A dingy, vertical tunnel thundered with vile words and the booms of a powerful grip, conquering a ladder, one rung at a time. At random, a balled-up fist hammered the cylindrical container, and the result was near ear-shattering. Wide shoulders wedged past the slime-covered passage till the climber, at last, reached the top. He cleaved the edges and wormed himself from the pipe: the dauntless colonel successfully prying himself out of the bowels of hell.

With a wheeze, a few moans, some gasps and a faint whine, he took in his surroundings by way of one laborious inhale. The air tasted of salt. Following the sounds of angry waters clashing with a stubborn cliff, he saw the peaks of sharp boulders being swallowed by the laps of white caps. Over the battle between water and earth, he heard the might of the air: rolls of thunder unravelling in the distance. It was a relief to finally be free, but he had no victory to revel in; his team was gone—dead—all of them, Samson, Thomas, Bridgette and worst of all, someone he thought who would always have his back. Quaritch rubbed his face and let his hands linger where they were, inwardly screaming at that accursed child of Augustine and, deep down, also hoping she had led them to safety, though in his eyes, they didn't deserve it. He got over feeling sorry for himself and straightened out, ready to make the trek up the steep hillside. Regardless of being deserted, the tough Marine would carry on. In the end, he was Miles Stephen Quaritch, a man who would never resign. After all, there was still one standing recombinant unaccounted for—he just needed to find her.

The violent sky cracked as he scaled the rough surface. Grunting in the try, he lifted his body over an edge and jogged up a forested hill. He stopped and leaned against a tree to rest when he espied a figure. He lurched back in disbelief; it couldn't be—but it was!

"Casey?"

Slowly, the figure turned around, her form and mohawk outlined by the pink flashes beyond. He stepped towards her in relief as she came running down to him.

"Call your banshee. We gotta get—"

He was tackled full on, rolling down the terrain until the momentum came to a harsh stop, an RDA knife digging into his neck, a crack of thunder pounding in his ears as Quaritch found himself staring into a pair of sanguineous eyes he had seen once before.

A voice filled with hate erupted, "Where is my daughter?"

He choked as he felt blood trickling down his throat; any deeper, and the blade would puncture his jugular. The encroaching plasma storm raged, and a new streak of lightning illuminated Neytiri. In that brief moment, he saw the Deja Blu patch, blotted in dark crimson stains.

"Where is she!" she had to bellow again, for her victim was struck silent.

His frozen mind began to thaw from the realization that the savage was wearing Casey's skin. His whole face contorted with every negative emotion as he spat out the words, "Dead. Dead at the bottom of the ocean!"

Neytiri's face dropped, and her press on the blade lessened.

"Dead with the rest of my team," Quaritch growled, hoping to cause in Neytiri the same agony he was suffering. "Join them in hell, b****!" Quaritch snatched Neytiri's wrist and punted her off, sending her tumbling down the slope. With lightning-fast reflexes, she snagged a rock, which stopped her descent, then vaulted back for the murderer. Quaritch was weakened, but he expected that he could take on the primitive now that he had her blade. He swung out his arm, but Neytiri disabled his attack by speedily using her clasped hands to thrust down his bicep. Before he could recover, she rocketed several elbow jabs into his face. Disoriented, Quaritch had a split second to gouge Neytiri's eyes, but she blocked his thumbs and grappled with him. Next thing he knew, merciless knee kicks were administered to his groin, then calf. When he found an opening, the desperate man shoved her away and reeled, still processing the fact that Sully's woman was incorporating Krav Maga and that the blade was back in her hand.

Not granting her prey the chance to even breathe, she channelled a palulukan and flew at him with that glinting edge.

The knife swung, and he evaded. Over and under, left and right—Quaritch danced away from her swings, baiting her into an overreach. Wish granted, he intercepted her attack, then rushed to slam her against a trunk. The knife being too quick an end, he used both hands to throttle her, the tight hold activating her throat comm.

The prince eyed the building storm with concern. "It is getting worse," he commented, then returned to the other anomaly—the strangely dark sky haunting Bridgehead. "How come I do not see any lights coming from the city?"

"I don't know," Jake gruffed, too preoccupied with other matters. "Neytiri, do you copy? Neytiri?"

