"Avatar" fan fiction? I don't think so

Avatar II: Apocalypse When?
Scott Connelly
26-28 July 2012
5033 Words

This story is loosely based on a Cracked.com article: “5 Movie Heroes Who Actually Made Things Worse.”

         After the defeat of the human forces, led by Colonel Quaritch, and the subsequent removal of all Corporate and Military personnel from Pandora, Jake, Neytiri, Norm, Dr. Patel, and the Na'vi return to their destroyed camps to relocate, rebuild, and reproduce.
         Life goes on...
         
         
         On the shuttle bound for Earth, Corporate Tool Parker Selfridge is rather upset. No one is talking to him as the ship flies through space, and that's just as well; he needs the time to think. “How could those blue bastards win?” fumes Selfridge, “They're primitive savages! We had guns and assault ships, and AMP Suits! All they had was a bunch of animals and arrows! And Jake Friggin' Sully! If there was a way to go back and kill him...”
         Selfridge has a bad case of revenge on his mind, but not a lot of ideas.
         “My superiors are not gonna like my report! They're gonna ask me point blank how I managed to lose a base, expensive equipment, scientists, soldiers, and the Unobtainium all at once! I can't very well tell them that we were beaten by an army of loincloth-wearing blue people with no high-tech weapons!” gripes the businessman, and then he thinks about what he just said - “Army, high-tech weapons, untouched Unobtainium? Hey, that's it – go back there with more guns and ships and bombs, and wipe 'em out of existence!”
         Working on his report to his bosses, Selfridge described how his people and their vehicles were constantly harassed by the Na'vi, leading up to a huge costly battle right where the biggest concentration of Unobtainium on the whole planet lay.
         “All we wanted to do,” videologged Selfridge, “was mine the Unobtainium in peace, and the Na'vi fought us every step of the way. We tried to calm them by giving them an education, building and agricultural skills, friendly representatives from the scientific community, and for all of our efforts they repaid us by destroying our base and killing our people! I have the records of all that transpired from the day we arrived on Pandora to the day we left; you will find them in a seperate information disc. This is my personal account of some of the events, and persons responsible.
         “At the top of the responsibility list is ex-Marine Jake Sully. He was a replacement for his brother, tragically killed during a robbery, and, since he has similar genetic material, Jake was given an offer to accompany the replacements to Pandora to use his brother's avatar to walk among the natives. Apparently he fell in love with one of the Na'vi, and turned against his fellow humans. He led the Na'vi to victory and ordered us off the base. Mr. Sully is also responsible for the death of Colonel Quaritch.
         “My recommendation to the committee is to return to Pandora with a larger, more heavily-armed military prescence to take the planet by force, and to arrest Jake Sully of murder. Afterward, we will be able to dig for the Unobtainium unopposed.”



