A/N: Unashamedly, this Chapter is very much a 'filler' section. The Calm before the Storm, as it were.

Angtsik is the Na'vi name for a Hammerhead Titanothere.

Review, please!

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...The True Horrors of War lie in the eyes of every Soldier...

One can only live once, before you are embraced by Eiywa, and carried into the life. Before your energy is given back to the Planet, and allowed to flow freely once more. So, they always said, when you know you will die, think carefully of what you have accomplished. The things you have done. The people you have made smile. The differences you have made. From the tiniest action to your greatest achievement. Did you use what Eiywa gave you to the greater good of those you loved? Or did you squander it, throwing it away in useless gestures and selfish endeavours?

Na'ring could think of far better times to have an epiphany then falling from a cliff, greenery rushing up to meet you, deafened by your own momentum. But then again, most often life don't let you choose how to die. It was as if time slowed down, to give Na'ring an appreciation for his life. El'xyi; sore memories of a lost love, of dancing through the trees, riding their ikrans upon the zephyrs of the mountains, lying together in the highest treetops. Jakesully; sullen regret of a clan member lost, but not sorrow. Sorrow comes for only those we see as friends. Neytiri; pity and guilt for a hunter who has given his life for your's, willingly.

But nothing more. No happy memories of wrestling with a son, or dancing with a daughter. None of the clan gatherings, of dancing in the shade of the newborn Kelkutrel, sing, laughing. Few hunters would miss him upon their travels.

Something called to him. Something from within. Maybe it was Eiywa, but he heard it, loud and clear

"Live. That shouldn't be too hard for you, should it?" He remembered her voice.

Na'ring wanted a family. He wanted to wrestle with his son, teach him how to shoot. Nothing warmed his heart more then a daughter to dance with in unity. Few things he wanted more then to lie amongst the treetops with El'xyi once again. He wanted to join in the clan gatherings, he wanted to joke with the hunters.

Then, it became quite clear to him. You always have a choice. He didn't just want those things; he needed them. And a choice between living and dying? Well, that ain't no choice at all.

Turning in the air, like an ikran banking upon a fierce wind current, Na'ring spreads his arms and legs wide, in an attempt to slow his descent. Maybe just maybe...

No, it wasn't possible. You couldn't open your mouth, falling at that speed. But there was no need. A great cry, from high above...A shadow.

Dag'ton was diving, and fast. Incredibly fast. The speed of a brother soaring to save another. Neytiri saw nought but a flash of grey and black hide before the ikran dived past her, perfectly streamlined. Maybe this was why he was born? To save Na'ring. Maybe.

But the chance of that happening was becoming thinner and thinner, as the ground inched closer and closer. Dag'ton cried, shrilled, into the sky, begging for the world to give it strength to save it's makto...

The impact hurt. Hurt abit less then Na'ring expected. Actually, a whole lot less. The hunter opened his eyes, opened his senses, and saw that he was not dead. Dag'ton had pulled off probably one of the hardest dives any ikran had ever done. No rider would ask that kind of speed from his mount. But the bond between rider and mount transcending possibility, Na'ring thought. His braid nudged itself into that of Dag'ton.

The Ikran clearly communicated it's humour at Na'ring's fall, but also the intention to eat him if he ever did something so stupid again. Na'ring's response was a chuckle, as they banked upwards, the air-currents stinging the Na'vi's eyes. But, trusting his faithful hunting companion, he closed them.

For now, he had something to live for.

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8 years previous

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Forgot how to dream, Longfang had. Just had nightmares...

"Take this knif', laddy." The sound echoed around the walls of the small, badly lit room.

"Why?" Answered the boy, his

"I wan' ye t' kill tha' lass."

Greyson, tall, shaven-headed, phantasmal, iridescent in his own superiority. Face like the side of a Cliff. The look of a ruthless bastard. Bastard who'd slit a child's throat and not even look back. Just another tragedy on the road to Victory.

The General kept his stony gaze upon the thing that was, biologically, his son. Realistically, this rabid little thing had spent 3 years cavorting around the Yorkshire dales, with a pack of stray dogs at his heels.

Longfang crept forward. The girl was tied to a chair. Chinese Spy, apparently. Young. Older then him, but young. Long black hair. Small, button nose. Tied. Gagged. Terrified. Beaten. Tortured. Just like him; only he was lucky enough for it all to be metaphorical.

