4th Chapter! This is going pretty fast! I'd like to thank everyone for their reviews. This is very much a domestic chapter, but it holds some really important info.
Messhall. Hell's Kitchen. Potter chuckled at hearing that name, for which he was given several 'What the hell you laughing at?' looks from his squad. He shut up, as you do. It was a simple place. Lots of steel tables, a window looking out on the Pandoran jungle, standard stuff for a Military base. Damned nice view, though. Perimeter fence engulfed by exotic foliage, and then half a mile of kill-terrain. That was a no man's land; where the gunners went to work. Some called it heaven, others called it hell. But it was beyond that where the real beauty lay. But beauty wasn't a soldier's thinking; especially not a Private after his first real engagement. The first thing on his mind is food.
Debriefed in the storage sheds; mercifully clean of foliage (compared to the rest of base), the Platoon was filing into the mess, and already the Cooks had landed and were doing what they did best. Sarge, forward as always, called over and pleasantly asked
"OI! Bogs! What's up for the grinder today?" Bogs was the head chef; big, tall, bad-tempered but really, really picky about his food. Already, he had his apron around his large waist and was wading into the kitchen.
"BY THE 5 FIRES OF CHICKEN TIKKA MASSALA!" He roared, as soon as he entered, prompting a burst of chuckling from the Rifles. That always meant 'jackpot'.
Coming out with a massive, metal tin easily as big as him, Boggs was grinning from ear to ear. He set it on the counter with a great effort, and opened it up.
"Howdy, boys. Get your mess tins! We got stew!" His thick Texan accent was hard to decipher (and even harder to write), but when it comes to the bloke who feeds you, you learn quick.
As one, the Rifles were formed up in a neat line. NCOs first, Sarge first among them.
"What kind of stew is this, Boggs?" He queried, half-grinning.
"God fuck me if I knew, Sarge!" That got a whack from Sarge.
"Don't take his name in vain, damn you!"
He did it, AS he was getting his stew with his mess tin. So that meant Boggs would be pissed with the rest of the Rifles.
It took some time for it to get to Potter; he was the newbie, so he got the scrapings. Turned out there was plenty for everyone, but the young PFC could remember finding a dead rat at the bottom of his tin, before. He thanked God, and ate it, like the Sarge told him. You do what the Sarge told you.
As the Rifles gingerly sat down to eat their meals, the banter started.
"Come on, Potsworth, sit your scrawny ass down." Owanutubu said, patting the seat next to him. It was different, usually he had to get his own table.
"Alright, Potter." Jacques said, nodding his head.
Sarge leaned forward, glaring at everyone.
"Join hands, lads."
Grace was said, with an added 'And when those fuckers come back, give us the holy might to smite them like the shits they are.'
Meal was allowed to continue. Eagerly pulling his spoon, Potter examined the tin's contents. It was a purple colour, with tiny bits of yellow and green floating in the sludge. Pretty much as one, they all shrugged and dug in. Didn't taste too bad, actually. Like a decent curry back home...
"Boys, I'd like to welcome a new member to our Brotherhood." Sarge stated, looking at his mess tin. As everyone stared at him, Potter looked around to see the new member.
"It's you, Potter."
Eric looked back, with a 'What the hell?' expression.
"First combat mission, you join the squad. Not before, not after. Live-fire or stun, long as the enemy are trying to kill you." There was a joint spattering of nods.
"First; nicknames. They can't have anything to do with your last name; first names are fair gam-."
"What about you, Sir?"
The Sergeant grimaced, a familiar expression and admitted
"My first name is Sergeant."
Anywhere else, that very well might have gotten a chuckle from the young gun. Not in the Rifles. You don't laugh at the Sarge.
So, the nicknames began. Owanutubu was 'Shaka', Jacques was 'Froggy', Yu-Sin: 'Gunpowder'. Banks was simply 'Techs'. San-Reyes was 'Chats'; Higgson was 'Bottom', Ivanonich was 'Cossack', and -finally- there was Glenn 'Cymru'.
"What does Cymru mean?"
"'Welcome' in Welsh."
"Now, lad, we gotta pick one out for you. I saw the way you handled that XMX. Best reload time I've seen on a gun-baby. So we've decided on 'Piston'." That was that. Potter was no longer to be known as Potter except to outsiders and officers. To everyone that mattered in day-to-day life, it was just 'Piston'.
"I like it, Sarge."
"Knew you would."