         The Board of Directors were disappointed with Selfridge at first, but when they heard of the battle at the Tree of Souls, and the death of Quaritch, and the plans to go back with a vengeance, they relaxed, and started discussing the operation.
         “Getting the Marines to go for this is gonna be easy – they're always itching to kick some ass,” said the Director of Human Resources, “But they still need a leader, and there aren't many who'll risk their lives on such a Godforsaken planet.”
         “They won't be risking their lives, as much as their reputations,” grumbled the Director of Logistics, “Most of those guys have political rather than real military appointments...”
         “We'll want a general we can control without his being aware of it,” mused The Director of Marketing, “We can't have him making snap decisions before consulting us. Anyone have an idea?”
         They sat at the big table, deep in thought. Then:
         “I know!” exclaimed the Director of Information Technology, “Cam Jameson – the man is perfect! He thinks of himself as a maverick leader, but he's just as much a coporate puppet as any other political general on our payroll. We give him command of a massive army, with all of the latest toys, and turn him loose!”
         “Wait, wait, wait,” warned the Military Liaison, “We can't just give him control of a giant Marine mob, and expect him to win with only an overdeveloped sense of destiny. We have to make sure he sticks to the game plan, and that means calling in some veterans with many campaigns on their resumes. That way, General Jameson can think he's the hero while his subordinates do the actual leading.”
         “Of course,” agrees HR, “We can make the necessary arrangements. I believe we can come up with several good men and women who could fit within the ranks. No need to worry...”
         The Chief Executive Officer finally speaks, “Selfridge.”
         Selfridge looks up from the foot of the table. “Yessir.”
         “You know the planet where our troops are going to be deployed. You know the lay of the land. And I'm certain you know we are displeased with your performance.”
         “Yessir.”
         “You will accompany the Division – yes we are sending a Division, not a Battalion like the previous assignment – back to Pandora, and you will act as an advisor and guide.”
         “Yessir.”
         “If you fail us again, Selfridge...”
         “Yessir?”
         “...Don't bother coming home.”
         “Yessir,” Selfridge whimpered.
         “Leave us.”
         Relieved, Selfridge exited the boardroom.
         The CEO motions to the Military Liaison, “Tell us more about General Jameson. What kind of person is he?”
         Liaison clears her throat, and speaks,”Jameson thinks everything happens for a reason – his advancement in the ranks. Cam is living proof it is better to be lucky than intelligent. He does seem to be a great leader, but only because he ignores others' sensible suggestions. As I said, he has this strange fascination with Fate – he think it keeps him from getting killed or wounded in battle, and for the most part it's true. He has been in some very bloody conflicts with mere flesh wounds and victories! His cautious staff members have been put out of commission – and some of them were brilliant – while he barely got a scratch.”
         “He's a Brigadier General now,” admits Marketing, “Where does he go from there?”
         “He'd want the Presidency, World Leader, Colnial Commander,” continues Liaison, “Who knows? Because he's a decorated hero, and the citizens love him, he can get any position he wants, when he wants it.”
         “...But can he be controlled?” asks the CEO.
         “Well...to a point, only if what you want lines up with what he thinks of as his Destiny. So there is a risk that at some point he would stop listening to you because what you say doesn't gibe with what he hears in his own head.”
         “What is he like on the battlefield?”
         “Jameson has an elite unit he himself leads into combat, named the Golden Guard. These soldiers are loyal to none but him, but they are usually at the very front of the line.”
         “So there is a slim chance he would be eliminated if facing a determined enemy,” hinted IT.
         “...If Fate has it's way, yes,” finished Liaison, “but so far, he's beaten the odds time and again.”
         The CEO drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “In that case, find some hard-to-kill veterans that can cover him while he does his grandstanding. Any ideas?”
         “I think I can drum up a few officers like that...”



         General Cam Jameson looks over his new subordinates.
         Colonel Johann Mustang, he thinks to himself, my second-in-command: Born into military service, started out as an enlisted soldier, rose up through the ranks, and became an efficient officer, but his parents were also enlisted, so I wonder if he can be trusted to remember not to give his NCOs a kick in the pants if they don't obey quickly enough to suit their General. He might have a soft spot for those without comissions...Still, he gets the job done, so I will allow Col. Mustang to work on the day-to-day operations. As long as he knows his place.
         Lieutenant Colonel Keat Buston – not much is known about her past; as my commander of the Armored Units, I have heard she takes no prisoners, leaves no survivors. The good thing about her is she has quite the imagination – I can give her a basic order and she will exploit it to its full potential.
         Lieutenant Colonel Lynchap Charles does not have Buston's flexibility but her intelligence-gathering is second to none, so I will keep her close to the armor – but still out in front – in case she needs the occasional prod.
         Major Hugh Johns is Chief of the Air Corps. When he isn't managing gunships, he does stunt-flying for a hobby. If things get dicey, I'm sure he and his men will be there in a hurry to extract us from trouble!
         I don't expect any trouble from blue monkeys, thinks General Jameson. Let's get to it!
         
         The huge battle fleet rockets out of Earth's orbit.
         Destination: Polyphemus, and its moon, Pandora.


