Miles Quaritch

“How much longer is this gonna take, Doc?”

You glance up from your tablet to the man sitting impatiently on the table. Much more than a man, really-- a wall of solid muscle armed with a piercing amber gaze. The more tests you run the more the end of his tail flicks back and forth with irritation, eager to be free of the cramped and sterile lab. You know the interior lighting isn’t kind on Na'vi eyes. The needles you’ve prodded him with certainly don’t improve the experience.

“We’re almost done,” you say, returning your attention to your tablet. “We’ve completed hair, urine, saliva, blood, and they took tissue samples before you were woken up.”

“Uh huh.”

*Again, you look up at him. He’s watching you intently. You fight the urge to shy away under that stare. You can’t look away from his face without looking at his shirtless torso, and that will only lead to more wandering thoughts. Why did the Na’vi have to be so goddamn hot? The first gen recombinants in particular must have had some kind of special gene coded into them that specifically targeted your thalamus. You can barely look at them without blushing. Some of them delight in understanding how their mere proximity affects you. Wainfleet offered to take you for a ‘ride’ when you blushed during his initial assessment on the Venture Star, and considering they didn’t have banshees yet, you understood all too well what he was insinuating. You almost accepted. Only the jarring buzz of your pager restored your senses and reminded you that you are his doctor.

And now Colonel fucking Quaritch is looking at you expectantly. He is so large. He has this intensity about him. When you have his full attention, you can feel it in your bones. It makes the next words that come out of your mouth waver. “The last sample we require is an ejaculatory emission.”

Quaritch blinked. His ears twitched. “Say again?”

You steal yourself. “Sperm, Sir.”

“And why,” he asked slowly, low and rasping, “would you need that, cupcake?”

"The RDA wishes to collect sperm samples from the recombinants for future research in potential breeding programs,” you inform him.

“I beg your fucking pardon?”

“It is much easier to birth a new unit from an existing body than to grow one from scratch, not to mention cheaper.”

ZHe looks less than impressed with the news that his sperm might be used to create more assets, but that is what he signed up for. Well, it’s what the old guy signed up for. This clone was as much a tool to the RDA as an AMP suit or Samson gunship. Human rights activists hadn’t yet caught up to the autonomy of recombinant clones. They were still struggling to win a case for the Na’vi.*

You clear your throat. “And, um… it is also important we assess your new body fully for your sake.” There. You could at least imply that the RDA cared about him a little.

“My sake?” Quaritch asked. The tip of his tail flicked again.

“Yes, Sir. This is your body after all. We want to ensure every possible function is… adequate.”

“You wanna make sure my dick is adequate?”

Red blossoms across your cheeks. It spreads to your ears and down your neck. Nobody could ever fault the Colonel for not saying what he meant. You scramble to come up with an appropriately professional response. “Well, you— of course, Sir, and that all the plumbing works too—”

“You science pukes really wanna make sure I can blow a load? How much alien sex do you think I’m gonna get up to on this death trap of a moon?”

Feeling along the bench behind you, you grab the flask you’d prepared earlier. When you’d picked it out it felt large enough in your hands, but looking at him now you realized just how much you underestimated. The Colonel realizes it, too. He smirks and raises his dark brows in challenge.