A/N: This one got to me. Reviews, please! Will be redoing several Chapters, primarily Chapter 1, tommorow, so don't expect any new chapters! However, I will very soon be doing a few Na'vi Chapters, so for all you Smurf-Lovers, get ready!

Oh, and a MASSIVE thank you to everyone reviewing! Aniuwolfe, thanks - Greyson's accent is just as hard to write as it is to read. Sunkissedvampire; I hope you've changed your mind on Jake, Onigumo - I've PMed you on your comment. The rest of you guys, thanks for the praise! You guys keep me going! Well, you and the fact that I love my characters, but STILL! Yereton, RadicalMan69, AlienPhantom, Maira Der Panda, SheelaGirl and Mystik Shadows!

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Regard your Soldiers as your children, and they will follow you in the deepest valleys. Look upon them as your own beloved sons,and they will stand by you, even unto death.

Demar's eyes hurt. Oh, they hurt a lot. 'Like a bitch' wasn't quite the correct expression. More like the queen of all bitches; tooled up with an AMP. Oh, that was something good to think about. They only had 50 of them. Fuck it, the SecFor had had that many! Bloody perfect. So, they were going into battle against a fucking horde with mostly Rifles, Tanks and naked savages...He was forgetting the guy who had given him the ass-kicking. Why did he have to do this? Being an XO to the Post-Atomic equivalent of Napoleon, Wellington and Marlborough all squashed into one; with a Wolf and a Viking thrown in for good measure, wasn't too pleasant. The bed beneath Demar was soft, atleast, so he decided to stop grumbling and open his eyes. That would probably show him a beautiful ceiling, and give him some things to look at; examine, quiz.

Fucker.

"'Ow ye doin', Colonel?"

When a Wolf's grin greets you, there's a certain emotion that goes through you; fear. Especially when that old Wolf had recently beat you into the ground, with a broken nose for interest. General Greyson was looking down on him, smiling his smug arse off, beard no longer drooping like some violent lava flow. Infact, it wasn't there. For once, he'd buttoned up his Officer's jacket, removed his medals and, the main thing, cut his hair. Gone was the drunken, sadistic Viking. Here to stay was the clean-shaven, buzz-cut fucker who could lay you on your arse, conquer your country and conduct an orchestra all in one sitting. Along time ago, a young 3rd Lieutenant called Jon Demar had been assigned to a Captain, and the first duty he was ever given was to lead an infantry assault against a fortified gun enplacement. Days like that made men; and he had been forged. By THIS man.

If you looked at Greyson without his hair, you understood why they put a rank restriction on frontline duty. With no beard, his stoic, rock hard chin shone through – only helped by the shrapnel holes through his left cheek. They allowed you to see into his mouth. Along with that, not a single batch of flesh wasn't puckered with scar tissue; years of constant fighting had taken their toll, but it was if his skin fought back against the scars, incorporating into a visage that had once looked a Sergeant by the name of Quaritch in the eye and made him squeal like a little girl. His buzzcut hair gave him the image of an ancient bruiser, come back from the dead to grind over a few last foes. In a way, that was a correct description. If Generals like this went into frontline combat, noone would bother coming out of their holes.

"Nice...haircut...Sir." Demar managed, though he thought it was unnecessary, as Greyson doubtlessly knew how he looked without viking braids and beard. An attempt to twitch his nose revealed that it was in Plasti-cast, and that meant he'd have it off by the end of the day. Also meant that it had been a light beating.

"Sav' th' ars'lickin' for the privy, XO, I go' werk fer ya'." The grin had gone, and the soldier's expression was there. Narrowed eyebrows. Tight, slash of a mouth. Seems the General hadn't decided to demote Demar's straight-backed behind; like at Vitebsk. When Lieutenant Colonel Greyson had seen Russian children raped, tortured and killed by advancing UN troops, he'd ordered the perpetrators shot, and thrown himself into a drunken rage for a week. Only by taunting the great man had 1st Lieutenant Demar saved him; and he'd got busted back to the ranks for his trouble.

"I've missed you, Sir." Demar managed, the helpful stimulants letting him move more and more. Good; as the beating he'd got from Greyson, though light, would have had him in Hospital for a few weeks anywhere else. Greyson had already gripped Demar by the back of his collar, and was proudly forcing him into a standing position, without so much as a glance at the orderlies. As Demar uttered those words, the General allowed a tiny flicker of the corner of his mouth that was facing away from his XO.