"Nothing yet?"

"She won't answer."

Finally, his earpiece came alive with a voice—but it was not hers.

"What…did you do…to Casey?"

"The same thing—hgn!—I'm going do…to you!"

"Neytiri? Neytiri?" the husband bellowed so loud, it startled the son, but no amount of cries rallied her back. It was useless—she was in his grip, and they were separated by miles of kill zone. The man shut his eyes before casting them to the churning clouds, his braids now blowing with the oncoming gale.

The son beside him read the hard creases and understood without an explanation. The two would have stood there, hands-tied, if it weren't for Eywa preempting Neteyam's prayer. He excitedly nudged the broad, drooping shoulders. "Father? Father!"

"Not now, Neteyam."

"Father, look up!" He shot his finger towards the sky as a high-pitched bellow harkened the entire war party to crane their necks. Screaming from the clouds, a fiery comet fell towards them. When the bale passed overhead, they watched the race of flames coagulate into a dragon, which landed defiantly in the kill zone. Orange wings folded at its side, the toruk turned and bellowed at the hesitators like an irate general commanding them to charge.

"Ma Eywa…" Neteyam hushed.

"It's not being shot…" Jake realized as he removed his shielding arm away from Neteyam. "The kill zone must be out."

"Eywa is showing us the way!"

The father looked to his son, then back to the impossible. He turned to his war party with a rallying tone. |"Our Great Mother is with us. Follow the toruk! We take on the Skypeople!"|

"Ìley! Sivako! Tìterkupìri set lu sìltsana trr!" screamed the ready warriors as they mounted their ikrans. With the fiery legend heading the troops, spears, arrows, teeth and fists making up their brigade—powerful wings, rippling arms, spirits swelling with courage—the people of Pandora charged.

Men in control towers, handicapped by the power outage, viewed the approaching storm from the vantage of their bay windows. A random burst detailed to one eyewitness, a swarm of black dots.

"Hey, guys? What's that over there?"

His co-workers gathered at his desk and squinted at nothing when a sudden bolt made them all aware of the host of banshees screeching past their control tower. Powerless to warn anyone, the crippled watchmen could only spectate the impending invasion.

Quaritch tightened his hands around Neytiri's throat till his hold cracked her mic. As she was on the cusp of dying, she slowly raised her right arm, and he saw, from the corner of his eye, something in her hand—an activated grenade. Eyes widening in fear, he bodily threw her across the grove. Neytiri spun over a rock, and the grenade flew out of her grip and into the bush, violently ripping apart with a deafening boom.

The princess and Marine both staggered; they only saw one another as blurs.

Not wanting to see the gladiators cease, the audience to their battle joined in when Zeus clasped hands with Poseidon. Angry cumulonimbi gathered over the thrashing sea, winds shot waves to the height of towers, and an explosion of plasma rolled across the dome, breaking apart into deadly rivers that ignited the vulnerable canopy. A racing blaze curved around the petrified vegetation, creating an arena of fire. Neytiri wobbled to a stand, squaring off with Quaritch, who watched her image undulate in the heat. Neither would engage until they trumpeted their rage, screams so vicious they snapped the flames. Primed with fury, the forces collided.

Debora enjoyed the light show from the safety of her fortress. Ardmore stepped across the spacious tablinum of the investor's domicile and clicked her heels. "Ma'am, we really must escort you to the shelters."

"The storm is still a long way off, yet," she mused, cocking her head to gaze more upon the unusual night.

"Ma'am, we must move you on. A plasma storm can vaporize these acrylic panels. Please, come with me."

"Oh, General, fear does not suit you."

"I'm not afraid, ma'am. My only concern is for—"

A loud bang knocked both women to the floor. Every fixture in the room rattled as something latched onto the structure. Unholy shrills of frantic clawing on acrylic windows pierced the humans' ears as they tried to recover to a stand. Frances Joan Ardmore was midway through helping the investor up when she beheld the nightmare. The cherubim roared like a lion and reared like a bull. Its wings thrust out like an eagle as it stared down at her with the awareness of man. It rammed its head, beak and talons against their barricade with righteous anger, each strike closer to achieving its goal.

