difficult to discern one street from the next; in the distance, the most he could see were unfinished buildings peeking over the horizon, with their skeletal structures yet to be coated by silver plating. The men were forced to step aside for a march of spider bots: automated construction robots on their way to crawl up towers and weave steel bars together. Dump trucks filled with gravel lumbered down the dirt road, followed by a concrete mixer and then a bobcat and then a backhoe. Wainfleet and Quaritch had no choice but to cover their ears to block out all the beeping shrills. They trekked down another turgid road, passing by plots where grass was desperately trying to grow, but the climate made it dry and yellow. The day was getting on, and being nowhere close to finding Parker, Quaritch stopped to ask a worker for directions; when shouting didn't work, he had to lean over just so the portly man could hear him. The worker then pointed north and went on his way. They eventually found themselves in a rural area populated with grey warehouses and parked construction equipment.

"Hold on," Quaritch sneered, looking around. "This doesn't look like the residential section." As he attempted to decipher their whereabouts, Lyle made for an unattended water hose. Quaritch beckoned over a worker from across the empty road, and a bearded man approached.

"Where's the administrator section?"

The man gave him a blank stare. "Sir, this is the industrial periphery."

It took a moment for the reconnaissance Marine to appreciate the fact that he couldn't have led them farther away from their destination. Quaritch palmed his face in disgust.

Wainfleet ran over, dragging the hose with him. "Now what?"

"We circle back!" Quaritch exclaimed, pinching the hose from Lyle, for he, too, needed to cool down.

They trudged down a stretch of burning asphalt that never seemed to end. Neither of the burly men wanted to admit they were tired, but eventually, both stopped to rest. Hands on his knees, Quaritch panted as he squinted at his surroundings when he spotted a massive fuel truck rolling their way. Quickly, he tapped Lyle before sprinting after it. Executing a successful leap, he latched onto the truck's extension ladder, where he promptly reached back for the tagging Lyle and hoisted him aboard. The two joyriders, dangling off the side, high-fived each other in triumph, then scaled the tank's piping.

They inhaled the rushing wind with a smile and politely waved at the astonished on-lookers. Lyle's carefree attitude throughout the day was so infectious that even Miles was starting to have fun. Quaritch stood up and walked down the tank to get a better view of Bridgehead. He crossed his arms with his signature aplomb and surveyed the city; this proved to be a bad idea, however, when the vehicle suddenly braked and flung the colonel backwards. Wainfleet barely had a chance to see if he was okay before the driver poked his head out to shout at the stowaways. Guilt written all over their impish faces, the two sprung from the tank and took off down an alley like the delinquents they were. Wainfleet peered around the corner for any signs of pursuit and signalled to his colonel when the coast was clear.

"C'mon, we have a suit to shake down." Quaritch sniffed.

After a long walk and several asking-of-directions later, they, at last, reached an administrator building which could help them locate Parker. Wainfleet was reluctant to tap his colonel on the shoulder and point out that the lecture hall they had started from was right across the street. The colonel's face pinched, and he palmed it once again, desperately wishing he hadn't brought a witness to his incompetence. Shrugging it off, Quaritch pushed open the hermetic doors of the building's vestibule and walked inside. He stood in place when he suddenly felt a grab at his tail and, in turn, stared at Lyle, who was holding it in his grip. He timidly gestured to the vaulted door that slammed shut behind them. "You— You got to mind the door, sir…"

Quaritch snatched back his appendage.

They patiently waited as the air filtered before proceeding, with neither relishing having to switch back to their wearisome breathers. The lobby of the cone-shaped structure was, thankfully, spacious enough for their height, but the pristineness of the Oxford Blue floor was ruined by the mud they tracked in. The secretary at the wraparound desk nearly had a heart attack upon seeing the giants. She greeted them timidly.

"Can I help you?"

The colonel politely bowed his head to the woman as he strutted over. "We're looking for Selfridge."

"Oh, Selfridge. Yes. He's out at the moment but will return shortly. Would you like to wait for him?"

His ears flicked. "Sure."

Quaritch read the uneasiness in her eyes and followed the line of sight to Lyle leaning before a display tank. The sniper was so focused on the sumptuous Pandora fish that he was completely still, save for the gradual sways of his tail.

"Don't eat the fish, Lyle," Quaritch remarked while yanking him away towards the seating area.

