A/N: Can I just say that Cyanide, Nitrogen and Carbon Dioxide, combined would mean that the Pandoran Ecology would never get past the cellular level, as they do not simple have the energy to create large organisms, or sustain them. Check back in Earth's History; we had plenty of Carbon Dioxide floating around for milennia, with massive pockets of sulphur, cyanide and even lithium at some points. Only when oxygen was introduced did you get to the actual 'Organisms' part.

And the Human Genome has gone through periods where it has had the muscle strength of a Silverback Gorilla in thin, whip-like arms. If you have EVER read anything on Human Genetics, you'll know that most of that DNA still lies dormant. And read the passage carefully; and no point does he engage in a match where Jake can feasibly overpower him. Y'know, like how every single Martial Art teaches you to fight; but I suppose it didn't cross your mind that a Soldier might be trained in anything other then Dogma...

SO before you go criticising me AND my characters, read up. This isn't an actual account of events; it's Science Fiction. FICTION. I'm not a freaking Scientist, but I am a Writer. And I'm far too self-indulging to let the Truth get in the Way of a Good Story.

My apologies for that rant and the lateness of this Chapter.

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Excerpt from the Journal of Major General Matthew 'Odin' Greyson, posthumous rank Field Marshal of The United Nations Military Forces.

17th April 2156

I've never been a big writer. Triggers are my thing. Shouted commands. Knives. Fists. The most I've written are reports, but I feel I must pen this on a datapad older then I. The situation is looking bleak; but I'm used to that by now. Moscow was bleak; Vitebsk bleaker. I carried my men through that, losing bits of my humanity along the way...

But not this time. It's not a matter of 'Hold the Line'. It's a matter of 'Make them pay'. Death is a certainty, the only thing you've got left is to hammer the fuckers so hard that the Na'vi can save their world. Somehow, though, I think we can do it. I look down at my Men from Valhalla, and I see Israelites sharing canteens with Germans. Irish offering broth to English.

On Hell Day (5th April, 2156), I offered my men a chance to go home. Obviously, they refused. But I did it to see the look in the Na'vi's eyes. See, I'm no Philosopher. But I know one thing about my Race; we're worth fighting for. Through all the shit and silt I've had to wade through, I've seen glimmers of the one thing that truly separates us from the Na'vi – or any other race: A will. A will so strong that nothing can defy it.

See, when we started the Siberian Offensive, Kutuzov knew that everyone expected him to die. Preferably taking down a few Communist Armies in the process. But I remember being in the front rank of my Rifles and seeing him stride out before 100,000 tired, cold, unequipped and hungry men. Doubtless the speech has been recorded by older and wiser hands, but here it is by my ears.

"Men of the 1st Siberian Army. Today, we stand upon the brink of defeat. We are broken, battered and bruised." He spoke in Polish, but our HUDs translated. His chin lifted itself alittle. "But we are not dead. You draw breath, every last one of you. Therefore, you are Soldiers. Volunteers. From the furthest tip of Africa, to the beleaguered straits of Finland. Here. Now. Therefore, you can fight. Therefore, you can win. Therefore – you shall. I need not ask you follow me; I know you will. For we will turn the tide. We are the floodgates. We head east. And we shall not stop. Follow me, Men of the 1st, and we will be likened unto Gods forever."

Cheesy. Corny and full to the brim with bad historical references. But, I think, that's what we needed. That spark. He set light to the indomitable spirit of mankind, and from that moment on, we weren't stopping.

The Na'vi saw us at our worst. Gun-babies. Sadists. Fools and degenerates. The flotsam of Military life. Colonel Quaritch can be defined by historians, using an old Scottish term, as a fucking git. The Hammer of the Military is always the last resort. We are the silent mediator; we do not feel, we do not let our prejudices get in the way. Only when all options are exhausted to their fullest potential are we used. Quaritch forgot that; his spirit left him, and he fell. Add onto that the fact that it is written "If your foes are superior, seek better ground."

Custer and Quaritch. Both with only a few hundred men; both annihilated by two thousand angry natives.

But the Men I've brought? Shining records. Between all of them, there isn't a single Court Martial. Excluding Demar. And myself.

Of course.

They're the ones who you don't see. The soldiers who volunteer for the Forlorn Hope, not because they seek glory, but because if they don't do it, someone else will; better to die then know someone else did because you didn't have the guts to stand up and volunteer.. The unsung heroes of every campaign. Tough bastards, from the tops of their heads to their scarred little toes. They're the men who look up over the top of the trench, let go a puff of air, then run into hell.

And I'm sending these boys off to die? I've ordered over two thousand decent lads to sit atop a Hill and die. That's not nice. Y'know; I'd have thought after well over twenty thousand years of civilization, we'd have stopped doing this. Made some other way to kill off decent boys. Because, to me? This is just another cause worth dying for.