         General Jameson gathers his staff. “Gentlemen-”
         Lt. Col. Charles coughs.
         “- and ladies. Our target is Pandora. The – ahem – Na'vi have decimated the Marines stationed there, and sent them home with their tails between their legs. It's payback time!”
         Murmurs of agreement are heard among the staff.
         Col. Mustang pipes up, “What happened to Colonel Quaritch? Haven't had any straight answers from the Higher-Ups...”
         “From intelligence reports, from the survivors, he was killed by Jake Sully, a Marine deserter. He has joined sides with the indigenous population,” informs Lt. Col Charles, “Sorry, Johnny.”
         “Friend of yours?” inquires Lt. Col. Buston.
         “Kind of,” admits Mustang, “More like...an associate. We had some experiences together over the years. You might say we had a mutual respect, and we got along well in social settings.”
         “Heh – you took warm showers into the wee hours of the morning together?” snickers Maj. Johns.
         Mustang shoots him a withering look. “Close – we banged some of the same protitutes on R & R and drank rotgut from the same bottles.”
         Lt. Cols. Buston and Charles make disgusted faces.
         “You thinkin' of gettin' some of your own payback?” drawls the Major, a Southern boy.
         “Ehh...,” Mustang responds, “if the opportunity presents itself, maybe.”
         “...Getting back to the business at hand,” interjects Gen. Jameson, “We must consider a Game Plan...”
         Three hours later, with a Mission Order drawn up, the Officers return to their respective headquarters onboard the Command Shuttle.

         
         

         

Twelve years later

         Hearts (and other body parts) have intertwined. Jake Sully and Neytiri have ten children, and there is prosperity among the Na'vi.
         But as the time passes, Sully grows more concerned with what he knows is on the way. Unobtainium is obviously in demand, and it isn't like humans to give up such a valuable commodity so easily.
         They will be back, and in greater numbers, thinks Sully, Let's see: six years to get home, probably a year to organize, then six years to get back here...
         He has approximately one year to train the Omaticaya to resist the attackers, to teach them how to use the discarded weapons and vehicles left on the base, but is it enough time? Will it even change the outcome?
         He must convince them that their time is short.


         After many conferences, many discussions, Sully makes them understand the humans are on their way, and they will be violently angry.
         Training begins in earnest.
         He hopes he has sufficient time to get them ready for war...



         One hundred warships carrying several types of death machinery make orbit above Pandora. In the Command Ship, there is a final Council of War.
         “This is a big, mostly jungle, planet,” informs Major Johns, “I don't think we have enough incendiaries to burn all that vegetation down.”
         “Because we had to make room for all the armor,” says General Jameson, “there wasn't space for the fire bombs, but what is the alternative? We do what we must with what we've got.”
         “There's an alternative,” purrs Colonel Mustang, “As you know, I've studied War History for most of my life. It comes in handy in tight situations. For instance, 200 years ago, what was once the United States of America was involved with a pissant jungle country called Vietnam. Lots of vegetation there, too. They Air Force dumped this defoliant chemical – Agent Orange – on the jungle, and that stuff just died away! Trouble was, anyone caught in the cloud died too, except slowly. Now, I know we have made progress defeating many forms of Cancer, but there are always new strains of it popping up in humans to this day, but this planet's atmosphere is poisonous to us anyway, so maybe the chemicals we have in concentrated form in our fleet would make the air breatheable while we work here. Let's use that – it'll destroy the jungle, and perhaps kill some wildlife, as well.”
         Lieutenant Colonel Buston stated, “That war came up in myTactics class sometimes, about how occasionally high-tech gear can't be relied upon when facing a primitive, low-tech enemy. Is this what we have here?”
         “Maybe,” admits Mustang, “but those U. S. soldiers had to be on the ground with the enemy close to their positions when they fought. This time around, we can fire missiles and bombs from the comfort of orbit and just wait until everything is dust.”
         Jameson stands. “Then it's settled,” he agrees, “Target the population centers and the Unobtainium site. Turn it into desert. When the jungle becomes wasteland, we land, and commence Operation Apocalypse!”


         It is six months later. The chemical, dihydrogen oxide, leaves nothing but dead plants and animals rotting under the moon's sun. Because of a soft heart for Nostalgia, the troops have nicknamed it Agent Blue, or just Blue, since it is colored a friendly azure shade in its vapor cloud,.
         The toxic cloud has made the atmosphere less deadly to human lungs, but they will still need breathing equipment for prolonged periods. Nevertheless, inhaling the air on the surface of Pandora a person can survive without an air tank for about an hour.
         The same can't be said for the Na'vi. Genocide is an ugly word, but it is nice to see his loved ones just fall asleep and never wake up, thinks Sully, and anyway it's not like the whole family has perished – Neytiri and four of the youngest kids died painlessly; their lungs just weren't developed enough to withstand the thick smoke.
         Although whole tribes were lost to Blue, there are still many Na'vi left to fight back and they have the guns they scrounged from the base, so it may be futile but much human blood will be spilled on the now barren ground.
         Sully and the Omaticaya make final preparations for their vengeance war.
         For what it's worth...


