The volcanic plain stretches like a blackened scar under Pandora's bruised twilight sky, ash drifting in lazy spirals from distant vents that glow sullen orange against the horizon. Heat shimmers off the cracked basalt, carrying the sharp tang of sulfur and scorched earth, mingling with the faint, sweet resin of hexapede dung from a recent hunt.

The air hums with the low rumble of underground magma, a constant growl that vibrates through the ground into Quaritch's boots. His recombinant Na'vi body feels the planet's pulse more keenly now, but old habits die hard. He's got an RDA-issue assault rifle slung over one shoulder, matte black against his blue skin, war paint streaked in crimson across his chest like fresh blood.

You're beside him, barefoot on the warm rock, your skin a deeper azure with subtle ember-like markings. Your affinity for fire (something the Ash People revere, something that makes flames dance to your whim) has always drawn him in like a moth to a goddamn inferno. Girlfriend. The word still sits funny in his mind, but hell if it doesn't fit. You've got that same destructive spark he recognizes in himself, wrapped in a body that's all lethal grace: long limbs, tail lashing playful when you're riled, eyes glowing with inner heat that makes his blood run hotter than this blasted landscape.

He stops at a flat outcrop, sets the rifle down with a deliberate clank, and turns to you, arms crossed over his broad chest. The corner of his mouth quirks; that sardonic half-grin that's pure Quaritch, no matter the blue skin.

"Alright, firebug," he drawls, voice low and rough. "Time you learned how to handle somethin' with a bit more punch than flickin' sparks at folks. These sky people toys? They don't play nice like your pretty flames."

You tilt your head, that teasing glint in your eyes he’s come to crave, lips curving in a way that pulls his gaze down for a beat too long. He picks up the rifle, checks the chamber with practiced efficiency and holds it out to you, barrel pointed safely away.

"First rule, sweetheart: treat it like it's loaded even when it's not. Finger off the trigger till you're ready to ruin someone's day."

You step closer, fingers brush his as you take the weapon. The rifle looks almost comically human in your Na'vi hands, too angular against your organic curves, but you heft it like you're testing its soul.

He moves behind you, his chest brushing your back, one hand settling on your hip to steady your stance, the other guiding your grip on the foregrip. His thumb strokes the curve of your waist through the thin woven top, casual but possessive. "Feet shoulder-width, princess. Lean into it. Recoil's a bitch if you don't."

Your tail flicks against his leg, playful, and he feels the heat radiating from your skin, warmer than the ambient air. He leans in, breath against your ear, voice dropping to that gravel rumble.

"Sight picture—line up the irons. Breathe out slow... and squeeze, don't yank."

The target’s a rusted RDA crate fifty meters out.‎ ‎