Cossack, his stern Russian eyes turned towards the door, grunted to let us know there were some intruders. About 17 squares were walking in; that's slang for Scientist. Most were looking round without surprise, almost with recognition, at the 57 Rifles gingerly eating the stew on the tables. Instantly, one caught Piston's eye, tall, sleek, shoulder length brown hair, young, female, and with an expression of disgust. Obviously, he, with his youthful appearance and powerful grey eyes, had the same note-worthy appearance, as their eyes met. She sneered, he chuckled, and Sarge saw it.
"Piston; we got orders to send a liaison to work with them. You're our man – go introduce yourself."
Oh, that FUCKER!
"Thank you, Sarge." The PFC said, angrily, through gritted teeth, as he slammed down his spoon.
"Pleasure, Pist!" That brought a burst of chuckling from the squad, even Piston had half a grin on. 5 Other Rifles followed him up to the Scientists at the end of the Messhall; and they quickly agreed, without his consent, of course, that Piston would be doing the talking.
This they indicated by nudging him forward. The lass who'd given him the devil-eyes sneered again. Good. Meant she wouldn't be rubbing up against him like a bitch on heat.
"Good day, my name is Pis- Private First Class Eric Potter, 4th Squad of 1st Platoon, 3rd Battalion. I will be one of your liaison officers for the duration of our stay here. Any questions?"
"Yeah. Why the hell is a Private a liaison officer?" Because we're not allowed to tell you jackshit without prior authorisation, so he who doesn't know can't tell. But Piston was a fast thinker, and smart. He remembered his orders.
"Unfortunately, all other Officers are indisposed right now; most landing or debriefing."
"That guy's a Sergeant, though." That bitchy brunette pointed a finger at the Sarge; knew her chevrons then.
Almost mockingly, Piston chuckled and spoke "Madam, I have seen that man disable and disarm 6 men in as many seconds; without breaking a bone. On him, or the assailants. Do you really think he does not deserve some food after fighting off the Savages?" Okay, bad move. Instantly, the 20 or so Scientists were in uproar, shouting various insults at the Rifle, defending the Na'vi.
"SHUT THE FUCK UP!"
Sarge had that effect on people. He pushed past Piston and glared dead into the eyes of the ringleader; an Indian Scientist. They backed off.
"Look here; if you ever treat any of my men like that again, I will personally break you in half, I swear by almighty God and his many saints." Then he was gone, but not before flashing an understanding nod at Piston. Civilians were hard to handle. They were offended by the harsh truths which kept Soldiers alive; kept them from going insane.
"Okay, look. We're here. We're not here to fight the Na'vi, but we will if we have to. We need you guys to talk to the Na'vi prisoners and try and tell them something is coming" He used the General's words for the next bit "Something so terrible if destroys worlds. It is the darkness which douses light; it is the Wolf which steals the children. It is harsh, it is emotionless, and it won't stop."
"What?"
"That's classified. Because if you knew, every last one of you would be taking the first ship out of here."
__
Colonel Greyson hefted his XMX with practiced expertise. It was natural to him, as he looked at the Complex door. They had descended about 40 steps into the earth, and now they were met by a giant, steel door, with a codelock to the side.
"Techy, ge' in 'ere."
Seconds pasted; the techy linked up his neural decipherer, and broke the code within 45 seconds. The door popped open, with Private Sargeant leading the way. Bullets pinged off the door, and the Private came rushing back.
"Suggest RXKs, Sir."
"Do I', lad."
Quickly, Sargeant pulled the tiny, penny-sized object off his belt, tapped it 3 times and then threw it into the corridor.
As one, the platoon's ears were deafened by a neural-link to Greyson. A shockwave hit them, but they had spread their legs and hunched their shoulders.
"Okay, laddies. Tim' fer tha' crunch."
There was no hesitation this time. Sargeant filed into the blackened corridor, with Greyson and the Company following him. At the back, a Spanish Scientist cursed in his native language. The once-shining metal plates had been utterly discoloured and scorched by the was a crossroads; one went left, to an eagerly blackened corridor decorated with incinerated husks. The right? The same. But directly infront of them was a highly similar door to the first.
"Alrigh', Demar, tak' 4th through 7th and clear th' righ'. Henrik, 8 through 10, the lef'. First through to 3rd, with me. An' mak' sur' Alucardo's with us."
