A/N: Good news. I write this after having an incredibly pleasant Christmas, and having finally reacquired my style. For once, I truly enjoyed writing this chapter, and I hope you enjoy reading it; because if you don't, the Puppies will be sad ;( Reviews, please!
...The turning of the tide often begins with the recovery of a single man...
Piston stepped cautiously, but he still killed something. It honestly seemed like everything was alive. Hefting his rifle was a natural maneuver, but this? Wasn't on. About to take another step, the Na'vi Chief ('Turncoat' to the higher-ups) pushed him back, muttering something that sounded like "scown". Whatever that meant was beyond him, but the giant blue humanoid knelt down, and picked up something that looked like a cross between a rattlesnake and a tropical bird; which had been nuked with steroids most of it's life. He threw it aside and beckoned him forward. Well, what could that have done to him? He was wearing carbon-steel boots. Weren't exactly like a fang would go through steel. Saying that, something told Piston that it could, it would, and if it weren't for that Na'vi lad, he'd be on the floor wishing he'd left more to Sarge in his last will and testament. Making a mental note to gift the loving NCO with his Music Data file (for which he had no use for any longer- Emily had decent taste.), the young Soldier carried on along the path. Jake Sully, that was his name, had an earpiece in, and so the Sarge spoke, sub-vocalised really (which is speaking incredibly quietly).
"What in the name of my mother's hairy arse are we looking for?" It was a classically polite question from the Sarge, but you didn't expect brusqueness from him. Oh no, he was the epitomy of eloquence. The response?
"Shut up. They'll hear you."
None of the squaddies doubted him. To Piston's left, Shaka, Froggy and Gunpowder were spread out across the valley floor, looking very much like they'd been given latrines to clean. Shaka grumbled, which came over the Vox as a thin line of Zulu curses, Froggy occasionally cursed loudly in French, only to be silenced by the death glare from his loving NCO – Gunpowder just stared at the trees with the look of a disappointed father. In his opinion, very little was worthwhile unless it was on fire.
The others were stoic; before drop, Sarge had told Cossack that if he heard a single word of that slobber he called Russian he would precisely demonstrate how to castrate a man with a rusty spoon; Chats had his mouth glued shut by the Company – he was told to murmur really loudly into the Vox if he saw anything. Bottom, Cymru and Techs were far too sensible to talk on combat missions, so they were left without threat or physical restraint.
But they all agreed – there would be no malicious bullying of the Na'vi guides. Merely well-mannered harassment.
Well-exercised by Piston as he 'accidentally' placed his foot 2 foot up in the air to squash Jake Sully's tail against the ground. The tip sprawled helplessly as the Na'vi Chief bucked back violently. Wearing the face of a man falsely accused, Piston returned his glare with a shake of the head and a tutting
"Sorry mate."
Doubtlessly they shouldn't be doing it, but who cared? The Na'vi were here to guide them, through a terrain they didn't know; yes. But they were 10 feet tall and blue! No matter how mature one grey, any squaddie took a chance to mess with their heads alittle.
Another few seconds, and they were moving again. The other Na'vi scout was far off to the right, and was suffering similar harassment from Techs. Last night, the merry squad had drawn straws to see who would be standing behind the Na'vi guides. Techs and Piston had drawn the short straws, but only metaphorically. Very rarely did you have this much fun on patrol.
Jake held up a hand, sharply, as did the other Na'vi scout.
"Stop your childish pranks and be battle-ready."
Rifles change. Yes, they're the most boisterous louts when they think they're safe – occasionally they even clown around when they're not. But tell them to get their shit wired, and they do. Expressions changed. Assault Rifles came up to shoulders, pointing at the tiniest movement, as if a miniscule seed dropping upon the wrong leaf would end the world and all it's inhabitants as they knew it.
Piston checked the trees, cautiously, as Jake sniffed the air. With catlike grace, but aching slowness, he unslung his bow and knocked an arrow.
"Palulukan..." The second Na'vi muttered, under his breath, as he echoed Jake in his movements. Both of their eyes were pinned upon a batch of foliage about 50 yards ahead of them.
"What the fuck does that mean?" Sarge snarled, his assault rifle beading on the mismatch of alien plants which the Na'vi eyed so threateningly.
"Thanator..."