The two recombinants took one look at the dinky chairs and knew they had little choice but to slum it on the floor. They ended up waiting for some time. Lyle eventually grew tired of drawing up his mask and just left it strapped over his mouth as he slouched in boredom. His colonel sat upright, shrugging at the businessmen who glowered as they passed. A dark-skinned man with a full beard entered the building. The recoms paid him no notice, that is, until the secretary called out to them.

"Oh, sirs? You wanted to see Mr. Selfridge?"

They cocked their quizzical heads at the equally confused man.

"Mr. Jamil Selfridge," she clarified.

"No," Quaritch tried to rectify upon getting up. "I want to speak to Parker Selfridge."

"Who?"

"Parker Selfridge," he repeated, hoping it'd ring a bell, but it was clear she'd never heard of the man. "The overseer of Project Phoenix? The recombinant team? Us?"

"Hold on." She scrunched up her nose as she typed away on her computer. Her transparent screen flashed with paragraphs of multicoloured text, orbital images, photos of many different people before ultimately coming up with Mr. Selfridge's profile. "It says here, his office is in… Oh." Her voice trailed off, and she murmured to herself. "Oh, he's not liked."

"What do you mean?"

The secretary giggled as she read his bio in full. "His office is located in the industrial core—in the periphery."

She didn't understand what possessed the recom to suddenly slap his own face.

It took a few, albeit more discreet, rides for them to reach the periphery again. The secretary had scribbled down the address on a scrap of paper, and the directions brought them to a colourless building; the men in protective gear walking in and out indicated it belonged to foremen.

The recoms looked at the tiny vaulted door and then at each other.

"You first, Alice." Quaritch winked.

Wainfleet sized up his opponent before braving entry. With some exerted wriggling, he managed to squeeze his way into the vestibule, and Quaritch followed. They squirmed about inside the narrow space, trying to put some distance between their bodies, to no avail. With heads uncomfortably close, they impatiently waited for the green light. It flicked on, the door swung open, and the two fumbled over one another in their rush to escape.

Finding themselves in a dim foyer, Quaritch took up his breather as he fingered out the paper from his back pocket. He unfolded the note in his palm and strained his eyes in an attempt to decipher the smudgy letters. Wainfleet leaned over his shoulder and read the door number aloud. "Q-8."

They looked at the doors on ground level, all labelled with "A"; the ones on the floor above were labelled "B" and so forth. Their eyes trailed up past the many, many stories, accessible only by a narrow set of stairs winding up the rectangular complex.

Quaritch swore.

They kept tripping over the tiny steps that buckled under their great weight. The two blue men were bombarded with complaints from vocal tenants who had to shimmy their way past the hulking bodies. At some point, Wainfleet had enough and decided to free-style the ascent. Reaching for a set of stairs above, he hoisted himself onto the guardrails and proceeded that way. After signalling the colonel to do the same, the two clambered up the steely rails, creating a frightful noise that shook the entire building. Office doors swung open as irate men and women peered out to source the cause of the racket.

The pandemonium reached the ears of Parker Selfridge. He had a pile of papers on his desk, and the rattling outside caused a stack of them to slump off. Parker got up to investigate. He opened his door to nothing when, all of a sudden, the heads of Lyle and Miles leaned into view. "Geeze!" He jumped back, clutching at his heart.

"Hi-ya, boss. We had a helluva time trying to find you." Miles grinned.

The two recoms crouched into his office as Parker left to assess the damage. One scan of the warped guard rails, and he knew the repair costs would be high. Hoping to avoid getting slapped with the bill, Parker surreptitiously snuck back inside and locked the door.

Quaritch and Wainfleet surveyed the dive and observed it was a far cry from the ritzy office Selfridge once enjoyed back at Hell's Gate.

"What brings you here?" Parker gulped, moving to seek sanctuary behind his desk; he would have offered his guests a seat—if there was one.

"Sorry to bother you like this. I see you're busy," Quaritch said as he returned the fallen stack of papers to his desk. "It's just that you didn't mention anything about our wages yet."

"Oh, right," he wheezed, shuffling the papers in order. "Yeah, I've been going over that. Your point account hasn't been activated yet. It's still in the processing phase."

"What point account?" he asked from behind his breather.

"Every citizen has their own account that Bridgehead manages. It operates on a type of merit system."

Quaritch was incredulous. "Like in good deeds?"

"Well, it depends on your contribution towards the development of the city. Only provisional, I'm told. Provisional for five years now…" he griped. "It works like a barter system. You can exchange points with people for goods. If you have a high-risk contract job, Bridgehead doles you more points. Low risk, and you get low pay. They want to encourage 'selfless commitment' to the 'building of a better tomorrow.' I swear the guys who coined that have been orbiting too long. Anyway, crime docks the percentage you earn, but charity, I'm told, multiplies it—hell if I know how they determine charity. And it's all digital."