         Operation Apocalypse landed with very little resistance. Unloading the equipment was simple and straightforward. Black Widow attack craft soared through the skies, flanking the armor rolling out of the huge dropships, infantry AMP units out in front of the lines, while Na'vi snipers shot and were shot at.
         “Just light resistance from the blue boys so far,” announces Lt. Col. Charles, “I figure when we get to more populated areas there'll be some heavier fighting.”
         “Excellent!” crows Jameson, “When you encounter bigger groups of Na'vi, inform me of their whereabouts, and I will join you!”
         “It might be too soon to march into the fray, Sir. Why not wait until we have a better grasp on the situation?” warns Mustang.
         Jameson gives him a look. “No, no...We have the advantage, we have more weapons, Fate is on our side, and we have the situation in our control!”
         “Still, we should wait, Sir. These people know the territory, and as you may have noticed they have some guns from the old base. They're not as primitive as we assume.”
         “Time and Tide wait for no man, Colonel! Here's what to do: Lt. Col . Buston will divide her units to the left and right flanks, attacking from the North and South. Major Johns' air units will circle around to the Enemy's rear, harrying them ahead to the Front, where Lt. Col. Charles' infantry will drive them into each other, thereby surrounding them. When that happens, I will take my Golden Guard, penetrate into the enclave, and decimate the entire race! You, Mustang, will cover my advance with your Infantry and Armored Guards, taking out any pockets of defense. Is that clear?”
         “Very well, Sir,” sighs Mustang, “Simple, but effective. See you at the Victory Party.”


         Huge armored multi-turreted tracked behemoths rumble through the arid region that was once teeming jungle, raising dust and ash clouds. The Na'vi fight back with arrows, grenades, and rifles, to no effect. They stumble further and further back, demoralized but unbroken.
         Johns' Black Widow attack ships and Tarantula bombers pound them to chunks of mutilated flesh. Omaticaya glare defiantly, but give up precious ground.
         The AMP suits know who their friends are – they look mechanical. So it's easy to spot the enemy – they are organic. Everthing that is colored blue is exterminated, without mercy.
         Jameson's Golden Guard closes in on the fleeing enemy.
         Na'vi continue to retreat.
         Until...
         Rapid fire bursts from what little cover is before the AMP soldiers. Several tanks get big holes blown into them from point-blank ranges. Surface-to-air missles streak at airships sending them spiralling to the ground.
         Apparently, more than just guns were salvaged from the base. The Omaticaya have managed to find and repair any weapon that they could find and, with Sully's instruction, made some of the armored vehicles combat-ready once again!
         With soldiers and Na'vi in the same area, Operation Apocalypse devolves into a Barroom Brawl; very little organization on either side, and lots of lifegiving fluids spilled everywhere.


         Omaticayans know that if they can pull the humans out of their AMP suits and rip off the breathing masks they stand a better chance of killing them. The troops know the Na'vi know this, so it's a matter of firing indiscriminately at everything that moves. Usually a good strategy, but they're shooting their own troops at the same time, making things easier for the Na'vi to put up a fight.
         “No quarter! No quarter!,” bellows Gen. Jameson over the communicator and the din, “Give me heavy Weapons platoons on the left and right, and rocket launchers directly in front of me! SILENCE THAT MACHINE CANNON AHEAD!”
         A blast thunders in front of the General's position, knocking down his rocket launchers. Another blast comes from behind.
         Just as he wheels around to deal with the new threat, Jameson sees Mustang's infantry advancing. As he smiles, a stolen rocket launcher fires a round into his command tank, bouncing him out of the cupola and onto the bloody ground.
         The tank explodes, killing his crew, but not himself, although he is wounded.
         “Is this where the party is?” shouts Mustang above the noise.
         “Glad you could make it,” hollers Jameson, “Gimme a gun, and start shooting anything blue!”
         Ammunition is in short supply. The battle is reduced to clubbed rifles, knives, spears, arrows, etc. Some shots are being fired, but not as many as when the fight started. There are a few high-tech weapons still around, with their owners waiting for an opportunity – any opportunity – here and there are some small groups of soldiers with some reloads for rocket launchers.
         Now comes empty magazines, and a scramble for fallen troopers' firearms, hoping that there are a few rounds unfired.
         Jameson and his Guard always have many spare clips, so they have more than anyone else in the foray. They are shooting on the semi-automatic option on their guns – one squeeze of the trigger, one shot fired – to conserve ammo, and make sure of their targets. After all the battles and all the hardcore training they have had over the years, they are not missing much.
         