Rifles change. When they hear that they've just walked into the Pandoran equivalent of a lion, crossed with an armadillo, crossed with a bull-elephant with a bad attitude, their faces drop. The 'oh shit' expression. On most people, this can typically last anywhere between 5 seconds to 5 weeks. Not on these boys. Not even on Piston. It was 3 seconds, flat, and then they were working.
"Left Wing, you got eyes on the target?" The green confirmation lights flashed on Sarge's HUD, informing him Shaka and his cronies had their acts together. Jake eyed the foliage as he did so, catching the tiniest of movement. It knew they were there.
"Alright, Gunpowder, climb that tree and get your smokies out; on my word, send that cat some choking hazards. Froggy, advance with your rifle levelled, and do not fire until my mark – Shaka, the moment that thing springs I want shotgun rounds bouncing off it, or through it." The lights flashed again, and the NCO's attention switched like lightning, the matter settled – he had utter confidence in his troops.
"Right Wing, that goes for you too, Blueberry; I want you to arc from behind those trees and flush him out. When Gunpowder throws the smokies, I want you to pump more ammo in that bush then the Good God blessed us with at Novgorod." Again, those HUD lights flashed. This was standard procedure to them; like field-stripping a rifle, just far more likely to get you killed, less likely to get you killed in an embarassing manner. The Na'vi turned, snorted with derision, and nodded.
Yeah, yeah, whatever, Bluebell Piston thought, cynically.
"What about me and Smurf-lover here?" The newest member of their squad asked. Sarge was about 10 paces away, so both Jake and Piston could see that grin on his face, and collectively shudder.
"I'm the Hunter. You're the meat on a stick. Go stand about 20 paces infront, and run on my word."
Jake looked at Piston, and looked like he was about to make an incredibly intelligent and sarcastic comment.
"He doesn't like you very much, does he?
"No shit, sherlock..." Piston murmured, assault rifle slung onto his torso. Somehow, he didn't think Jake would be the one getting eaten if anyone did. Somehow, he thought that today would be his last day; and he sure as fuck wasn't giving Sarge his Music Datafile.
Step by step, the 20 paces seemed like far too few. When you think about it, something the size of a Thanator could probably leap that...Piston looked at Jake, and he had that look in his eye. That look that said he didn't enjoy it, but he knew it had to be done. Doubtlessly, PFC Eric Potter was dead meat if a bloody 10 foot superman wasn't too keen on this!
"Alright, Gun. Let him have it! Right Wing; get flushing!" The command came all too soon for Piston, as he had only just turned, and prepared to run so fast a Bird of Prey would have trouble eye-balling him
Three tiny cannisters popped into the brush, pumping out enormous quantities of thick black smoke that reminded the Squaddies of the Unobtanium Plants back home, even as several bursts of fire and a 6 foot arrow followed. Erupting like a great Volcano from some altogether-too-realistic disaster film, the terrifying beast sprang up from out of the bushes. Colossal would be an understatement. Fierce would be a worse one; it looked truly horrific, with dark blue frills, and a great gaping mouth for ripping to pieces Na'vi, Viperwolves and young Riflemen who could't run very fast. For a split second, it eyed Jake and Piston, just registering them. It lasted a second.... a poised second upon the razor sharp edge of reality....
Sarge broke it; a hammer piercing the stained glass window.
"RUN, YOU FUCKS!"
But Piston had turned his head to eye the Beast, so his body didn't need telling twice. Jake pounced past him; the Thanator pounced upwards, going for the smaller, slower Human. As he saw the shadow hovering over the ground infront, Piston realised he'd broken his datafile in transit. Well, didn't matter now...About to discover the great mysteries of life!
Shaka was a savior. Had he not been a brilliant eye with a shotgun; had he not had reflexes like an Eagle, Piston, PFC Eric Potter, would have died that day. Luckily, he had both. The pellets slammed the monster sidewise into a thick tree trunk, shattering wood with the sheer force of it. It wasn't dead though.
"FROGGY! Your queue!" Without a second thought, the Frenchman started shooting at Piston's would-be killer's head, even as it recovered and started once again after the rapidly-escaping Piston. Unfortunately, it didn't quite have the intelligence to see Sarge, with his trademark single-shot Rifle, positioned like a hawk in mid-air, waiting for the opportunity to strike. Nor did it see Jake Sully, arrow upon his massive warbow, pulled to the ear, eyeing a very specific part of the Thanator's anatomy.
Arrow and bullet flew.