"How Christian. So, how much do we get paid?"

"Each? Fifteen thousand a month."

"Is that a lot?"

"Compared to mine, it is. The number depends on the success of your missions. The better you do, the higher the point balance—for the both of us."

"Oh, I see," Quaritch mused. "We're your meal ticket."

"You guys impress the city, that impresses the investors, then that goes to my account."

"They the guys funding all of this?" he asked, circling his finger in the air. He was referring to the city, not the pitiful office, but it worked in that sense too.

"Yes, they live above. In space, I mean. Their headquarters haven't been completed yet. Those swanky offices will take the longest." Selfridge diverted temporarily to fish some medicine out of his desk; Quaritch could only theorize it was heart-related.

"Last we talked, you said something about being stuck until Bridgehead completes production?"

"I was allowed an opening on account of you guys."

"In the periphery?"

"In the periphery," Selfridge sighed, downing a pill. He bolted up when Wainfleet's fiddling caused a shelf of knick-knacks to fall over. "Please don't touch that!" he fruitlessly cried, then slumped back into his chair, trying to steady his heart rate.

"Can we buy anything in the meantime?"

"Why? It's not like most of our goods would be of use to you." Selfridge held up a mess of papers. "I'm already going through the paperwork to approve custom-made goods for you guys. You wouldn't believe how many little things you need. Clothing, toiletries, bedding, cutlery, feminine care—"

"Feminine care?"

"Surprised me too. Anyway, once your accounts clear, I'll bring you your cards. You can use them to make purchases like renting the gym or having drinks sent to you. You're lucky you guys need so many custom goods. Those costs are covered automatically."

"What if I want to buy something today?"

Selfridge gave him a wary look. "Well, if you want, you can tax it to my account," he said, hesitantly reaching for his card.

Quaritch lowered his breather to politely take the tiny red slip. "Hey, 'preciate it. That's real generous of you." He flashed it to Lyle before sliding it into his pocket.

"Don't go splurging with that."

"Oh, don't worry. We'll be prudent. Right, Lyle?"

The nature of Lyle's thumbs-up was not reassuring for Parker, but it was too late. "W-What do you want it for?"

The colonel shrugged. "Oh, things."

They proceeded out the door, and Wainfleet turned to wave, followed by a "Thanks, Pops!"

Selfridge buried his face in his palms as he listened to their terrible clatter down the stairs. Then, for a brief moment, he had peace, only for it to be interrupted by the giant who suddenly burst back in.

"Oh, that reminds me. You got a map of this city?"

After purchasing a ride from a flatbed driver, Wainfleet and Quaritch were dropped off at an army barracks. The air was a noisome mix of sweat and urine, but Lyle didn't know that's what he was smelling, only that it reeked. "What are we doing here?" he asked, scrunching his nose.

"You'll see."

A strolling foot soldier caught sight of the recoms and gave them a leer. "Hey, guys, check it out. The Blue Man Group is paying us a visit." A dozen or more unsavoury men gathered around the two ex-humans.

"Hey, kittens," one of them sang in a seedy voice.

Lyle stiffened, but his tail whipped involuntarily.

"Cute tails you got there. Look at it go."

"So, what does 'Humanity's Last Hope' want with us dumb grunts?"

Quaritch stepped forward. "I want to know where you get your work done."

"Woo, you cuties are plenty fine as is. You already got those stripes. Ink would just ruin it."

Quaritch didn't appreciate the cat calls, and his ears went back despite himself.

"Oh, look at their ears. They go back when they're mad. That's adorable." A third whistled.

The individual bold enough to meow quickly paid for his folly. Without warning, Quaritch hissed directly into the man's face, and the burly man fell backwards. The recombinant kept him there by hovering his fangs over his visor and letting his hot breath fog up the plastic. The others backed away in fear with hands ready at their holsters. They watched the leonine twitches of Quaritch's face, the pinning of his bloodshot eyes, and truly believed he might have eaten the man alive. "Still think we're adorable?" he purred.

With the power dynamic returning in their favour, Wainfleet maneuvered to crouch over their victim. "Hey, if you like it so much,"—Lyle picked his cuspids—"maybe we can get you the blue treatment too?"

Upon making his point, Quaritch directed Lyle back up. "Now then," he readdressed the shaking men. "Where's your parlour?"