"Yea', yea'. Go' aboo' 4 Na'vi reps comin', I wan' someon' with a decen' 'ead on 'is shoulda's – even if 'e does 'av' a fuckin' rancid mouth." Looking down, Demar realised that he was still in his uniform; though blood had been stained down it's front, courtesy of Greyson Industries. Well, it didn't much matter. If Greyson didn't care, neither did he.

They left the sick-bay, Greyson simply glaring at the medical officer, an old War-surgeon. He glared right back with equal intensity, but didn't intervene. No, not many did. The Staff Officers had spread it around to pretty much every last member of the Expedition planetside; the General was back. And that meant 'DUCK IN COVER, PEOPLE!' to every last one of them.

For the first few steps out of med bay, Demar was half-supported, half-carried by his commanding officer. But he grudgingly pushed away from him and stepped cautiously alongside him, even as they began to exchange the closest thing they'd ever to come to pleasantries.

"How long was I out?" Demar asked, rolling his neck, and scratching the front of his skull; it hurt like a bitch. For once, it was the correct expression, as Demar had been mauled by a dog once; this felt like that.

"Aboo' 4 days. May 'av' go' a wee bi' ovaze'lous with disciplin'." He snorted, with a sneer on his face, symbolising that if Demar commented he'd be getting a similar coyrse of treatment to his previous foray.

"How have you convinced the Na'vi clans to gather?" That was the question; they'd hardly even got the turncoat's Clan to co-operate (in a half-assed way), and though they had been worse affected by RDA, they had a Leader who was once human. How in the name of the Good Lord Greyson had got the others to listen was beyond him; and he didn't want it to be.

And it suddenly became obvious when Greyson grinned, from ear to ear, and clicked his metallic fingers on the left arm.

"I spok' to 'em! Go' that Jakesully fella' to tak' me to 'em and translat', an' I shoute' at 'em. Told 'em I dinnae giv' a shit whetha' they all die' or no'. Just care' aboo' my plan't an' my boys." As he said this, Greyson scratched furiously at his shoulder joint; damn thing was itching again.

"I thin' they foun' it far more believ'ble tha' I wasnae fightin' for 'em." The grin disappeared after that, as they had quickly come up to the entrance to the Command Center.

"Alrigh'. Keep on ya' toes, think fas' an' don' lemme doon." They entered. It was the kind of entrance that noone notices; because the men aren't fucking actors. They just quietly take their places, and wait for all eyes to fall upon them, because they know they will. Because they are men; they are Soldiers. They had marched over mountains, through marshes, through hardship and pain, to crush the greatest armies Mankind had ever assembled. And all by being the rudest, crudest, dirtiest, sneakiest and smartest pair of fuckers the UN had ever given a gun and a few badly-worded orders to.

At the forefront of the Tactical Display Desk, which will hereafter be referred to as the TDD for literary convenience, they stood. Colonel Jon Demar of the 3rd Battalion, Executive Officer to General Matthew 'Fenris' Greyson, 1st Commander in Chief of the UN Expeditionary Force.

Around the display, stood 5 great Na'vi. Three were female; Neytiri, Tsahik Sanume; a black haired female with a slightly more welcoming approach to the Humans; alongside this was the the one from the Eastern sea; she wore a crude, savage helmet of a Banshee's skull, but Greyson had learnt to respect her. The two males were Jake Sully, his powerful braid still smarting from PFC Potter's 'mistep', and the Tsahik of the Western Plains, a rather moudly bone through his nose. Just looking at them, Greyson felt an intense desire to chuckle, laugh and then go get so hammered he'd be convinced he was an Owl. Yes, they were big, but Roaches were a lot bigger, perfectly evolved to eat and kill, and pretty great at not dieing. Still, there were 9 times as many Na'vi as there were Troopers. So it was a case of that Napoleonic Quote "Tread with them as if they had 200,000 men." They were his Officers.

All glared ferociously at Greyson, but did not show any other signs of aggression. 15 Staff Officers stood behind them, looking very much like children; they were both small and terrified by the aggression of the Na'vi. So they should be.

Each of the Na'vi glared at the two new arrivals, but especially at Greyson. Neytiri even went so far as to bare her teeth and snarl. But he wasn't one to get unnerved by a 10 foot Cat-woman. Like a Wolf, he simply sneered back at her, much like their first meeting. Though they had both gained a respect for each other, the chances of them being friends were non-existent at best; far higher to go in the other direction.

