A/N: So. Here it is. The beginning of the final battle. It's quite short, but I like it alot. Listen, I've been thinking about several sequels to this. I'll give details in the final chapter.

...We Polish soldiers, For our freedom and yours, Have given our souls to God, Our bodies to the soil of Italy, And our hearts to Poland..

HELL DAY

3:00am, 5th April, 2156

There's a feeling you get. Piston remembered that feeling. Same feeling he'd got a very long time ago. Remembered sitting in a lab, staring up at the skies. Wondering how those tiny bright lights could be super-massive balls of burning gas, sending him light from anywhere between a year or 500,000 years ago. Like little messages from space, from the great celestial giants. His old lab coat, with it's stained white side and torn label. The burn mark across it's left sleeve from when Dr. Leifenberg had thrown hot coffee at him when he asked his daughter to a rather charming local bar.

That feeling of absolute wonderment. As if you should be utterly humbled by the simple privilege of seeing it. You should be thanking whoever you see as the supreme being, and taking pictures to hang on your wall for generations. There's a feeling you get at seeing something truly majestic, no matter how foreboding it really is. His back was up against the watchpost; little more then an enlarged stick stuck in the ground. Behind him, the fortifications had taken shape in a truly magnificent display of what Men can do given time. The mud had given way to plasteel bunkers, thrown up in record time by Engineers who had broken the Great Wall. Great men. Sand bags were piled high, with pot holes for rifles, machine guns and light artillery. 3 Lines of Trenches before the Mountain, 6 further up the slopes, and a last stand atop with the groundhammers.

But this? This was something else. Over the skies of silken darkness, upon a clear Pandoran sky, as the orbs of light strieked their light towards him in greeting, there was new lights. Tiny dots of orange, breaking the peaceful visage of the silken blanket of twilight like knives upon a wool cover. But they were closing now, getting steadily larger. It wasn't something you saw every day. Wasn't something you saw very often at all.

"They're here." Came Sarge's familiar voice, shattering the silence once again. He knelt in the mud next to Piston, but the young trooper wasn't shocked. Eyes focused on the little jets of blazing light. Many others had similar affiliations. Heads began to pop out of the trenches, Exopacks on, faces fixed upon the 30 tiny torches.

"So here it is. The End Days."

Shaka's pertinent voice echoed across the Valhallan Battlefield. Slowly, but surely, those meteors were moving across the sky, like fire ants creeping surely along a rotting tree branch. It was a miasma of light, heading towards the ground.

Abruptly, there was a tiny shudder through the ground; brief, short, like a heavy vehicle rumbling past. Sure enough, massive white lights shot from the horizon to their right, in the direction of Hell's Gate. 10 of them, flying high in the direction of the scarlet-orange hunks of rock.

"That'll be the Lances. Demar's got his Maths right, once again..." Sarge muttered, his dull monotones the only sound in the cacophony of pitted silence. All in awe. All but one in horror. All but one in grim fear. All in anticipation. The White Lights drowned into the night, becoming nought but pinpricks upon the sky, in comparison to the gouging wounds as the Meteors came closer and closer. For, maybe an hour, this elusive opera played out, the Soldiers transfixed by it. Until, in an anticlimax of the highest caliber, the white lights blinked out, taking ten of the spores with them in brief, but bright, flashes of orangey-blue light. But 20 of the great rocks continued to descend. With a jolt, they suddenly began to become far, far bigger. When before they were merely the greatest stars in the sky, now they turned into what they were. Great ulcers upon the dark backdrop of serenity.

"Brace." Froggy muttered from his position, sitting in a trench, head tilted up at the luminescent sky.

The shock as the rocks hit the ground shook the entire landscape like a small child destroying it's least favourite toy in the fit's of a rage. Nothing matched it, excluding natural disasters. The trees shook, the men shook and the Fortifications quivered, but held. Then it was over. For now, atleast...

Men went to return to sleep, the most valued thing for a Soldier; other then food, ammo and clothing, of course. But there was an interruption. Someone was striding out into the Dead Man's land before the first trench line, a large man with smoke swirling from his head like a small industrial chimney. Abruptly, a flood light burst upon him as he came to a halt. Neat Officer's Jackets. Stars upon his collar. Bionic limbs. A scarred, haggard, shaven face. Several, great, 8 foot tall figures stood behind him. The Na'vi War-leaders. Come to see the final days. They all loked shocked, terrified and harrowed, muttering in their language. But The General simply ignored them, his entire attention focused upon the men who stood before him.

His voice boomed across the mountains, a tiny sonic microphone making him clearly audible for miles around.

"Any man who wish's to go 'ome now may do so now. You will return home with an 'onourabl' discharg' an' twent years backpay Merely come and stand behind me. You should all kno', lads, that we will all almos' certainly die 'ere." It was an offer that all men must give to those prepared to give their life. That last way out. A chance to go home. To live that life they'd dreamt about as children; to have children of their own. To live.

But one word worried Piston very much.