So it began. 1st Lieutenant Demar took his squads, Major Henrik took his. Colonel Greyson watched sceptically as the Techy broke the lock. This time, it took easily 5 minutes. Gunfire began to echoe through the complex.
"What am I here for, anyway, Matt?" Alucardo queried, seemingly unaffected by the Gunfire.
"Sneaky suspicions we go' a clonin' program goin' on in 'ere. If I' is, I wan' ye to tell us 'ow to use it to our advantag'." His tone as a Colonel was different to that as a General. He was clean shaven, constantly glaring and constantly thinking.
The door burst open, with Private Sargeant, Colonel Greyson and Rodrigo Alucardo following in. It was a darkened room, but a damned big one. The floor panels were black, as were the roof and wall panels. But all around them, with large gaps inbetween, were massive tanks of fluid. They would have a terminal beside it, and a massive machine, connected to both tank and terminal by dozens of pipes and wires.
Barely a few feet infront of them, a Chinese Scientist was attempting to burn some documents. Sargeant took him in the head with a single shot. Alucardo picked up the documents and began to study them.
"Greyson. You go clear the complex...Give me an hour or two..." Already, the Geneticist was embroiled in the papers.
There was 40 Chinese Soldiers in the complex. It was a simple seek and destroy mission, but they fought like dogs. Lost 15 men. It took 3 hours, and by that time, Alucardo had read the notes,and was virtually bouncing with excitement.
"Greyson, look, look, look. This chambers..." He dragged the Colonel over to the nearest one. "...are perfect for growing human beings. They supply nutrients, mimic the conditions of the womb perfectly! BUT! They are uninhabited! The Chinese hadn't quite gotten round to actually growing anything in them! I've been looking for one of these facilities most of my adult life!"
"Wha' ye sayin', Rodge?"
"I can grow you super-soldiers..."
Greyson maintained his cold, cautious expression.
"How?"
"I simply implant a strand of DNA into the cells which encourages the unused DNA for, say, heightened adrenal control to become active. And I've mastered the way Cells decay to an art form! I could get you grown Super-Soldiers in 5 years, who will leave to 150!"
That brought on a grin from the Colonel.
"You'll 'ave to leave th' Av'tar Projec'."
Rodrigo chuckled, cynically.
"Pah! Those commercial sell-outs? I've done all the base-coding for Human DNA, they don't need or want me anymore. This..This is something special.." He touched the tank, lovingly.
"Finally...All those specimens who died in inadequate growth tanks...And here is the perfect chance..."
"One condition, Rodge."
Alucardo tweaked an eyebrow, but maintained his smile.
"Yes?"
"You us' the DNA from Soldiers."
He nodded.
__
Jake was bond in a quite technological chair. Around him were cables, tightened, and designed to hold up bridges...City bridges. By themselves. It was in the Command Center, a place he found eerily familiar. Even more familiar was the gruff General staring at him. He was tall, but a 10 foot Na'vi sitting down meant they were just about on eye level. Imposing, scarred and feral, he didn't look like a General. However, the man to his left did. Average height and build. Stern. Clean-shaven. Immaculately dressed.
It was he who spoke.
"Jake Sully, correct?"
"Yes."
"Betrayed the RDA Corporation, specifically SecFor, and joined the Na'vi people? Where's your human body, Jake?"
"It has gone to be with Eywa."
That prompted a shrug from the man. The General snorted, derisively.
"Alright. We're not here to fight you. We're not here to get some revenge on the Na'vi. We're here to save your world."
Jake laughed. Oh, so the Sky People had come back to save them? From what?
"I left your race because they lied and took what was not there's. Do you expect me to believe you now."
"Yes. Because if you don't, we will die here." It was said with conviction, and the General stepped forward.
"Look, lad. I can understan' ye no' trustin' us, so I've arrange' alittl' demonstratio'."
With great effort, two men turned Jake's chair around so he could see out of the Command Center's windows. In a neat line, outside of the camp, there was 20 Diggers; the things that had ransacked his planet 16 months ago.
With a muttered order, there was a beep...
And then the diggers detonated in spectacular fashion, the fuel cells bursting into flames. They were far enough away from the Jungle to be no threat.
With his own strength, Greyson turned Jake back around.
"Look, mat'. We're not 'ere fer yer friend's, or yer trees. We're 'ere t'ge' back at tha' bastar's who destroye' my country, and to preven' th' same 'appening to Earth afta' th' Roaches ar' done with ye."