A/N: This is the redone first chapter. My original first chapter was, in total honesty, utter shite. I will be taking a pattern of New Chapter, redone Chapter from here on out, until I have redone 1-6. I just look at them at think "I can do so much better." The story will not change, but the dialogue and style sure as anything will. Anyway, to all you new readers, I sincerely hope you enjoy!

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...Didn't you hear? Wolves Never Die...

Jon woke up. Never a pleasant experience for him, but he did it anyway. A crewman pulled him from his cryo tube and undid the straps attaching him to his home for the last 6 –FUCKING- years. He'd had a going over which felt an awful lot like this a few decades ago, and he'd had to run up a mountain with nothing but his socks and a combat knife literally days after. Those were the days. When you earnt an asskicking, instead of being given it for no other reason then because you slept too long. Around him, the other staff officers were emerging like gnats from a hive. Giving the crew man a look that echoed the inner turmoil inside this, which began and ended with 'Nasty shit, this', he held out his hand. The crewman, a pale dark-haired individual, looked at him as if he'd just asked for the testicles of the Dalai Lama.

"My earpiece?" It was an emotionless growl, and little else. He wasn't in the mood for giving a dressing down to some ISV tar; he had things to do. So when the crewman blinked in surprise, hurriedly pulled a small black bead from his pocket and slapped it into Demar's outstretched hand, before floating off.

Cracking his stiff neck, and hearing the familiar hum of the shrapnel behind his right ear, he slid the bead into his left ear, most of the lobe long ago missing.

"Sir, you awake?" He spoke, even as he ghosted over to his locker.

"Aye, Dema'. Get yer stuff an' mee' me in tha' 'anga' ASAP." Came the General's gruff tone over the VOX. It wasn't half as fierce as Demar had expected. No comments on his genetic heritage; no examinations on his manhood. Oh god, Demar grumbled, he was getting soft. The hardest man this side of the Neolithic Age was getting soft.

Cranking his locker open, his meagre possessions greeted him. Military boots; old, worn, but immaculate from years shining, pulled on with familiarity. Officer's jacket, grey and formal, which he pulled over his cryo-suit: he could change later. Grey drainpipe trousers; which he slipped into like a Surgeon slipping on latex gloves. Old, familiar, yet so new at the same time. Just below these key components of being an uptight fuck, were the things that distinguished him. A picture of his wife, Maria, and their son, Matthew...He would be twelve now. Only six years with him, before Jon had left to die. His service revolver; a nasty thing, crude, a relic of a cruder time, but useful. And his pips. Worn by Colonel 'Fenris' Greyson, and before him, Colonel Harry 'Ruination' Demar. Old pips, these. Two diamonds and a crown. Bloodstained, blood-tested and battle-hardened.

Jon hated them with a passion, but he clipped them onto his collar anyway. Tapping his ear, he spoke quickly over the Staff channel.

"Alright. Hit planetside in the ROC's, people. Welcome to Pandora; most of us won't be leaving.

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Longfang did not need an Exo-Pack. When he was being grown, a unique chemical had been pumped into his blood, called Antiphaxyin. Utterly unique in that is dragged the immune system to the very brink of breaking, making it so strong it could even take on nerve gas, without actually harming the body. Quite simply, it tricked the immune system.

Looking down from the Scorpion, as they flowed over the green jungles of these legendary haven of nature, Longfang appreciated why the RDA stockholders had been reluctant to inflict too much damage upon this place. He was eager to see whether the RDA had been overwhelmed, or not. They were getting a transmission signal, but no response. UN Estimates had not advised an attempt to mine Pandora, but the RDA had not listened; technically, they should have been overwhelmed two months ago, according to careful tactical analysis. But, as every fighting man knew, tactical analysis was like commenting on the salt composure of the sea floor from orbit. By eye.

In Layman's terms, it meant jack shit.

Longfang had no way of knowing that the great battle had taken place sixteen months before.

Greyson hung out of the Scorpion, his great wagon of a fist hanging intensely onto a hanging strap. Longfang's father had changed in the last days of The Siberian Offensive. His beard had grown thick, and long, as had his hair. The intense, scorching grey eyes had softened to mere dull lights. Britannia had changed him. But Longfang would never comment on his father. No, this man had done to much for him. Now, he grinned at him.

"Think yer up fer i', laddy?" His quirky tone bellowed over the sound of the Scorpion's rotars, and his grin sparked across at him.