The shot missed, impacting fiercely into the beast's armour plate; though taking it clean off with the sheer power of the shot. The Thanator's jaws snapped a few centimetres behind Piston.
The arrow didn't miss. Almost as if it had hit a stone cliff, the arrow thudded into the eye of the Thanator, and stopped it dead. No other words were necessary. Taking several inches of plant life with it, it collapsed to the ground.
To explain Piston's feelings and that point would involve a great deal of profane language, but they mostly involved comments on the timing of his companions, and the pinpoint speed of his legs.
"Nice take, boys. Damn good shot, Jake." First name? He liked the guy.
"WOOOHOOO! I am invincible! Can you see the Piston? No, no, you can't!" The young Private was positively overjoyed, punching the air and doing a dance which greatly resembled a combination of mad flailing and incontinence. Without reservation, he strode up to Jake Sully and threw his arms around him. Though they were armour-plated, the gesture was understood.
"THANK YOU, MY BIG-BLUE HERO!" Those were his words; Shaka and Froggy grinned at the future jibes to come. Sarge was walking up to him aswell, though, a thoughtful expression emblazoned upon his daunting features.
"No need, it was nothing. It was an honour." Jake explained, with modesty. The other Na'vi, Ga'li, was standing, propped upon his warbow, open-eyed and astonished. Not at Jake, but at the efficiency of the Sky Men. The young one had taken his duty with honour, and performed it admirably. All the others had completed their assigned tasks with great conviction and spirit; only the man known as 'Sarge' had failed his task – shooting a moving Thanator in it's eye at 30 paces. Very few Na'vi marksman could hope to have even hit it anywhere; except Jakesully – and he had been taught by Neytiri.
Sarge walked up to Jake, his head doing a similar action as it ascended to look him in the eye. When he spoke, there was a flicker of a grin to him.
"Bad news, big blue."
"What?"
"I think you just earnt my respect."
"Good news, Sergeant."
"What?"
"We just found who we were looking for."
Jake's blue hand pointed off to a few feet behind the Thanator's original hiding place, where a few Na'vi stood, looking quizically at The Sky People.
"The People of The Eastern Sea."
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"I dinnae say this alo'."
"Yes you do."
"...Bu' I thin' we may jus' stan' a chanc'."
"With all due respect, Sir, you said that at Novgorod, you said that in Manchuria, and you uttered those sweet words at Cardiff." Demar closed the datapad with a flick of his worn wrist, and sat even straighter then usual in his stiff seat which had become his habitat upon Pandora. "But, Sir, I think you may be wrong this time."
"Pah! Rubbish, laddy. We'll com' oota this alrigh'. 'Ead up." Greyson gruffly replied, slouched in his chair on the other side of the desk, musing over a cigar.
Okay, this was becoming a liability. Demar refused to see his best friend, a man who's mind was once deadly keen, realistic and brilliant, meander into the furrows of self-delusion. It wasn't fair on the men, or him.
So, he slammed the datapad down hard onto the desk, and turned a sinister, cold expression on General Matthew Greyson.
"Sir, where's your edge? In Siberia, you were making plans constantly; in Britain, every piece of information set you into bouncing plans of your Command Staff like a tennis match. Now look at you!" By the end, Demar was shouting, deliberately. He knew his best friend.
"Calm doon, laddy, I'm fin-" The old man's typical taciturn response was broken off by the first piece of violence Demar had perpetrated in 18 years. Gripping Greyson's jacket, he hefted the man out of his seat like he was nothing, and hissed into his face.
"No, I won't fucking calm down." First swear word he'd used on Greyson in decades. "While you're sitting on your arse, smoking cigars and tossing off over your 'fake' son's achievements, I'm here busting my arse day-in, day-out, trying to prepare a fucking defence!" It was true. Greyson had given no orders since hitting Planetside. Merely falling into a self-pitying cycle of amused grumbling and tearful regrets. That wasn't General Greyson. He never cried.
His best friend blinked. Died. Went away. Colonel 'Fenris' Greyson looked back; the death glare stamped upon his grey wolf's eyes potent as the dawning sun.
Three solid punches, and Demar appreciated how bad an idea this was. A headbutt, shattering his nose like a coconut at a firing range, and Colonel Jon Demar was flat on his back, a very angry man standing over him; thick military boot upon his throat.