The tattoo parlour was a reconverted industrial garage that was hermetically sealed so individuals weren't burdened by breathing masks. See-through tarps hung against the walls, rivers of electrical cords ran in every direction, and heavy metal rattled from the tinny speakers nailed to the ceiling corners. Enlistees of HAF, from sailors to aviators to the watchmen that patrolled the city—all kinds of servicemen rested on various crates, drinking their homebrew since the Bridgehead brands didn't cut it for them. Clients would sit on exercise benches while the artists performed their meticulous work; in the case of the recoms, the giants had to sit on the floor and lean against the benches like they were armrests.

There is a reason why body art is so integral to military culture. The tattoo is an act of self-awareness. A soldier's memories are some of the most vivid and graphic. While others would rather forget, and rightly so, these individuals take ownership of the pain. Whether it's a benign reference to a joke or honouring a fallen comrade, the tattoo is an acknowledgement that their war memories have forever shaped them.

Quaritch did not skimp on the job; he had hired the best artist with every intention of repaying Parker. He wanted his old tattoo; so, coming prepared that day, he had brought with him a photo from his past. The artist digitally transferred it to her glass pad and rested it on her tray, referencing it as she worked. Occasionally, she would lift up the data pad to compare the photo with her progress, and every time it came into view, Quaritch found himself looking away.

Lyle sat next to him, getting a modification of his old tattoos. This time, the helmet-wearing skull on his right shoulder would be Na'vi; Lyle was really beginning to like the fangs.

Quaritch's artist rolled back on her stool to gaze at her masterpiece. "She's coming along just fine," she said, smacking her gums; the woman didn't have front teeth but never shied from a smile. "First time doing blue." She squinted her face with a tongue poking out. "The stripes make it a bit hard to gauge detail…" Upon finishing another important feather, she set down her tool to undo her bandana, shaking out the dust from her frizzy hair before tying it back on. Using the interval to admire it, Miles gave her a thumbs up while pressing his breather to his face, then complimented her skill once his mouth was free.

"We could get this done in one sitting, but I don't want to rush those pretty feathers," she said while tapping the eagle on her pad. "So many artists just half-ass the feathers—do the sh****est job. Buzz a couplea blobs and call it good. Not from Marjorie, you'll get that." They bumped fists, and the bubbly woman returned to her magnum opus. "So, what's the story behind this beauty?"

"It's nose art from a plane I went down on back during the 2nd African War."

The lazy lids of a few tipsy foot soldiers raised. Quaritch saw the attention he drew and wasn't about to disappoint. "Yeah, that s***show," he bragged. And, by then, eyes were bugging out. "Off the coast of Ghana, I was aboard an N8 with several of my buddies. We were on our way to Abuja to deal with that infestation of tuskens. I was seventeen and dumber than a sack of rocks—we all were, save for our commander. 'Ironass,' we called him. He didn't like getting saddled with a bunch of greenhorns, and—looking back—I wouldn't either. One of my mates was bragging about his girl when a flash threw me to the back of the cabin like a popping grit on a hot pan. An insurgent had fired a rocket launcher at us, broadside—blast blew a gaping hole in our fuselage. It was pitch black, and all I heard were the screams of men as they were sucked out of the plane. I would've too, but the blast entangled me in some cargo netting. I held on for dear life as we swan-dived into the coast. Our pilots managed to guide the craft along the incline of a dune, which kept it from flipping. After the crash, I cried out like a madman but got no response. My commander was dead, along with every buddy I went through training with. Knee-deep in enemy territory, I knew it'd be a matter of minutes before the sand mites would come to pick us off. I untangled myself from the netting and donned an infrared helmet to scan the horizon for combatants—the hills beyond were filled with the devils.

"Now, we had a s***load of weapons aboard, so I had two options—blow ourselves sky-high so they wouldn't fall into terrorists' hands or use them to single-handedly fight off the horde. Remember, I was dumber than a sack of rocks." He paused to appreciate the harmonious chuckles. "With a broken leg, I grabbed an M203, positioned myself behind what remained of our fuselage, and launched a frag right on top of them. When the rats realized they had a live one, they opened fire. Their bullets exploded against the steel frame, and I took several grazes. After launching my last grenade, I was forced to sniper out the rest—and I fired at anything that so much as twitched. How I survived?—I don't know. But I was the one with the night scope, not them.