"With all due respect, Paps, I'll be there before you."

He didn't give his father a chance to respond. Gripping the side of the gunship, he shot out into embrace of atmosphere like a feather dropped from a rooftop. Dressed in nothing but a combat jacket, camouflage fatigues and army boots, anyone would think he was insane, stupid, and suicidal. They'd be right, but that wasn't the point. He would survive, that was a fact. He was born to take on the worst environments, weapons, circumstances and intel fuck-ups that any dumbass up ontop could dish out.

Hitting the top of a giant tree, he slid down the great, slippery leaf and onto a grainy, luminescent vine.

"Aaah, tha's m' boy!" The General chuckled, turning back inside the Gunship. Demar was sitting, stoic, straight-backed and almost contemptful. Well, he was. He accepted Longfang as a highly valuable asset, but the way he regarded Serra; his genetic daughter, was incredibly...noteworthy. Ala, he tried to fuck her everytime she walked past. More often then not, she did the same.

"ETA is thirty minutes, Sir." Jon stated, resisting the intense temptation to sneer and swear.

"Aye, aye. Been a lon' tim' sinc' I simply enjoye' this kin' o' flyin'..." Maybe because you were abit busy planning campaigns, reviewing manifests, commenting on the state of troops, and generally being a...errrr...FUCKING GENERAL!!! Had Demar not known Greyson for most of his life, he would have said it, and damn the consequences. But he had, so his response was as if Greyson had insulted him, and stated that he wished to know his opinion.

"The Rotary Orbital Carriers will be hitting Planetside a few minutes after we reach Hell's Gate, sir. Two platoons of Rifles will be the first down. I suggest establishing contact with the natives ASAP." Subconsciously, Demar was screaming. But he had built up a very specific level of intelligence in his lifetime. He was smart enough to know that if he taunted the General too soon, the following beating would not so much as land him in sick bay...More the morgue. And the fucker wouldn't regret it. So he kept it to himself, for now. Because he was a Soldier. That's what Soldiers do. Take the smart option.

Greyson nodded, like a sickly boar conceding to the Hunter's wisdom to kill him. He waved his hand in a dismissive manner as he sat down, taking a deep breath in. Oh, so he was unfit now? Even better.

As any astute reader would have appropriately deduced by now, Colonel Jon Demar was not a thoughtless grunt. He was quite the opposite. Few had his head for Maths, even fewer his tolerance for Greyson, and he was completely unknown from one side of the globe to the other. You read that right – Unknown.

"Alrigh', laddy. I'mma ge' some sac' time. Ye' wake me when we 'it ground."

Fucking lazy twat.

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Ow! Ow, ow, ow, ow, OW!

Longfang dropped from the vine onto a thick, dazzlingly bright tree branch, blowing quickly at his burnt hands. Should've let go before his hands had caught, metaphorical, fire upon the branches, but No. He had to hold on just that little bit longer, didn't he. Well, he was going to live with that mistake for about...ooooh, say, five minutes? Yanking a small metal cannister, the size of a modern pepper spray, from his pocket, he sprinkled his hands with Plasti-cast. It was a highly effective liquid-to-solid plaster, which closed cuts, stiffened broken bones, and applied antisceptic and painkillers to wounds. Damned good in the field, and it never let you down. Well, unless you pierced the cannister. Then it could be used as a rudimentary explosive. There were some funny stories behind that...

But Longfang didn't have time for reminisces. He had time to get through this forest, alive, hopefully, to Hell's Gate. Wouldn't get there before the bloody Scorpion, of course. Not even he could do sixty miles in thirty minutes. Could try, though.

'Getting ahead of yourself' He thought, closing his eyes and tapping his skull. What are the threats? You can avoid Thanators. Hammerheads; same situation. Viperwolves hunt mostly at night...but still...

Viperwolves are the main threat. Oh, and the ten foot tall natives. Y'know, the ones with give foot arrows of nerve poison. Think, you twat! Never underestimate anything with half a brain. Never underestimate an environment. And always carry bog roll. The three rules of wilderness survival. Padding himself down, Longfang found himself forgetting rule number three. Well, it was only essential if you were a shitter, so Longfang was pretty certain he'd be alright.

Looking around him, he found himself briefly transfixed by the beauty of Pandora. Climbing trees of massive height; a product of the lower gravity.

Should all burn quite nicely in Longfang's opinion.