Greyson had strode into the base of the sapling Home Tree, eyes contemptful as any Industrialist is of a massed natural home. Well, that was a bad example. Eyes contemptful as Greyson upon anything that wasn't stupidly efficient, brilliant or his own son. Lots of glowing leaves, lots of overgrown blue cats. Nothing terribly special. There really wasn't any hesitation as he quizzed himself upon it.

"And thes' are our suppor'?" It was said with a sneer, as was everything he had ever said to a Na'vi, about a Na'vi, or in the general area of a Na'vi.

Neytiri had glared down at the Sky People's War chief. He looked much like the one known as Quaritch to her; but thicker, leaner, and with a metal arm and leg.

"You insult us, tiny human?" A shudder beneath Greyson's feet, and Neytiri was behind him. She loomed over him like the great war goddess she was; her bow in her hand, knife around her chest, and her mouth curled up into half a snarl.

"If I'm insultin' ye, ye feckin' she-bitch, yer'll know." Pain had quickly followed that little statement, as a rather big hand struck him hard across the face. He was down on his hands and knees to her right, and she grinned. For a few seconds, atleast. Closely followed by him hammering his anvil of a fist directly onto her toes. With a great hoot of pain, she yelped away, clutching her to his feet,spry as any Rifle, he laughed. Around him, other Omaticaya were emerging, similar glares upon her face. Neytiri had recovered, and was growling devilishly at Greyson. In non-chalant response, he shrugged, rubbing his stinging cheek. Lass hit like a train.

"Loo', lass. We're gunnae be workin' togetha', so we migh' aswell ge' this whol' figh' thin' oota th' way. Ye win. Now sit an' talk with me." He gestured down at the patch of grass between them, and sat before her cross-legged. Why she had agreed, he didn't know, but they had talked.

Greyson still felt that hit across his cheek, but he didn't much mind. Getting hit by a woman, of any species, had been a lifelong privilege of his. But he didn't have the time or god-given patience to dally around convincing each and every Na'vi he was worth listening to. So, he got their Elders' trust, and then gave them orders. No questions asked.

Sliding his arms onto the edge of the TDD, Greyson allowed his wolf grey eyes to bear into them with the unrelenting fury of a drill. Each one felt it, and felt a part of their hate rise; but another part drop away...Doubt, perhaps.

"Jake. Neytiri. Translat', if ye will." He said, nodding at the two. With a few well-placed fingers, he brought up his plan upon the TDD. It was a topographical view of the side of a mountain. It was not a very steep mountain; infact the slopes were very gentle as they lead up to the Peak. The key feature was what lay before the mountain. Any Military man would call it a 'killing ground'. It was the work of the RDA's diggers 2 years ago; after the Unobtanium had been dug out from below the mountain, they'd simply piled the dirt right back in. In doing so, they created a basin. The slopes of the mountain were covered with crevices and indentations, aswell as possessing several easy paths upwards. To a man or Na'vi. At the top was a flat plateau, where the RDA had previously positioned a scanning post. The basin was roughly a mile wide, and 3 miles long; a great gouge of dirt in the Pandoran Landscape. Right near the mountain, there was a ridge, before it turned into the cluster of rocks, sharp precipices and daring foliage that marked it's beginning. Around the edge of this perfect battlefield, massively thick Pandoran jungle began and never ended.

"This, my Na'vi frien's, is Minin' Site X34TYN. Codename 'Valhalla'. For our purpos's, it is 'eav'n, 'ell and limbo all in one. This is where we stan'." Oh, god, Demar thought. If he was wearing that grin, that grin he wore as he said the last words, he had a plan that was very risky, suicidal, or just plain impossible. Most of the time, it was all three. And this was the General on a good day...

"I'll deploy one thousan' five 'undred men in trench's an' alon' the slop's. A' the top ar' our 'Owitzers and Lanca' Artillery. 'Eavy stuff. Three 'undred men 'ere." He tapped the display at a point just to the left of the basin. "in AMP sui's an' fast-moving ve'icles. Includin' the Tank Comp'nies. We use an EMP charg', once the Underburrows are within sixty miles of Valhalla. The Jormungadr will respon'; attackin' in full force."

The Na'vi were amazed and awed at the tactical display; each one carefully examining it before darting away as the image flickered at their touch. But they listened to him.

