3rd Chapter. Took some doing. Hope you enjoy; please review!

Jake had seen the Sky People return, and shuddered in dread. He'd known they'd come back, but so soon? So soon...Neytiri was pregnant with their child. The Omaticaya were only just returning to Hometree. They had lost much, and were only just starting to rebuild. How? It should have taken the best part 12 years for a message to reach Earth and for an army to return? By then, they would have been ready...But now? No, not now. They were only just beginning...They were supposed to have years...For Enya to recover, for the Banshees to breed and multiply, for the Omaticaya Clan to grow strong once more. This wasn't right!

And they had brought that strange one. The one who needed no mask, and ran like a Nantang...And killed like one, too. Killing those Wolves had seemed almost casual to him; then, what he'd done afterwards...Bonding without the braid? Strange. But Jake only knew that he had to get these humans out before they established a presence here. The Omaticaya couldn't take another battle; and something about these humans said they weren't like the RDA.

So, Jake sat, beneath the sapling Hometree, and thought. Children of The People occasionally scampered past, but not without bowing their heads first; they would stop, bow, then continue into the forest. Hunters drove any Thanator's away from Hometree, but other then that there was many dangers.

Jake's thoughts were interrupted by Neytiri, scrambling up the nearby branch. She was beautiful as ever, and her stomach was just starting to swell.

"Jake...What are we going to do about the Sky People?"

"Fight them."

Neytiri hissed at her love's stupidity.

"Have you seen how many there are?"

"We can try and give them a shock. Make them wary of coming down; give us time." Jake snarled back

Greyson slipped his arms into the sleeves of his Officer's jacket, even as his son flashed the Wolf's grin. To effectively explain that boy would take milennia, and then you would still have to experience it yourself. He wanted a few days with him, just to get him straight. But General Greyson had only a few weeks to diplomatically reach an agreement with a people who were convinced the Planet was on their side, organise a defence and win. That was the hard part; winning. Even as he looked out over Hell's Gate; the courtyard at which the 3rd were landing was about 200 metres on each side; he saw the difficulty of that task. As about 50 'ikrans' were coming to seriously fuck up his plans. Tapping his right eye, the cybernetic implant zoomed in. War leader near the center. Bad news. So, they're trying to stop us landing? He thought. Well, he would give them a fusilade. Just like at Novgorod. They would regret this, dearly...If only he could...

But orders were orders.

Tapping his ear, he spoke clearly into every member of the 3rd's head.

"Stun roun's, boys. Don' wan' no kills."

Already, 50 or 60 Riflemen were forming up into two firebases, about 50 metres ahead of where the ROCS were landing. Good; the Banshees would have to attack bristling gun emplacements. No heavy callibre, but a firebase is essentially when squads form up into a circle of men, guns aimed outwards; this provides maximum firepower against air-based targets.

To his left, his son emerged, combat armour slapped on. It was little more then a carbon-steel breastplate slapped over his chest and back, aswell as two pauldrons. With a speed that only Wolves knew of, he disappeared into the fray.

Demar appeared beside Greyson, nodding, even as their marine detail arrived. The men who had served as Greyson's command staff for a very long time, now.

"Let's get going, Sir." spoke Master Sergeant Fighting Buffalo, a Santee Sioux Indian, but a damned fine NCO.

In response, Greyson chuckled and nodded. They quickly made their way through the base to what had been the Command Center. By that time, the Na'vi were almost upon them.

"Alrigh', lads. Keep I' clean; ahuuk tahuuk." From below, the Riflemen echoed their Commander's sentiments with a great roar of "AHUUK TAHUUK!"

This wasn't something they enjoyed. This was something they did. Training and experience combined to make a flawless, disciplined machinations. In those squads, there were Tibetans, Chileans, Inuits, Sioux, English, Nantuckans. But there was a higher proportion of Englishmen. Greyson could remember meeting the remnants of the British Army, after the devastation of their country, and seeing them beg to get back at the bastards who'd killed their country. That had clinched it. You don't turn down men like that. Men who've lost everything; so they want to go ahead and go risk their lives? Men are strange. Very much so. But there's something heartwarming in the simple act of wanting to go across a Solar System, an impossible distance, and take the prize right from under the noses of those who destroyed your world. Greyson liked that in men.

But, in the end, they all combined to make one nation; 3rd 'Loki' Riflemen Battalion, 1st Battalion of 2nd Division "Wolves of Asgard", 56th Corp. Nothing existed but the nation. You died defending the guy next to you, no questions asked. Almost every single man down there had faced up the AMP Legions of China, and come out smiling. They held true to a simple maxim; If you're going through Hell, keep going and keep humorous Or else the horrors of war take you; and you become less. Every soldier goes through it at some point; where he decides to be a Soldier or a beast. Those men down there? They had chosen to be a Soldier. When they signed their lives away on that dotted line, they fucking meant it. And these guys had barely one new recruit between them; PFC Eric Potter.

