A/N: Another updated chapter. Keep reviewing!

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Greyson was a professional soldier to the core. And noone used that title light; usually it's an insult. Born into hell; a runt in the slums of Edinburgh. The constant drug trade was still sweeping the country, and Greyson was the son of two heavy-duty users. He grew up fighting, kicking, scratching for every breath. Theft was the only way of living; he was never taught how to read until 2116, when he was 10; this was the Year that the UN swept the drug-slums, and pulled out over 3000 screaming, drug-addicted children. Matthew was lucky; he was not addicted. But he had been brutalised more times then he could count, and was half-blind in one eye. A fear of any man bigger then him forced him into rehabilitation for 3 years. Only after these years was he allowed to begin to learn.
And learn he did. For 5 years, he was sped through basic primary and secondary teachings. He learnt incredibly quickly; and left Edinburgh Sanatorium with a stoic expression. He was going to be someone.
He applied to join the UN Military as an Officer, but was ruthlessly turned down; before being conscripted into The British Fusiliers.
In Tibet, he fought with distinction during it's liberation; a slow and sluggish process. 5 Terrible years that saw the loss of Greyson's hand and mercy. Upon leaving that hellhole, dozens of new scars sprinkled across him, he began to study; he served in 'Peacekeeping' actions across South America for a further two years, before being put through Officer training after winning 2 Victoria Crosses in a day; after he personally held a Hospital from Chilean Terrorists; losing his left arm and leg in the process.
He was the first patient of a pioneering cybernetics experiment. The Chilean Government paid for it in gratitude, but no one expected him to survive. But they underestimated his will.
It was during the 15 year Siberian Offensive that saw him rise to fame; from 3rd Lieutenant to General. How? He was a brilliant mathematician, and was assigned to General Kutuzov's staff. In this, he began to offer the general advice. At first, Kutuzov glared and berated him for his insolence, but when he began to realise the young Lieutenant's ideas were genius. From then, his rise was meteoric. By the 12th year of the Campaign, of forcing combined Russio-Chinese forces across the harshest terrain on Earth, General Greyson was elected as The Commander in Chief to conquer China. This he did with a single, decisive strike; he'd been planning it since the first day he had set foot in Siberia.

But he hated scientists, sometimes. Well, that's a big sometimes, the only man he'd ever got along with for more then a drink of the hip flask was a Scientist; but he was dead now, so it didn't count. They had this way about fucking things up; from the SecFor head's manifest, that's exactly what happened. Give a soldier a gun, and he'll field-strip it, put it back together and shoot it. Give a scientist a gun, and he'll spend 5 minutes looking down the barrel before pulling the trigger to see what happens. These two tree-hugging freaks weren't worth the skin they were made of. But they had kept the inside of the base moderately serviceable, so they weren't all bad. Even as he smoked his cigar, caustically, he could see that.
Unfortunately, Jon Demar wasn't in the mood to give a runny shit what his superior thought. The Scientists were standing around the Tactical Display Desk, trying to look as big and imposing as possible. One had this way about him; he was thin, spindly, sleep-deprived, but he stood like he should be taller. Looked like the kind of guy who'd spent half his life worrying about big brutish lads, the other half about quantum equations. None of which Demar cared about.
The other was an idiot's drawing of a scientist: Asian, more then likely British-Indian, thick-rimmed glasses, stubble around his jaw. Decently cleaned white jacket.
Both looked across at Demar and Greyson like new inmates at an asylum. That hounded looked. That scared look. That uncertain look. He'd seen it so many times; oftimes it was justified. Less often, it wasn't.
Greyson was fixated with his datapad like a drunk child with a new bottle of brandy. Tapping it, seeing the pretty lights, smiling, tapping it again. It was quite obvious that he was looking through Quaritch's manifest; which Demar had already gone over three times, but why did he have to look like an idiot while doing it? It was one of those moments that made Demar wish he'd told Greyson to shove his offer up his arse.

"I'm not a Soldier, anymore, Grey. I've got a family. A fortune. I can live like a King until my dying day."
"An' kno' ye mates die' defendin' ye?"

Greyson always had his number, even in the wretched state he'd been in. Always did, probably always would. Fortunately, 'always' was becoming shorter and shorter by the second.
With a cool flick of his wrist, Demar gestured to the two men.

"Norm Spellman and Max Patel. Current lead scientists upon Pandora, following the..." Sometimes the right word is the harshest. Never be afraid to use it "...destruction of the SecFor Security Forces and the exodus of the RDA. We have official documentation here from the UN handing all command, resources and personnel over to us." A datacube. A tiny crystalline creation with approximately 0..0001mg of Unobtanium as a memory transmitter. He placed it upon the table, tapped it, and six, great flowing documents presented themselves upon the blank tactical display desk. There were written in the kind of scrawl for which scribes are named for. Flowing, intricate, precise and fantastically ornate; Scribes spent their whole lives learning to write like this. The collective thought brought a tiny smile to each of their faces, but it was quickly suppressed by the fact it made them look like a gay crime fighting team.

And they were most certainly not that.