"Where will The People fight?" Neytiri asked, her attention temporarily pulled away by a shiny marker representing an artillery emplacement.

"You will 'unt down tha' breeda's." Greyson was renowned for his ability to stump people. From children to the President of the UN, his plans had left men scratching their heads, biting their lips, but, more often, grinning like him, punching the air and with a belief that is more important then any weapons, any numbers, any equipment. The belief that one can win. Alongtime ago, he had found out that men with that fire within them could beat any numbers, any odds.

But the Na'vi did not have that look in their eyes. Not yet.

"We will draw th' 'orde of Jormungadr to this basin. We will decimat' them. Our greates' soldiers will lead a party of nine 'undred Na'vi each deep inta' the Roaches hives. Kill them. One party fer each breeda'." That made a spark flare in their eyes. Jake leaned forward, having been under impressed by the TDD, as he had seen it countless times, but as he observed the dislay, he had his questions.

"Why can't we stop them from landing at all."

Demar was the one to answer, albeit it a very nasal tone.

"We've brought with us ten 'SOSM's. These will destroy ten breeder spores." These things had replaced 10 Challenger V Main Battle Tanks; they were immense, but essential. Jake hastily translated to the other three Tsahiks, as he had been doing throughout most of the meeting

"Why not kill as they land?" Neytiri asked, glancing quickly between Demar and Greyson. Both shook their heads, one with a sorrowful sigh, the other with a sneer.

"Lass, thes' thin's burrow doon fifty fee' the momen' they hi' anythin' bu' concrete. Bu' they leav' massive, gapin' 'oles fer the Jormungadr to ge' through'." These holes were eternally immense; great portals in the ground from which hell itself erupted. The one in Manchester had been a quarter of a mile wide, and went down several dozen miles. Further then any human digger.

Neytiri nodded, finally realising what the humans were proposing.

"Sacrifice." she said, the word long ago being taught to her by Jake. It was the act of giving up oneself for something else. She thought it only a Na'vi quality; none of the first Sky People had sacrificed themselves in the great battle.

Greyson peered across at her, their eyes meeting once again. This time, he saw that flare; so he nodded.

"Every man I brough' with me kno's 'e ain' goin' 'ome. We're 'ere to do somethin' worth dyin' fer, Neytiri." It was the first time he had used that name. Saying it brought him a new respect for her. Just her name. But then he grinned, and the Na'vi all opened their great golden eyes in surprise. Even Jake crooked an eyebrow.

"Bu' ye' ge' ta' choos'. Should ye kill tha' Breeda's befor' we all die, ye very well may be abl' to sav' us." He was gambling here. Greyson was taking another roll of the dice. Would these honourable people fuck him and his men over? Or would they be their salvation? Would his men be going home?

The response of the Na'vi was the one he had looked for the entire meeting. The flare in their eyes. The look of sheer belief. Moral, belief, fire, whatever you called it, it was the prime objective of a General. And he'd done it.

Standing to his full height, Greyson and Demar both saw that look of horror and awe upon their faces. The plan was simple; draw your opponent close, while your friend guts him.

Jake looked Greyson dead in the eye. There was something that had been running through his head for a while now. Something that needed answering if they were to work together.

"Why are you sacrificing your own men, instead of The People?" It was a cynical question, and Greyson admired him for asking it. Not many would have the sheer testicles. But he knew the false answer.

"We're betta' traine' fer this; betta' equippe'."

"With no respect, General, that's shit."

So, he would have to tell the Na'vi the reason why he wanted to deploy his troops to most likely die.

"Mate. We' 'umans, ye rememba' us, 'ave very prickly pride. I could no' save my 'omelan'." The power of those grey eyes turned upon Jake like hammers, eradicating any sense of disgust he had previously bore the man. "Bu' I can show thes' bastar's wha' I' is to fuck with me. I can giv' my sons one last 'urrah befor' they go 'ome and becom' nothin' bu' forgotten relics of a dea' age. I can giv' them a battle to be prou' of." He lifted his cliff-face of a chin high, puffed out his chest and spoke to them all, Neytiri translating, Jake utterly transfixed by this man; so similar to Quaritch, yet so different. Demar merely looked within himself, and found himself wishing he had done more in Britain.

"Togetha'. My family will die togetha', doin' somethin' good fer onc'." Then, without an ounce of shame or hindrance, he turned to the door. He looked back, once, and grinned.

"Wha'? Ye expectin' a speech? Get yer ar's to werk!"