"Up." It was immediately followed by Sarge's hand upon his shoulder. He looked up at the old soldier's eyes, and saw nothing, as usual.

"PFC Potter. Eric. I want you to go and stand behind the General."

There was a lot of anger built up behind Piston's gaze; anyone could tell, even before he sprang to his feet. Sarge remained utterly impassive, even as the young man clenched his unsullied hands.

"Why?"

"Because you're not like us. You're pure. You can go home and become something good." It wasn't sad with that cold force Sarge always used. It was said with the willing conviction of one man to another. No command. Just advice. The rest of the squad were gathered behind the Veteran, nodding in agreement. And Piston's reply was equal to it.

"Sergeant, do you know the last thing I heard from my family? Their screams." He calmly said, and turned back to the General.

That settled it. A young man's decision to die. An election to stand and fight for a Planet you have nought but contempt and anger for.

Sarge grunted in response, as if he'd never even suggested it. Best, that. Best they forgot he'd even suggested it.

Seemed the Expedition had similar feelings. Echoes were great sounds in that dead field of utter silence. Some were nervous. Some were resolute. Others hesitated, thinking to take that last chance; before they remembered. Screams of utter horror as the Roaches' feeder tendrils snatched children from their mother's arms. Shrieks of rage as men held off the great Jormungadr so their families could escape. The pleading looks of those too far gone to save...

But there was life. Sweet, sweet life. Surely these Na'vi could hold the Jormungadr! Great Warriors, 8 feet tall, impossibly strong and fast...

A steady trickle of men began to file out of the trenches, assembling just before the General. Upon his face was the stoic expression of the emotionless General. It took some minutes, but before long the entire Expedition had begun to leave the trenches, and stand just before the Party. The Na'vi hissed in anger at such abandonment; these were meant to be Warriors!

But then a very particular thing happened. Sergeant strode up to his Superior Officer and looked the Wolf in the eyes. As it happened, the entire force snapped to rigid attention, from PFC Piston to Captain Redrik. Men with rock-jaws, heads held high, steel in their backs and but one conviction. Sarge hated his bastard brother. While Sarge had had all the advantages, Greyson had all the luck. But there was a point where one must transcend jealousy.

"General Greyson. First Pandoran Expeditionary Force Present and reporting for duty, Sir!"

As one, the men saluted their General. Row upon row of men, giving their lives to the soil of a Planet that had not birthed them, with a simple gesture of affirmation

Each one knew a simple truth; a truth that lies in the essence of every Soldier. A Soldier is different from a Warrior. A Soldier puts his life upon the line for others; his wellbeing, his body, his mind and his sanity.

Greyson grinned, from ear to ear, the first genuine smile of the Campaign.

"Men of the First Pandoran Expeditionary Force! Dismissed!"

No speech. No rousing call to arms in the name of their children. None was needed nor desired. These were men who had heard speeches from lesser men and great men, but far more of the former. But Greyson had something very specific to say. Turning to Jakesully, he had a completely different expression upon his face. His eyes were furrowed into blade-like sparks, his upper lip curled, and his fists clenched in a pure expression of rage

"My nam' is Matthew Greyson. I am a toleran' man; excep' when pushed. Ever doub' my men again, and you will 'ave pushed me." Nothing could have been simpler, and Jake saw that look. It wasn't the look of a man who saw killing as a great honour, or a pleasure. It was the look of a man who was born to violence, but hated it nonetheless. So, he nodded in response. Greyson trodded off, back towards the trenches, but the men were still assembled.

"I sai' dismisse', Expedition!"

It was a young lieutenant from the front rank who responded.

"Ahuuk tahuuk, General!"

It was quickly taken up, the sound began to roar around the valley. At first, but a few man cried the age-old motto of their General. But, slowly, more men began to say it. Shout it. Scream it to the heavens. The words that a young Colonel Greyson had whispered to his regiment, before leading them over the walls of Moscow, and carrying the most heavily fortified city upon the Planet. It was a saying stamped across the consciousness of every Soldier. One day, people would find the symbols "AT" in the snow. 2000 Men screamed these words to their General.

In reply, he merely smiled and said "Heads Held High, indee', laddies..."

The Men made their way back into the trenches, long after the Party had left for the crest of the Mountains. Greyson had looked very closely at the Na'vi as the men cheered, as they roared for victory. They had a look upon their faces which seemed to be a mix of shock, horror and utter disbelief. Like seeing an insect crawl up to a mountain and sing an opera. Like seeing a lonely, battered child with a passion for stones and video games save a school from a terrorist attack. Like seeing a people you once thought corrupt and evil turn around and choose to defend your Home. In their thousands.

That was a very satisfying moment for Greyson, they say. Some say it was the Greatest moment of his life. Smarter people knew it wasn't. Only the ones who knew him well realised that it meant jack-shit to him. But to his men? It meant a lot. The only thing that meant anything to Matthew Greyson were those men standing before him and saying they still trusted him to bring them out the other side.

Not this time, boys...I'm sorry.