"Lista', ye rancid FUCKWIT!" A great boom echoed through the entire facility, causing Serra to wince. Only one reason Greyson would get that angry. "I'm yer fuckin' boss! Ye' so much 'as loo' at me with a glint in yer eye again, I'll shov' yer 'ead so far up your own ars' you'll be chokin' on yer own tonsils! I'm no' some' pretty Taiwanes' boy ye can' ben' ova' the chair and play with! MY NAM' IS GENERAL MATTHEW FUCKING GREYSON!" With that, he stamped firmly on his XO's skull, sending him into unconsciousness.
__
Even as he saw his old friend's boot descending towards his skull, Demar felt only one thought whizz through his head like a school boy peeing through a letterbox.
Worth it.
__
"OI! Medic! Get yer ars' in 'ere!" Greyson roared, his choler still up as high as Everest. Instantly, a white-jacketed soldier burst into the Office, eyes bulging at the Colonel. For a second, Greyson wondered why there was already a medic, standing outside, at the ready. Then that second past, and he barked his orders at him.
"I wan' 'im lookin' so goo' he coul' model fer a feckin' escor' agency! If I see so much 'as a blotch on 'is pretty fac', I'm comin' fer ye, laddy." There was a certain sinister edge to the last word; as if he was coming for him anyway, but it was in his best interests to do what he said, unless he wished that visit to involve extraordinary amounts of pain. Without further ado, the man set to work. Greyson stormed from the Office, tapping his earpiece.
"I wan' my Comman' Staff in tha' Comman' Centa' in 4 minu'es. Any slaka's will be fed to the Smurfs." He tapped it off again, even as he stormed through the iron corridors of Hell's Gate. As he did so, he glared potently at any passers-by – especially Serra, her lustrous red hair flowing neatly around her. She took it, stoically, before grinning as soon as he was out of sight. Dad was right; there was only one way to bring a Wolf's spirits up – make it use it's fangs.
Arriving at the shanty pile of shit he was going to be forced to use as a HQ...No, HAD been forced to use as a HQ. Every soldier knew that HQ was the General, not the place. Arriving there, he cleared the tactical display desk, and looked around at the 15 or so Staff Officers he brought with him. Why hadn't he called them together earlier? Didn't matter. Nothing mattered except organising a defence so fucking potent even a Roach would think twice before throwing it's great bulky warrior-caste against his walls.
"Alrigh', yer feckin' maggots. Wha's the status on the groun' companies?"
"Both have landed safely, Sir." Replied a potent, scarred young woman. 1st Lieutenant Vera; combat veteran. Not much to her, at first glance
"Any dea' from th' missions?" This time, Greyson levelled a thick talon at the youngest Officer; about 21 – most likely convinced to come here and die by a rich family who wanted rid of him.
"3 Wounded, General, but none dead. Only 15 Missions run as of yet, Sir."
Greyson nodded, taking only a few seconds to think.
"'Ow's Longfang doin' with tha' Na'vi?" Another levelled talon, this time at Lieutenant Vera again; he actually wanted to know the answer – wasn't just testing his staff.
"The Na'vi aren't very keen to accept our Men into their land, but as they scout more and more territory, they're slowly growing used to us. Longfang advised using Na'vi guides and scouts, aswell as attaching Riflemen Squads to any Na'vi emissary venturing to other tribes." This lass knew her stuff. Weren't be too good if she got boosted down due to a technicality. Without emotion or reflection. Greyson nodded and said
"Thank ye, Majer." And that was her field promotion. Collectively, the Staff's eyes opened wide with shock, but they'd get used to it. The great General Greyson was like that.
"Alrigh', maggo's." He tapped his datapad, and upon it displayed the numbers he needed to know.
"18,000 Na'vi. 30 Spor's...Minus 10 fer orbit'l fire...100,000 Jormungadr." He said it aloud, before giving the tactical display a firm kick. This shocked many of the Staff, those who hadn't expected this level of brutality from the previously docile General, as a topographical map burst into view.
"Alrigh'. I 'ave a plan." Greyson said, grinning his son's grin at the assembled Staff. His long hair was untied, his great beard flowed freely down his chest. Few men would expect him to be a tactical genius; but plans like this were why he was. It would be risky, very risky, and he only had a few weeks to put it into place, but if it succeeded, far more of his men would be taking the bus home then anyone thought.
The Wolf of Siberia had returned.