The two scientists no more then glanced over the documents, looking for any faults, but they weren't lawyers. It was hopeless. They sighed, deeply and nodded at the soldiers; like old men ready to be put to bed after baring with the in-laws for a few deafening decades. A part of Demar wanted to laugh, but they weren't all broken. Yes, they may have been resigned to give over Command, but they still had their opinions.

"Alright. You win. Seems the Na'vi will have to cope with another invasion." Max said, his eyes bouncing around with that fire that told of hate. It amused Demar, worried Greyson and buoyed up Spellman.

"Y'know, it's not exactly like they haven't already been through enough. Now you're coming to exterminate them." He had started to move towards them, now, and Demar wasn't really in the mood for this. Taking a few, lightning steps around the desk, he slammed his fist into Norm's cheek, sending him crashing to the ground with an audible crash, thunk and thud, like a Hawk taking out a Pigeon in mid-flight. As he was hit, had adrenaline not been pumped into his body and if it had lasted more then a second, he would have noticed the feel of metal in Demar's knuckles. Unfortunately, he didn't. Demar simply flexed his hand, eyed the other scientist and replied "Read the document."

Max was kneeling beside Norm at this point, and looking at Demar as if he'd just shot him. Norm had a massive purple spot across the side of his face, but Demar was a control-freak; if he'd wanted to do serious harm, he'd have gone for the ribs, or temples.

"Read. The. Document." Demar replied, producing a small woolen cloth from his pocket and let it fall down towards Norm. Gesturing to his face, Demar nodded as Norm found it icy cool, and plenty of anaesthaetic. As Max read, he knelt beside him.

"My apologies. But the word extermination has a very specific effect on me." Yeah, right. His face hadn't changed abit through the whole incident; from hearing the word to giving him the cold compress.

"Erm...Norm. I think we may have these guys wrong." It was said in the tentative voice that symbolised that Demar had got them. His gamble had paid off, quite expertly. And all because the UN didn't trust them...

Well, they had every reason not to.

Max helped Norm up, and pointed to a line, half way down, on the sixth piece of paper. Quite clearly, in the same ornate hand writing, was the beginning of a very long section dictating the clauses under which all authority would be removed.

'Should any of these clauses be met by the 'Aesir' Expeditionary Force, all authority is hereby returned to it's previous owners. Leaders of said Expeditionary are ordered to be dishonourably discharged, pending court-martial.

1 – The firing upon with live rounds of any members of the indigenous population known as the 'Na'vi'.

2 – The allowance of the Insectivorus Decimatus (known as 'Roaches') to take control of the moon known as 'Pandora'

3 – The allowance of the fall of Tactical Landing Site classified 'Hell's Gate'...

The list went on, to include everything from the incorrect distribution of supplies to the breakdown of discipline. There was easily twenty nine of them, and the Scientists were amazed at the simple stupidity of it all. These men were treading a tenuous wire in a war. But they simply nodded, and looked up at Demar and Greyson. Best not to let it show; if these guys were anything like Quaritch, they'd pounce on it. Hard.

But Greyson seemed utterly consumed in his datapad, occasionally frowning at the thing. Demar, as his boots clattered across the floor to stand beside the man, briefly gave him a very dry look, before returning his aquiline gaze to the Scientists.

"There are many systems on base which are not operational. Your team will be aiding the Division's technicians in getting them up and running." The colonel said, maintaining his stone like fascade with a dedication that hinted at actual emotional retardation. Well, Norm liked to think so, anyway. But they weren't mechanics! They were the members of the Avatar Program; Norm, Max and four others had either lost their Avatar bodies, but the rest used there's quite regularly. Never used the main lab, though. That place was haunted.

"Alright, alright, just don't hit me again." Norm joked, half-chuckling. It died in his throat when he saw the slightly contemptful expression upon Demar's face. But then he saw that the soldier was looking past him. At the thin haze on the horizon...Ikrans.

With equal vigor, Norm and Max looked at Demar and Greyson, nervous expressions dancing across their faces. Demar tapped his earpiece, and spoke

"Riflemen. Stun rounds only. Form firebases, defend the landing strip. Command out."

For the Colonel, that was that. Nothing else would come of it. That was the end of the incident, from start to finish. It was like he knew the outcome.

His eyes turned to Greyson.

"Sir, I am going to oversee the battle."

Greyson nodded, still focused upon the blasted datapad.

"Go with 'em, boy." He muttered, to confused looks from the scientists. From out of nowhere, a six-foot 20 year old dropped down directly behind the two men. He loved doing that; just pleasantly reminding these squares that he was always watching. Placing a hand upon each shoulder, the long-haired phantom grinned at them both with strangely long canines.

"Aye, aye. How you doing, lads?" He wink at Norm, before sprinting off after Demar. That boy was something else entirely. A Wolf, but not a Wolf. A killer. To his bones. Didn't love nothing more then busting into an enemy barracks and slitting some throats. Strangely, Greyson spoke this thoughts, to the...The current word being 'shit scared' expressions upon Norm and Max's faces.