         Jake Sully has seen this through to the bitter end. From watching his wife and children die, either by Big Blue, or the war machines, or witnessing the fight disintegrate into brutal hand-to-hand combat, he knows the end is near. Wounded and bleeding, but not too seriously, he leads about 20 Na'vi warriors towards the final band of troops. He has noticed the officers' rank insignia in the middle of a clearing, bodies fighting, dying, or dead littered all around them. He and the warriors have some rifles and handguns, but there's no telling how many cartridges are  left in the magazines. When the end comes, it will be with sharpened sticks.
         When we go, thinks Sully, we all go together. That's the truth of it, and they can have their stupid Unobtainium, too. Good riddance!
         It's almost time to attack – they must time it just right.


         The attack ships are buzzing above the fracas; Major Johns knows General Jameson is somewhere among those writhing bodies, so randomly firing ordnance into the area is a bad idea. Johns' hopes that some figures can be picked out for rescue soon.
         While all of the Na'vi commandeered vehicles have been destroyed, Colonel Buston has lost all but two of her tanks, and they are low on fuel. To conserve the depleting power, they are in a static position, sniping at anything that looks like a threat. But they still have communications gear intact, so when all is quiet they will call for evacuation.
         After attacks and counter-attacks and counter-counter-attacks, until it was every man – and woman – for themselves. In one of the many melees, Lieutenant Colonel Lynchap Charles, mortally wounded, was left behind in the brief withdrawal. When the few troops still survivng returned to where they knew she was last seen her body was gone.
         The hidden heavy weapons had taken their toll on the infantry – out of 7500 troops, only about 250 were combat-effective.



         Back at the clearing, Jameson, Mustang, and 100 of the combined Guard soldiers have plenty of fight left in them, along with a good amount of ammunition.
         The Na'vi are attacking in small groups and when they retreat, there are a couple more soldiers that won't fight any more. The living troops scavenge through the dead ones, looking for one more bullet, bandage, ration bar, et cetera.
         During a lull, Jameson gets talkative. “It was a hard-won victory,” intones the General, “and they gave as well as they got, but in the end we are still standing.”
         Mustang is more cautious, warning, “It's all or nothing for these people. My instincts say they got some fight left in them. Let's wait before breaking out the champagne, okay?”
         “Look at my boys,” says Jameson, “they've been massacred! Of the 500, not 25 of them standing tall with me!”
         To his men he yells, “Gentlemen! Our comrades feast in Valhalla today! For those of us who survived, medals, commendations and promotions all around!”
         A ragged cheer from Jameson's Golden Guard.
         “Sir, you're distracting your men,” admonishes Mustang, “We can't let our guard down while the enemy-”
         The remnants of the Na'vi charge out of the brush, shrieking. In their hands are rifles, pistols, grenades, and spears.
         The Last Stand begins.



