Pure alcohol burns the skin, licking the edges of the lacerated wound with a flaming tongue and soaking the shaft of a huge arrow sticking out of his palm. Miles winces slightly, squeezing the edge of the sheet with his free hand, but endures it without making the slightest sound. This time, luck smiled on him, since the arrow was not lubricated with the neurotoxin, which the Na’vi doted so much on, and only pierced his wrist without hitting the veins.

Putting aside the bottle of whiskey she had taken by force from one of the rookies, Paz turns her attention back to the colonel. Now, unable to properly care for the wounded due to being away from the RDA base, it was decided to leave field first aid kits for the most serious or bordering on fatal injuries, and therefore, in the remaining cases, they used whatever was available.

The colonel winces again as Paz places something on the wound. He takes a look at the arrow and squints. The shaft is thick as a finger and covered with some kind of reddish-gray sap. The wood of the spear itself has some kind of unusual texture. His frown intensifies as a thought flashes across his mind for an instant. Miles's wounds were dressed with fresh linens soaked in grain alcohol, which helped cleanse and reduce the risk of infection. This treatment was accompanied by his loud swearing as he tried to keep his face expressionless, showing his true nature under his military veneer.

— Those blue savages may be good archers but they fight like cowards, resorting to using poison, since they are unable to defeat anyone else in a fair fight.

— They shoot in the back, what kind of fair fight can we talk about here? Paz barely audibly snorts in response, contempt clear in her voice.

— Exactly. As if their weapons were not already enough, they always have to resort to dirty tricks to win their battles…