Vandervelde desperately clutched Ardmore, trying to yank her out of the spell, but the general was a block of stone. Finally, after the last ram caused a rupture did Ardmore recover her senses enough to come to her feet, legs buckling and petrified eyes still on the screaming entity as her protectee led her away.

The toruk climbed to the peak of the building, and there, at the top of the tower, it made itself large. With head vertical to the sky and ordained by heaven's wrath, it announced the start of war. An army of ikrans, and their hooting Na'vi riders, circled around it like a whirlwind. Those who chanced to stare out the windows truly believed the apocalypse had come.

With a launch that shook the building, the king of the skies led the charge to the marina. Hunters sped through the streets, their night-adapted eyes allowing them to find, in the shadows, their enemies fumbling in the dark. Unprepared HAF troopers fired at the whooping spectres only to be skewered by shafts. Tawkami hurled down their bombs that burst into fireworks of shooting thorns. Anurai, flying with the Omatikaya, leapt off and took on desperate soldiers who fought with whatever they had.

The toruk plucked up an entire tank, worked itself to lift the tons of weight higher into the air, then let go, the deadly whistle of its descent being the only warning given before the inevitable. The tank's ammunition detonated, and a daisy chain of explosions erupted across the marina. Flying sections of the tank skidded over the burning tarmac, with one ploughing into an armed vehicle, throwing it like a tumbleweed. The metal container rolled with the momentum until it crashed against a wall, swinging open its contorted back doors. Zhâng and Parker tumbled out of the wreckage.

"Oh god, we're right in the centre of it." Parker winced at the battle.

Zhâng witnessed a flying warrior take out a HAF trooper with his deadly aim. "These aren't serfs, they're wild Na'vi! Bridgehead's under another attack."

"Again?"

Zhâng grabbed Parker and pulled him away, ducking under tails of smoke, trying to find shelter. The chaos attacked Parker's throat, and he was reduced to a fit of coughs. "Hold out here. Maybe we can—" Zhâng could not finish his sentence, for a screech came swooping down. Humanity's Last Hope acted fast. With one arm, he stayed the curved blade until he had the upper hand, then pushed forward with all his might. The two warriors circled the tarmac. Zhâng used his own body as a shield whilst withstanding the blows to his face; then, with a timely move, the Deja Blu used his ankle to snare a leg and crash atop the Na'vi. Zhâng kept pummeling the opponent, shrieking a deadly "Sa!" after every blow, he was not going to let himself lose simply because of a minor setback; he had to protect family. The face was mashed with bruises, blood and shattered bone when Zhâng, at last, relented. Slumping off the body, he returned to a stand. "We're good. Parker? Parker!" The recombinant ran over and crouched next to the masquerading soldier who was clutching his heart.

"St-st-stupid time…for…this to happen... Sorry—Gah!"

"No, no, no. We're going to help you." Zhâng patted the chest for lack of a better idea. "What is it? Is it your heart?"

"I-I-I think it got… too big on me…" Parker joked, regardless of how much it made the pangs worse. "Thanks a lot… I knew you'd guys be the death of me."

"We're going to get you help. Do you have any pills on you?"

He shook his trembling head. Instead of being taken over by the instinctual fear of the unknown, the man raised his open palm in calm acceptance for Zhâng to clutch. "Tell… Tell the team, 'Thanks.' You jerks…were the worst."

"We know. And sadly…" A soft breeze released through Zhâng's nose. "There's no cure for it."

One last chuckle, and the hand slipped away.

Channels of ash were streaked across the active stage as the relentless spirits ignored the terrible danger of encroaching flames. They kicked ankles, butted heads, elbowed the neck, clawed the face, pulled the hair, snatched the ears—utilizing all of their training against the other: a medley of Earth and Pandora evident in both. As their violent dance spun them around the craggy terrain—muscles aching and bodies sweltering—Neytiri and Quaritch saw nothing but red.

The Marine merged his fists and charged at her with his club of flesh, but the evasive woman ducked and sprung for a trypgillium. The titanic vegetation, similar to a boring sponge, had many holes that the princess latched onto in her vertical escape from Vrrtepeyktan. He snared her heel, but she shoved a foul kick into his nostril. With a swear and a yell, he pursued her to the top of the smouldering barrel. The two, swaying in their fatigue, balanced on the rims as they faced one another.