On the ground, Private Potter was hesitant. Very much so. First ground mission, this. And against 10-foot blue cat-monkeys on dragons? Come on! Even as he hefted his XMX Assault Rifle, the other lads around him were steady as curtained iron. He wasn't. Knees were shaking, rifle sight shaking. Armour plates cracked together hesitantly. There was comfort though; firebase of 3 squads was pretty much a death-trap to any light flyers. It was a safe position, and his squad was safer still. Banks, the Comm-techy, could get that thing to work in 250mph freefall. Su-Yin had mastered demolitions to an art form; he liked to think of rubble as simply 'a masterpiece'. Biggest man in the Company, Owantunubu of the Masai could crush a bull's skull between those hands of his. Those were just 3 of the 9 men who accompanied. But there was one man who was a Veteran to the core. Buzzcut hair, rock-hard chin, cockney bruiser.

On their squad channel, Sergeant Sargeant (A highly amusing name until you met him) sub-vocalised commands.

"Keep in tight, lads. No gaps. Pick a target and pip it. Larson, no fucking wet noises. Potter, no dribbling or I'm sending you back to Hogwarts." Everyone chuckled. Under his helmet, Eric muttered a few profanities, and murmured, slightly louder, "Yes, Sir."

"Good boy. Now, get your arses ready."

Sergeant turned his head for a split second to examine Potter's weapon. Then, he growled, gripped it and slammed it onto stun.

"I'll deal with you later, you fucking cockmonkey..."

But by then, they were in range, and Demar's giant baritone came over the comm.

"Open fire, gentleman."

How can such a crisp, short command bring hell? Without a thought, Potter pulled the trigger, and so did 57 other Riflemen. Gas-charged explosives rounds; loaded with a paralytic nerve gas which was designed to tranquilize Blue Whales for science, pelted into the Na'vi. Welcome to the beauty of mechanics. Death will be your teacher today. Fire 50 rounds at your target; if he/she drops, switch to another. Now, drop the clip at your feet by tapping the release (as you do this, you should be finding a target); reach into your belt and pull a fresh clip. Slam it into the gun, and repeat.

Training videos make it sound so simple. It never is when they're bearing down on you. But to Eric? It was mechanical. He'd drilled it so many times, it was clockwork. His muscles just did it, naturally, not letting his nerves get the better of him. Humanity was itself a weapon, the Private realised, it was just born blunt.

One Banshee got through. About 20 feet away from him; the Na'vi is aimed a powerful arrow at him. He's reloading. He was done for.

With all the drama of taking a piss, Sarge turned and put 10 rounds into the Na'vi's skull. The flyer banked upwards, sharply, taking it's pilot with it.

"Fucking Smurfs." He stated, cold as ice. Potter didn't even have time to reply; they were backing off. A large Na'vi, with human-like eyes and a braid running down his head, was wrestling on the ground with that super-guy...Erm, erm...Longfang! Crazy bastard through to his core. Big long braids of blonde hair.

Moving in, they saw that Longfang had pinned the Na'vi by the throat, and was holding him down. 3 Assault Rifles are poised at his skull. He stopped struggling. Then, he spoke, perfect english.

"What are you doing here, you bastards!?"

Some of the Rifles were taken aback, including Potter, but Sarge and Longfang were used to being surprised, and didn't show it.

"You'll be the turncoat then?" Longfang said, grinning down at him. It was sweetly done; Sarge had caught the fight in the corner of his HUD, and was now replaying it on full, enhanced view. Same old Longfang. He'd waited until the Na'vi's attack was utterly commited; a dive bomb on a Banshee, and then sprung. Longy had been standing on a small storage shed, and the Na'vi turncoat had sprang at him off the banshee. Muscles are faster then momentum if you know how, and Longfang had let the Na'vi fly over his shoulder, grabbed his leg and threw him onto the ground.

Sarge chuckled. Patching a line through to the Colonel, he informed him -

"Sir, we've got 5 or 6 Na'vi prisoners, aswell as the turncoat. Request permission to transfer to secure holding cells."

"Granted, Sergeant, get them in lock-up, bring the turncoat to us, ASAP. Demar out." That was that, then.

"Longfang, you steaming pile of runt shit. Get him to Command." Longfang nodded, not so much as registering the insult. No point in responding to a Sergeant's jibes. With a fierce hit, the Na'vi turncoat was unconscious.