His hands shook. The blade was a simple kitchen utensil; stainless steel from point to pommel. If he didn't stop shaking soon, it'd fall out of his hands. Clatter on the floor. Wouldn't want that. Might make Paps angry. Definitely wouldn't want that

"Why?"

He didn't hold back with the punch. Sent the youngster to the floor, moaning, mewling like some kind of animal, a collosal bruise from temple to chin, blood pouring from his split lip. .

"Lad." Pap's voice came, strong, steady, unforgiving and always there. Longfang touched a hand to the side of his face; his fingers came away bloody. It was like his face was on fire down one side, tiny little flames sparking off every second. "It dinnae ge' easia'. Til ye' star' doin' i'. Don' ask why. Jus' do." Maybe a spark of kindness in that. Maybe a flicker of a memory. A memory of the General's first time. Bloodied. Losing your virginity. Getting your first pay cheque. So many phrases for the worst possible thing a human can do - but what Matt was bred to do.

Longfang still grasped the knife in his childish hand. Blood was dripping from his mouth onto the floor now. Tears were falling like ash tumbling from a volcano. But no more sobs. Not much point. Best to do a thing, then live with the fear of doing it.

He scrambled to his feet. Knife grasped tightly, like the bed's frame when the Soldiers had dragged him here; desperate, pleading, knowing.

First step was hard. Very hard. Second one, not so much. Like wading through thick, watery silt. You just get used to how hard it is.

Greyson stood behind him, stepping as he did, always at his back. Not there for support...Just to remind him he had no escape. Well, he thought that at the time. But him being there...Helped. Gave him something to base it off.

He was never given a choice.

Never given an option...

"Wake up, Longy." Serra tapped his shoulder. How had he fallen asleep inside a ROC? Tiredness, mostly. Training, sometimes. When you spend 9 hours a day in a Scorpion, you learn how to sleep, even with a drill master shouting down your eardrum. It's a necessity. Longfang looked at her; in her Telvenoy gear, she was damn hard to recognise. The hood and mask covered her entire head in dark green cloth, except a thin, black seam for her eyes. Chest was covered by 6 bars of a shiny, grey metal, stretching down to her waist. A belt, covered in equipment, from their pistols to a screwdriver, sat just above her trousers; dirty, brown old trousers. But tough. Very tough. Excellent military-grade boots. Finally, a large mud-brown coat sat across her shoulders.

Every last one of them was attired exactly the same. Telvenoy Suits. Designed specifically for them. The plates across their chests were made of a titanium carbon fiber alloy. Very light, very strong, flexible. Bitch to get through. Bastard to get used to. But you did. Just had to; it was like riding getting used to glasses when you first lost some of your sight as a kid.

But Longy could tell Serra from a mile away. Only one who touched him. Nodding his thanks, he pulled his pistol from it's holster, looking down the barrel. It was a good cannon. Straight; 50 rounds, pinpoint accuracy. Reliable. He'd seen one of these go through a Plane's engine and come out still able to fire. 20 of the 'Aesir' sat in the shuttle, checking gear, some still sleeping, others head back, preparing themselves mentally. 'Aesir'. Only word Rodrigo Alucardo could assign for them. The only word which accurately described the power they wielded in every movement they made. Longfang reached behind his belt and pulled his knife. It was the same kitchen utensil he'd used all those years ago. But now? It was bloodstained, battered, scratched, but still sharp. He'd given it enormous care over his lifetime. If he looked closely enough, though, he could still see the drop of blood from the Chinese Girl; right on the tip of the blade. Nothing haunted him more. What would she be doing now? Raising a family, probably. Not in an unmarked grave. No. He had to convince himself he hadn't killed her that night. Or else everything he hated about everything he was might come flooding back. Lot more then he'd care to admit. Most Soldiers could comfort themselves with the idea of Next R&R. Next R&R I'll get out, they'd say. Not the Aesir. Born from birth to butcher. Like a Wolf Pup.

Gotta stop thinking like this, Longy, he told himself. But he knew he never would.

He struggled to his feet, looking into the shuttle bay as the Aesir turned their heads towards him. They'd had long grown used to the customary mission brief 5 minutes before drop. All of them would know little of their mission, except Longfang. The General's Favourite. They all had little quirks. Avus had the best eyes. Serra was the fastest on her feet. Taurus could lift an AMP suit. But ol' Longy? The Fastest with his hands. The Devil, they called him. Each had a genetic defect, and his was the worst. Serra had been...'born' with a third-eye; the scar from the surgery was nothing but a tiny line on her forehead, now. Lazarus had osteoporosis. But Longy? Longy had the bloodlust.