"Looking a little tired there…Mrs. Sully…" the demon wheezed. "You really think you can take me out again?"

Her hands hovered over her bleeding side, but she conjured her ebbing strength to unleash a sputtering vow, "I will kill you as many times as I have to!"

His feet shifted over the inch-wide edge. "And I'll come right back. For taking one of mine, I'm gonna rip your family apart!—piece by piece! So you better hope to end me now 'cause I'm just gonna dog your tail till the day you die!"

His taunt worked, and Neytiri shot across the gap with a throw he preempted. Fingers latched around her fist, his tendons bulged as he aimed to shatter her bones; but she, thinking fast, slipped her foot off the rim and fell into the hole. Quaritch released her as he fumbled to catch himself, barely stopping from falling in too. As he readjusted his position into confidence, he relished his trapped prey, for Neytiri was now moaning and panting in agony. He watched her worm onto her back and greeted her with a leer. He was ready to jump inside when she pulled her gambit: the Wolf pistol—a weapon so unfamiliar to the Na'vi hunter that she had forgotten it was on her. He lurched to evade, but a bullet's trajectory skidded past his right brow and blew off the top of his ear. Quaritch collapsed backwards into the inferno. He tumbled away to escape the heat, his shoulder bubbling and searing, his right hand shaking over the shattered flesh. A new explosion nearly took out his other ear when Neytiri fired at him from inside the pocked hollow. The unarmed man staggered and took off running through the grove with the hunter on his tail.

Serpentining past the scorched vegetation, Quaritch slid behind a mound—gasping uncontrollably—and peered over his shoulder. Neytiri was pursuing, pistol in hand, and circling about the maze for her prey; she spotted the whites of his eyes and took aim. Quaritch abandoned his cover with bullets popping behind. He hurdled burning plants, skidding around lurching timber when a timely branch smacked him to the earth. Gnashing his teeth, he rocked onto his back, and there was Neytiri, looming over him from the hilltop. She aimed her pistol, pulled the trigger and—nothing; the barrel was empty. Ignoring the pain, Quaritch charged for her and tackled her to the ground. They rolled down a steepening slope that broke into a sharp descent. Their building momentum unfastened their knot, and both tumbled separately over the jagged rocks towards the tumult of a raging sea.

Neytiri recovered herself, whereas her opponent was nowhere to be seen. She hastily stumbled to her feet and raced for the ledge, where she discovered him splayed out on a level far below.

Quaritch pried his mouth open only for it to be a raspy intake, barely enough to fill his winded lungs. Shivering and burning, he tried to stand up but couldn't; that's when he caught her leaping down the terrain. Quaritch gasped, starting to feel a very real fear of the she-devil. He madly dragged his battered self over the rock in target of the bluff jutting out over the deadly waters: he would not grant her the satisfaction of killing him again.

Her animal scream boomed in his ears, and her flying claws snatched him. The Marine attempted fight but, in his fagged state, was easily subdued. Somewhere during his useless efforts to buck the Na'vi, he felt his queue wrap around his throat.

Neytiri yanked.

He kicked and squirmed and fought to work his fingers under the noose of his own braid, but the bind was too tight. The banshee towed him backwards with her militant boot wedged into his spine, acting as the counterforce. He sputtered and gasped as his throat was squeezed. With his diminishing strength, he hiked onto his knees, but Neytiri would not let go. As her horrible cry sounded off to the sky, his surroundings faded into nothing.

Neytiri released the snare and, with a nudge of her foot, sent the slumped body over the bluff to watch him sink into the dark sea, where he disappeared under a falling wave.

It was over.

Quaritch regained his senses only enough to feel the unforgiving water fill his lungs and deny him the breath he tried taking in. Snippets of his life replayed in his mind—his moments with Spider reigning dominant before ending on Casey. His final thoughts reflected on the unbearable loneliness of his pitiful existence and the absolute meaninglessness of it all. His spirit drifted back into that deep, familiar sleep—descending, sinking and falling further and further away from the set of hands coming down for him.