While the RDA prepared their iron, the valley of the Tree of Souls was bathed in the bioluminescent glow of ten thousand warriors. The air hummed—not with the mechanical whine of engines, but with the rhythmic whetting of obsidian knives and the low, collective breathing of the clans. It was a sound that felt like the earth itself was preparing to exhale.
At the base of the Tanhì a Txampay, a circle had been formed in the soft, purple moss. It was a sight that had not been seen since the time of the first Toruk Makto. The sheer diversity of the Na'vi was on display: the forest hunters with their striped war-paint, the plains riders with their wind-scarred skin, and the sea folk with their iridescent ornaments, all standing on ground they considered the most holy in their world.
The Leaders Gather:
Jake Sully stood at the center, the orange light of the Toruk's bioluminescence reflecting in his eyes like a trapped wildfire. To his right stood Tsu'tey, representing the Omatikaya, his posture rigid and his hand resting on the hilt of a bone knife. To Jake's left was Mark, his 34 stars glowing a steady, strategic gold, making him look like a celestial architect among the warriors of the wild.
Facing them were the leaders of the great clans, each a legend in their own territory:
Beyda'amo of the Tipani, wearing heavy armor carved from the skull of a Thanator.
Ikeyni of the Tayrangi, whose hair was braided with sea-shells and who held a spear made of hardened whale-bone.
The Mangkwan Leader, whose frame was lean and powerful, her presence as unyielding as the emerald plains she guarded.
"They are coming with the Great Metal Birds," Beyda'amo said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. "We have seen them before. They bring the fire that eats the forest. Our arrows cannot pierce their iron skin. How do we fight the wind when it carries the scent of death?"
"We don't fight the wind," Jake replied, kneeling to point at a map drawn in the dirt with a piece of charcoal. "We use the mountains. We draw them into the Hallelujah Mountains, where the flux is strongest. Their sensors don't work there. They have to fly by sight. We make them fight us on our ground, where a bow is as good as a gun."
The Sanhìsip Contribution:
Mark stepped forward into the center of the circle. "Jake's right. But we have something they don't expect. My ship, the Tanhì a Txampay, can't fire cannons, but it can manipulate the atmosphere. We're going to vent the ship's cooling gasses into the flux vortex. It'll create a localized storm—a thick, electric fog."
"Their computers won't be able to lock onto you through the interference," Mark explained, his voice echoing against the hull of his ship. "You'll be ghosts in the mist. To them, you'll be invisible until you're right on top of them. We'll turn their technology into a blindfold, and then we'll strike."
The leaders looked at the sapphire ship with newfound respect. It wasn't just a home; it was a weapon of nature brought down to defend the soil.
"And the Stormglider?" Ikeyni asked, her eyes moving to where Tempest was perched on a floating rock, its obsidian wings tucked tight. "Will the beast of the void lead us into this mist?"
"Tempest and I will be at the tip of the spear," Mark promised. "We'll take the high altitude, above the fog. When the Dragon gunship shows its face, we're going to drop on it like a hammer from the stars."
A Connection in the Static:
As the clan leaders dispersed to rally their warriors, Mark stepped away from the crowd, seeking a moment of quiet near the ship's communication array. He adjusted his headset, the frequency crackling with the familiar background hiss of Pandora's magnetic interference.
"Trudy? You still there?" he asked softly.
"Where else would I be, Star-boy?" her voice came back, devoid of its usual bravado. She sounded tired, the weight of being a lone defector clearly taking its toll. "Just watching the horizon. It's quiet out here. Too quiet."
Mark looked up at the floating mountains, imagining her tucked away in the cockpit of her Samson. "Stay safe out there, Trudy. I mean it. If things get too hot, you pull back to the ship. Don't try to be a hero against a whole squadron."
There was a long pause on the other end, nothing but the soft hum of the ship's relay. "Funny," she whispered, "I was gonna tell you the same thing. You're the one flying a giant bat against a gunship. I'm just a pilot, Mark. You're... you're something else. I'd like to actually see those stars of yours in person when this is over. Without a cockpit window between us."
Mark felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the ship's reactors. "It's a date, Trudy. I'll hold you to that. Just keep your eyes open for me."
"Always do," she replied, her voice regaining a hint of its old spark. "See you on the other side, Mark."
The Eve of Battle:
The moment of connection was cut short as the valley began to stir. Mark retreated to the ship's bridge to check the status of his team. Saeyla and Soran were working feverishly at the bio-organic consoles, recalibrating the atmospheric vents to maximize the density of the fog they were about to create.
"Mark," Trudy's voice crackled back in, professional and sharp once more. "They're fueled up. Quaritch just boarded the Dragon. The Valkyries are taxiing. This is it. They're moving out in four hours. They're bringing enough explosives to level the whole valley twice over."
Mark looked out the viewport. Below, the Na'vi were painting their bodies with white and yellow streaks—the colors of war. He felt the weight of his knowledge again, the heavy burden of someone who knew how the story was "supposed" to end.
I know who is supposed to die tomorrow, he thought, his jaw tightening as he looked at Jake and Tsu'tey. But I am not just a reader anymore. I have the ship. I have the storm. And I have someone waiting for me on the other side of this mist.
He turned to the comms, his voice steady. "Jake, you hear that? The Dragon is awake. Tell the clans to mount up. We're going to meet them at the ridge before the sun hits the horizon."