The base of the Tanhì a Txampay had been transformed into a place of organized desperation. Beneath the ship's massive outriggers, Soran and the healers had established a triage center. The ship's internal cooling systems were working at maximum capacity, venting a thick, soothing mist that smelled of crushed mint and aloe over the rows of wounded Na'vi. It was a stark contrast to the sulfurous heat of the scorched forest outside.
Mark moved through the wreckage like a specter, his skin stained with soot and his hands raw from shifting splintered, smoldering timber. The Sanhìsip worked tirelessly, their sapphire bioluminescence cutting through the persistent grey haze. They were pulling survivors from pockets beneath the fallen trunk—people who had been shielded from the initial blast but were now suffocating in the heat.
"Mark! Over here!" a hunter shouted from a cluster of downed branches near the center of the clearing.
Mark sprinted over, his heart hammering. Piled beneath a tangle of heavy, vine-choked wood were two limp forms. His breath hitched as he recognized them: the Avatars of Grace Augustine and Jake Sully. Both were bound at the wrists with thick, ceremonial cord, their heads lolling unnaturally. They looked like discarded dolls, abandoned in the chaos of the retreat.
"They're alive, but they're empty," the hunter said, confused. "Like they are sleepwalking without a soul."
Mark knew exactly what it was. They had been disconnected—either forced out by the RDA's interference or left behind by a clan that no longer trusted them. "Get them to the ship. Carefully. Use the litters!"
Ghosts in the Room:
Mark personally helped carry the bodies into the Tanhì a Txampay. He bypassed the crowded triage deck, heading for a quiet, secluded chamber near the primary neural core where the air was cleanest.
He laid the two massive blue frames onto adjacent beds of soft, bioluminescent moss. Grace looked pale, even for an Avatar, her breathing shallow and ragged. Jake was a mess; soot had caked into the pores of his skin, and the smell of high explosives clung to his hair. Mark grabbed a basin of purified water and a cloth.
With a strange, somber silence, Mark began to wash the ash from their bodies. He started with Grace, wiping the grime from her brow with a gentle touch, before moving to Jake. He worked with the steady hands of a soldier tending to fallen brothers, cleaning the grime from the stripes on Jake's arms and chest.
The room was silent save for the low, rhythmic thrum of the ship's heart. He felt a flash of anger—at the RDA for their cruelty, and at the impossible position these two had been put in.
For nearly an hour, Mark sat between the two beds, watching the shallow rise and fall of their chests. He felt like a watchman over two empty vessels, waiting for the spark of life to travel light-years back into their brains.
Suddenly, Jake's body convulsed. His eyes snapped open, darting around the room with wild, unfocused terror. He gasped for air, his hands clawing at the moss as if he were still being dragged through the dirt.
"Jake! Jake, look at me!" Mark stood, placing firm, heavy hands on Jake's shoulders to pin him down. "You're on the Tanhì a Txampay. You're safe. Breathe, man. Just breathe."
Jake's pupils finally dilated, focusing on Mark's face. Beside him, Grace's Avatar remained terrifyingly still. Her chest moved, but there was no flicker of consciousness behind her eyelids. The panic in Jake began to recede, replaced by a hollow, crushing grief as he looked over at his mentor.
"Mark?" he wheezed, his voice cracked and dry. "Is... is it over?"
"It's over," Mark said softly, sitting back. "The tree is down, Jake. I'm sorry."
The Unobtainium Grave:
Jake sat up slowly, rubbing his face with trembling hands. He reached out a hand to Grace's limp arm, his expression darkening when she didn't stir. "They tied us up," he whispered. "Neytiri... the clan. They found out I was reporting back. They thought I was one of them."
"What happened, Jake? Why did they do it now?"
Jake looked at him with hollow eyes. "The mine. There's a massive deposit of unobtainium right under the roots. The richest one for hundreds of miles. Quaritch... he didn't care about the people. He just wanted the rock. He gave them a chance to move, but where are they supposed to go, Mark? That tree was their soul. They wouldn't leave, so he cut it out from under them."
Jake's voice broke as he described the gas, the incendiaries, and the sight of the Hometree collapsing. "Grace is still out there, in her link... but she isn't waking up. Something's wrong. I have to get her to the Tree of Souls. It's the only place left."
The Departure:
Mark helped Jake to his feet. The Avatar pilot was shaky, but the fire of purpose had returned to his eyes. Jake looked at Grace's unconscious form, then back at Mark. "I can't leave her here. If the RDA finds the link shacks, they'll kill her human body. I have to take her Avatar with me."
Mark nodded, understanding the gravity of the choice. Together, they fashioned a reinforced sling from the ship's woven fibers. They carried Grace's limp Avatar out of the quiet room and through the triage deck. The Sanhìsip stopped to watch them pass—the leader of the Sky-Scouts and the man who had brought the fire to their doorstep.
They stepped out onto the main flight deck. The sun was setting, casting a bloody orange light over the smoking ruins of the forest. The Sky-Scouts were circling above, their silhouettes sharp against the clouds.
"You're going to need this," Mark said, handing Jake a small, biological comm-bead grown from the ship's fiber. "If you need the Sanhìsip, you pulse this frequency. We'll hear you."
Jake nodded, gripping Mark's forearm in a warrior's salute. "Thanks for coming, Mark. I didn't think anyone would."
"We're all in the same storm now, Jake."
Jake let out a sharp, piercing whistle. From the edge of the smoke, a blue-and-green Ikran dived through the haze, shrieking as it flared its wings to land on the deck. With Mark's help, Jake secured Grace's Avatar across the front of his saddle, binding her safely to the beast. Jake vaulted into the seat behind her, his Kuru snapping into the beast with practiced ease.
With one last look at the devastation below, he banked the Ikran, the weight of two souls carried by one set of wings, and dived into the darkening sky.
Mark stood on the edge of the outrigger, his arms crossed, his 34 stars pulsing a slow, thoughtful cyan as he watched the speck of the rider disappear into the horizon.
"Still can't believe he named it Bob," Mark said quietly to the wind, a small, tired smirk touching his lips.