He took off like an arrow from the string, bursting through the foliage like an artillery round. Speed was his advantage, like the well-practiced agility of a master swordsman coupled with the sheer brutal power of a diving falcon. Over this tree branch, bounce off that rockface, roll, keep running. Endurance was his advantage. Marching over the Himalayas had taught him that. Breathless, tireless, relentless. Fearless? Nah, as became quite apparent when he heard growls behind him. Something was following, and that was about as good as a shotgun round to the face.

Think, yer dirty ar's runt! Collec' yerself an' use wha' I gav' ye! Turn! Stan'! If ye die, atleas' yer'll die like a man!

His father's words, some of the first words he'd ever heard, and a hundred times after that, rung violently in his ears. He sniffed, his enhanced olfactory organs picking up three distinguished, but similar scents. Running alongside him. Could only be Viperwolves.

Choos' yer terrain carefully. If an avenu' o' escap' means you los' yer advantag', fuck the escap'. Win.

He chose a gully; where the landscape dipped down into the ground, much like an impact crater. But in the center, a pool of glowing, vibrant water clustered round a colossal tree. Drawing a combat knife, he put his back against the tree, and waited. Wouldn't be too long now.

Sure as anything, the creatures appeared on the ridge. Three deadly predators, roughly a meter and a half long from nose to tail. Six clawed legs which worked with perfect co-ordination and optimum balance. Two great antennae. And, far more noticeably, great snapping jaws that, if they got within killing range, wouldn't have much of a problem chomping through Longfang's neck.

But they were three. He was one.

Flicking his combat knife from it's sheath, he placed his arm across his neck, knife held outwards. His left arm was outstretched, knees bent, and mouth open.

"Ahuuk tahuuk!" He snapped at them, shooting his head forwards in an obvious taunt.

They were smart. First one feinted at his legs, before leaping away at the last second. It's packmate went for his throat; but Longfang's guard was designed for such an attack. With his outstretched arm, he sweeped the piouncing creature aside in mid-air, gripped it's antennae and killed it clean as a butcher; knife through the frontal lobe. Well, if it had one. Death? 0.09804491 seconds. Pain level? Non-existent in anything but an overcharged nervous system.

The guard came straight back up, and he flared his teeth again.

"Urst tahuuk vragar!" He cried, allowing himself a brief celebration in the form of a grin. But they were coming again. This time, they both pounced. One low, for his legs, the other high, from his right. He couldn't block them both? Even he wasn't that fast? Yet he had time to think. To remember a quote from the father.

Boy. You eva' fin' yerself in a positio' wher' yer fucke' 'igh an' low – ge' creativ'.

It wasn't easy to throw his combat knife as he leapt forward. Not easy at all. But he moved, just in time, as the Viperwolf's jaws snapped where his throat would've been. Got a knife into the eye for it's trouble. Death? Argh! WHO CARED?!

But the hard part was not so much as risky, but suicidal. He wanted to...No time, now or never!

IT WORKED! IT WORKED! Streaks of joy went up from every part of his body as his hands gripped the Viperwolf's jaws. Three fingered claws came, slashing at his wrists, but he held tight. Because he was used to pain. Plus, the beast was scratching at steel-plates; his wristbomes had been replaced years ago.

Okay, okay. Your hands are tired. Now calmly, and quickly, break the thing's jaws, or you're going to die of blood loss from a lucky shot. Not so easy. Never was.

He roared, a bestial thing to do, but he did it anyway as he started to push the Viperwolf's jaws further and further apart. Once they were about about ninety degrees, it started to whimper. Stopped clawing; started trying to escape. That look in it's eyes of terror. Started screaming.

Us Wolves? We're all the same, laddy. Neva' forge' tha'. Or I'll kill ya'.

Damnit. He couldn't kill it. It was a Wolf, begging for it's life, and there was nothing in it. With a grudging huff at his own weakness, Longfang pushed the Viperwolf away. It whimpered off, but not before looking back briefly. Holding it's ground behind a bush, it seemed intent on him. The thing about Wolves was; if it's pack died, it looked for another one...

Even if that pack was the one which murdered it's family.

Longfang looked at it; eyes of callous steel meeting those of fierce loyalty. A match of wills. Longfang gave him, sinking to a squatting position and holding out it's hands. Tentatively at first, it came closer, noticing the blood upon the human's hands. Like the noble scavenger it was, it licked his palm.

"We'll meet again, Loki." Longfang promised, before disappearing into the underbrush.