His shaded eyes looked around at them, his hand grasping tightly the hanging strap above his head as the ROC reverberated from the shockwaves of exploding missiles

"Follow me." He whispered, as the bay door whined open. Below them, only a few lights marked their target...

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Present Day – 7 Days until 'Hell Day'

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Greyson clenched his fists, once again amazed at the sheer unwilling co-operation of these prideful bastards. They seemed to think that at anytime, Greyson would turn around and announce his ownership of the Forest, and have all the War-leaders shot. Tempting though it was sometimes, that wouldn't help matters one little bit. He had to work with them. No other option. He currently sat, more sprawled in the former office of the Overseer from RDA. Currently on his way back to Earth. The General's legs were set upon the desk, the bionic cracking and clicking with every twitch or movement, like some kind of violent system of gears. A canteen full of a truly odorous liquid more suited to be called gastric juices then sustenance sat upon it, a few inches from his feet. Well, that was how he liked it. While he had the physique of a Soldier, a frontline one, his liver, lungs and skin had long ago been worn away by his excessive habits; not that he cared much. When he'd taken them up, he had assumed that he'd be dead before his 30th birthday. Funny how things turn out.

Right now, he was taking some down time; eyes closed head back. Every now and then a thought would run through his head which would cause him to smile, or sneer, or chuckle.

But, of course, such reverie is often broken. Not 5 minutes after he'd got back from Valhalla, Demar came through the door. He had cleaned his front jacket, now, and removed plaster upon his nose. The haughty uprightness had returned to his deadly, aquiline eyes. Striding into the Office from the Command Center, the XO stood to attention and saluted smartly. Greyson had already turned his full attention upon him, legs clattering to the floor and Wolf eyes digging into the Colonel's visage.

"Sir." Demar said, even as his hand arced up to his head.

"A' eas', Colonel." Greyson responded, rebuttoning the top of his jacket. Demar pulled down his hand and stood, arms behind back, a look of utter impartiality upon his face.

"Sir, Valhalla is ready. The Groundhammers are placed; suitable killing zones marked for the gunners. Along the slopes, heavy calliber machine guns and gun emplacements are prepared and primed. The Engineers have done a good job."

"Sham' non' o' 'em ar' goin' 'ome..."

"Sir, that's what I'm here to speak to you about. You seem utterly convinced that this part of the mission is suicide. With all due respect, Sir, I know you. You wouldn't place your men here without good reason. I understand your reasoning; The Na'vi are brilliant Light-Infantry – we've got Heavies, Artillery and Mechanised. But why not batter them from the sky as they come to us? Why not retreat and hammer them as they advance, like Kutuzov did from Novgorod to Warsaw? There are dozens of tactical options. Not neccesarily better then a Fortress-Mountain, but I wish to know your reasoning."

For a few moments, Demar was afraid that the General would lie him flat. But only a few. Because Greyson was, above all, a damn good officer. And he respected his men, as long as they did his duty. He seemed deep in thought as Demar spoke, and for a minute after, he just sat there, bionic hand grasping ragged chin.

"The Artillery wouldnae be effectiv' in the Jungl'. We'd 'ave to lure them t' kill-site afta' kill-site. Couldnae ensur' all the Jormungadr would com' t' each sit'. And if the Nativ's fough' the Worms in ther' tunnels? Ye rememba' I', Demar. Think bac'."

Darkness. Utter darkness. Dozens of tiny, writhing sounds, like drills inside of your ears, turning like cogs in the fore of your imagination. Your flashlight out due to electrostatic activity, but going forward anyway, if only because your Guv told you to, and because you're a Soldier. Barely hearing the man beside you get dragged down into the Warrens. Looking for him, before your next mate goes the same way. Before long, it's just you, a bowie knife and 50 feet to freedom.

"It was cold." Demar answered, allowing a tiny shrug of his shoulders to inform the General of his reluctance to speak of it. The response was typical, snarl, shake of the head.

"We nee' to pull them inta' thinkin' we're gamblin'. Think we're desperat'. We ar', bu' they don' kno' tha'. Momen' they thin' we're on our las' legs, tha's when the tide turns. Tha's the momen' we stan' a chanc'." Greyson rubbed the small hairs below his nose , before standing up, stretching his back in a familiar fashion.

Demar saw what he meant.

"Alright, Sir."