"My fingers were raw by the time reinforcements came—didn't even know the pilots were alive to radio for help. Was told the whole thing lasted about six hours. Government types thanked me for preserving thousands in weaponry, but the two pilots sought me out for another reason. One of them was a Blackfoot. He told me that he had christened that plane 'Running Eagle,' hence the art. And to thank me for saving their lives, dubbed me that too."

"Running Eagle?" Marjorie smiled knowingly.

Quaritch didn't understand what made her so delighted.

"That's an ancient warrior from my tribe. Imma Blackfoot too. She saved her daddy's life when his horse was shot inna ambush. The name means 'to rise above limitations.' You see, man's bound to earth—he can only run—but the eagle flies above all that. She went against all odds to save another from many—just like you did."

"You mean the colonel did," a stray voice corrected from across the room.

Quaritch didn't respond. They had been advertised to the public as copies and nothing more and wasn't going to waste his breath correcting every individual.

They left the barracks, pleased with the work but not with the leers. Despite the prejudice against his kind, Quaritch was still going to recommend the parlour to his team, provided they go in groups.

The star their planet orbited, Rigil Kentauru, was retiring for the day. They were minutes from twilight by the time the men reached the suburbs, having to pass through it to reach Homestead two miles off. Tired from the day's peregrination, they hungered for a meal and a shower.

"You never mentioned that story before," Lyle brought up, having dwelt on it the entire walk.

"No one's ever asked me about it," he dismissed. In truth, Quaritch felt his memories of Earth were beginning to fade and recounted the story to ensure their survival.

Lyle frowned. "An N8 is a covert plane. How'd they manage to shoot you down?"

"An ally had purposely leaked our flight path. He was arrested in Venezuela and brought to the States, where he was found guilty of treason and executed."

The cold delivery of this loaded fact caused Wainfleet to stop in his tracks as he listened to him continue.

"He had this idea that America had no business being in Africa and wanted to help the 'oppressed' insurgents. For his noble cause, he sacrificed my team." He stopped and turned. "You know, if he did it for money, it might've been easier to swallow," the colonel exhaled upon finishing, then, just like that, continued onward for Lyle to follow.

They strolled past quaint homes encased in transparent domes. Some children, wearing fastened visors, were playing outside the barriers. The object of their interest was a serf woman weighted down by her sack of goods. The children took advantage of her inflexibility to dance around her legs, pulling at her tail and poking her feet to see if they could trip the giantess. They kept this up until something far more interesting caught their attention.

The recoms' ears honed in on the sound of little feet running towards them. The Pied Pipers looked over their shoulders and saw the host of children they had lured away from the village.

"You guys are recoms!" a curly-haired boy trumpeted.

"I guess so," Quaritch mused. He crouched to their level, and the children stepped back in fear while wanting to get closer at the same time.

"Can you guys really lift a whole car?"

"I don't know, we haven't tried it yet," Miles answered, looking at Lyle.

"I heard you can see in the dark."

"I heard you can smell fear!"

Another tried lecturing his peers on what he heard, but the fact escaped him, and it devolved into a stutter.

One held up his ball. "How far can you throw this?"

"If I chucked it, you kids wouldn't get it back."

Lyle spun around when a girl of five made a grab at his tail. She took off giggling and hid behind the colonel. The clothes of the little blonde were covered in dirt, and it made her toothy smile stick out all the more as she laughed. It was very difficult for the steely men to keep straight faces.

Quaritch decided to entertain them. Taking a rock in his right hand—his left being sore from the tattoo—he hurled it across the plains. The length it travelled surprised even him, and the kids shouted hyperbolic praise.

The corporal stood back to better appreciate the rare sight of his colonel entertaining children. Noticing the burdened serf woman coming up on his left, he stepped aside for her to pass; only, at that moment, several honks blared behind him, and the recom could see a truck hurtling their way with no intention of yielding. Acting on instinct, Lyle quickly pulled the Na'vi woman to safety as the front loader barrelled past.

"You okay?" he asked, helping her to her feet, but she only gawked at him. He picked up the few goods he caused her to spill when his colonel ordered him over with the reminder that they needed to keep going. Unsure of how to exit the encounter, Lyle handed her the items and awkwardly waved goodbye.

The children followed for as far as they could, shouting their goodbyes from the border of their suburb, with the younger Marine walking backwards to return the waves.

It was a singular experience for the both of them as most of their encounters with children were from their own childhoods. They never had families, and after spending their years in service, they seldom saw kids, let alone getting swarmed by a gaggle of them, making that one brief encounter a precious memory neither ever spoke about, its value being too high to share casually.