         The Na'vi attack occurs while the Guard is in mid-cheer. As Mustang foresaw, the defenses are too distracted to react in time.
         His own veterans never let their guard down in the first place; they start methodically firing into the group coming toward their position. Unfortunately, while they kept their nerve, they don't have as much ammunition as the Golden Guard. In a heartbeat, all of their weapons are empty. Grabbing their knives, machetes, and assorted blunt objects, they get down to dirty hand-to-hand fighting.
         On the Na'vi side, they didn't have too many rounds for their guns either, so anything that can kill, wound, or stun an opponent is wielded.
         While Jameson's Guard did have more ammo, they had been completely surprised, and have been routed. They fire in all directions, shooting indiscriminately.
         This is how most of the Na'vi, most of Mustang's guard, and General Jameson are wounded, some fatally.
         Like General Jameson, but not Sully.
         The tarnished Golden Guard drop their weapons (they'd slow them down), and run blindly into the dying vegetation.
         “Cowards!” gasps Jameson, “You'll all be courtmartialled! Come back here and finish this! I am ashamed of you!”
         “Don't worry,” groans one wounded Na'vi warrior, “I can sense the wild animals approaching. They'll get theirs.”
         Mustang walks over to the warrior, and looks at him intently. It's Jake Sully, and he's blue!
         “Sully?” inquires Mustang.
         He can't deny it, so he says, “In the flesh. Who are you? Besides the conqueror...”
         “I am Colonel Johann Mustang of the Colonial Marines, and Second-in-Command of Operation Apocalypse.”
         “I've heard of you. Now what?”
         “I'm gonna contact the gunships, and see what's left of the Armor and Infantry, and we're gonna search for whoever's still alive – on both sides – patch 'em up, and send a message that the operation was a bloody success.”
         “All that, huh? There's something you gotta know – this was just a handful of the Na'vi; there's so many more out there. They'll fight you every step of the way.”
         “Maybe. From the reports from the folks you kicked off this moon oh so long ago, you're something of a boss here. Why don't we fix your wounds, and let you go to all of the other tribes, and tell them who's in charge now?”
         A look of realization, then defeat, appears on Sully's face. It's as if he shrinks, a little...
         Mustang starts to turn around, then remembers something. “One other thing,” addressing Sully once again, “I heard tell you were the one who offed Col. Quaritch. This true?”
         “Yeah,” Sully defiantly barks, “and I'm glad I did it; that sonovabitch was pure evil! I'd do it again in a New York MInute!”
         “So would I,” informs Mustang, “He was a bastard, for real. I'm glad he's dead, too. Hope he's rotting in Hell.”
         Colonel Mustang now walks over to his dying commander and crouches next to Jameson.
         “How you doing, Sir?” inquires the Colonel.
         “I can't feel my legs,” groans the General, “That was a fine, fine battle! It will be written in all the history books for eternity!”
         “Here, Sir,” he gently says, “Put on this breathing mask. You'll live a little longer.”
         Mustang sits, Indian-style, near his fallen leader, to comfort the man as he dies. He helps Jameson with the apparatus.
         When the device is applied, Jameson's eyes brighten; he has something on his mind. “Johnny. Tell me what happens now?” he whispers.
         Mustang think for a moment. “Well...while we did break the rebellion, ther are still many Na'vi left alive in other parts of Pandora, but they can be 'persuaded' to surrender now that their chief is in our hands. There will be some resistance, but it won't matter – we have tactical and technological superiority. Once they understand we have the advantage, we can do whatever we want to this place...”
         “Go on.”
         “We will have to re-educate them on who's in charge, and teach them how to behave like civilized citizens of the Colonial Authority. Their beliefs are primitive, so we'll set up tutoring programs to edify them about the Real Religions – the right ones – and to convert them to Christianity, or maybe others so they can have their choice of what to believe. They will have to relocate to places where they can be controlled in population so that there will be no dissent among the ranks, and we'll be able to monitor them more efficiently.”
         “Sounds wonderful, but the old ones won't go for it without a fight?”
         “No problem. We leave those alone, and concentrate on just the younger generations; they will be more susceptible to training. As for the old ones, we'll get physicians to give them examinations, and get them on medications that will remove their will. When they realize who is in command, then we can mine the Unobtainium with no trouble, not that we won't start digging when the dust settles, of course.”
         As Mustang talked, the other soldiers gathered around to pay tribute to their General. Jameson, fading fast, has one last edict. “Colonel Mustang,” he breathed, “I appoint you to be Commandant of Pandora's occupying force, and to oversee all operations during activity while stationed here. You will be promoted to General. Make a note of this, men. Good luck, and God bless.”
         With that, Cam Jameson quietly passed away. Many of the troops were openly emotional. Johann Mustang maintained his stoicism, but did murmur a small prayer for his commander.
         He recovered quickly, stood up, and looked around. “All right,” he barked, “Let's muster our forces, and head back to the ships. We have a lot of cleaning up to do, and a lot of work to begin!”
         

Finis