Yesterday, the 'Emissary Caste' pomped round the corner. This time, it was Silvan DePadiche, a French Scout. A spitter pounced on him, dragged him into the tunnels, where they stick his brain with a needle. This needle causes physical changes; his hair falls out, his eyes darken, his skin turns a pallid white; the result of a toxin which essentially makes him very, very nocturnal. In Britannia, they did it too about 60 men.

I can recall it. I was standing atop Valhalla, scanning the horizon for any signs of Roach vanguards. A tiny speck appeared from the forest. It got closer, and closer.

"We don't want to be here." It said, in a hollowed tone, somewhere between a swarm buzzing and a frenchman spluttering.

"We dinnae car'." Was my answer.

"We just want to go home."

"Then go."

"We can't."

I snorted in derision, down at this once-honourable man. The two XMX assault rifles jammed against his ribcage didn't seem to bother him in the slightest.

"Then we go' a problem, laddy." I growl, grinning at him like some barbarous Warlord.

"Why are we here, General?" the Emissary asked; using the term 'we' to refer to DePadiche – they had just brainwashed him, not implanted him with some communal hive mind.

"We're 'ere to stop ye' roach's getting' t' earth again."

The Former-Man's eyebrows raised in surprise, as if I'd told the Sky was about to fall by a child.

"Ah. So that's the lie they used."

Shit hits the fan quite hard. My mind instantly begins working, trying to figure out who lied, why they lied, how many times. It all goes through my head like an explosive charge from a Groundhammer; fast, harsh, fearless.

Nothing comes to mind. Because, a day ago, I actually believed that I was...'Great' enough not to be lied to.

When I bare my teeth this time, it's a snarl, my eyes are focused, and my cybernetic arm is upon my weapon.

"Explain."

"It's pretty obvious to an informed mind, General. Who ordered you here?"

"The United Nations Security Council."

"Who elects the Security Council?"

"The Elected Members of The World Government." I said it all in a precise, English accent; I never said official titles in my native tongue, as many simply could not understand it.

"And who elects them?"

"The People."

He cackled, loudly, drawing back his bald, pallid head to let forth a burst of laughter.

"Even with my pathetic understanding of World Politics, the Community" They're name for the Roaches "worked it out. Who pays for all that advertising, General? Who, essentially, pays for the Representatives? No, wait, a simpler question. Who is the biggest money-making corporation upon Earth?"

Oh god. That's what I thought. It all started to fit together, like pieces of a loved one's possessions selectively smashed to pieces. The RDA wanted Pandora. The RDA payed the Government...But the Scientists.

My face remained unperturbed, as I said.

"Yer gunnae destroy this plane' an'-"

"They lied, you bull-headed fool. The Roaches here will eat everything and then die. Now hollowing out of the planet. How exactly would we explode an entire planetoid, anyway? The propaganda your media fed into me and every soldier here was pretty 'tight', but it had holes."

Words no Soldier should ever hear. No man should ever hear.

I don't think I ever did truly believe what they told me on Earth. Too blinded by grief and rage. The ashes of my homeland stained my hands far worse then a child's blood stains that of a good man. A constant reminder of my eternal failure to save the one place I been fighting for, for the last 28 years of my life. I got an opportunity to come and get some payback. And I've dragged two thousand good men down with me. I didn't want to believe that; but it all fit into place. The silent, grey-figure at the back of the room when they'd given me my briefing. The sudden freedom of money, even though the UN was notoriously broke after the Wars.

Those were my thoughts. But then I spoke.

"Ye thin' I car'?"

I did, a lot, as I said that. But, creeping up my spine, was a sense of fury. A fury at being cheated, tricked and run-down my entire life. Not the fury at being insulted, or seeing my men die. The fury of having wasted my life. A dying man's rage.

DePadiche quirked an eyebrow.

"We're 'ere because' we're 'ere. Dinnae matta'. Every singl' boy 'ere knows wha' ye fecka's did to Britain. An' we're 'ere fer some feckin' backpay, aye?" The punch isn't hard, not for me, but it sends him reeling. He's nervous now, not too keen on dying.

"You can't hope to stand against the Community, General!"

I'm shouting now.

"Bring yer Hordes, ye bastar'. Bring every beas' from every star." I throw another punch, this time to his stomach, doubling him over. My right hand grips the back of his neck, and brings his pitch black eyes level to mine.

"We'll be waitin'."

I then dug my knee into his groin, and nodded at the Riflemen. Their shots were clean and well-placed.

Why? That was a question. Why were we here now?

To me, that was obvious. A soldier is a Protector. Doesn't matter what he's protecting, or the 'Why' of it. He is a protector. What kind of man would I be if I packed up and returned home? I'd be executed. And every single man would hate me; and the people would hate them.

A few seconds ago, I received word that the Swarm is on it's way. It will be here in one hour. This will be my first, last and only excerpt. If this ever returns home, know one thing: The Duty of a Soldier is not to Kill, but to Die...