It dawns on Ao’nung, far, far too late, that they’re in trouble.
They’ve cleaved their way into the heart of the demon ship, scrambling deeper and deeper into the tight corridors, looking for the brother Neteyam calls Kali'weya.
That is who Ao’nung supposes they found when a small, ugly, pink thing, little limbs thundering as it had sprinted towards them, opened it’s tiny mouth and screamed at them. “Get out of here! They’re coming!” The tawtute had yelled in Na’vi – and Ao’nung didn’t have the time to process that, before Neteyam had wrapped his hand around the creature’s stubby forearm and near thrown the tawtute off of the ship into the slim crack of water below, yelling at it to get to Lo’ak – before the room exploded in light and Ao’nung realised, belatedly, that Neteyam had yanked him into another corridor, out of the line of fire, deeper into the ship.
They’d ran, hurling what they could grab behind them, blocking the path as they went. Tawtute boots drummed behind them, and with a hiss, Neteyam ducked into the first room they found, and slammed the heavy metal door shut behind them. Gunfire slammed into it in a rhythmic din, then the ship lurched and leaned with a loud creaking groan, and the gunfire stopped.
The room they’ve barricaded themselves in is large for a tawtute space, but just as disarmingly clean, even while the room lists to the side and an alarm blares distantly. Ao’nung feels slightly claustrophobic in the empty, sterile space, as he ducks his head low to avoid bumping it against the ceiling. It’s high enough for Na’vi, but only just. The walls are a dull grey metal, marked sporadically with the traces of old tawtute equipment — tiny holes and wide grooves dotting the walls where, Ao’nung assumes, humans could affix or insert things, Eywa knows what.
Ao’nung slumps against a wall with a huff, closing his eyes to enjoy this fragile moment of quiet, just for a moment. Just to catch his breath. And then, he notices. He’s breathing heavily, and it tastes strange and bitter on his tongue. It takes a moment, and then Ao’nung realises there is something wrong with the air in here.
Neteyam realises, too, hissing swear words in that guttural human language Toruk Makto speaks, and then some in Na’vi, as he twists and tugs at the small handle of the door.
“What is wrong?” Ao’nung asks, dumbly, pushing himself back off the wall as if to help, and finding himself useless as the door doesn’t budge.
“It’s human air,” Neteyam says, “too much ock-see-jun.”
He yanks on the door again.
“Okay,” Ao’nung nods like he understands, even though he doesn’t.
“The door is sealed,”
“Okay,”
“We can’t get out,” Neteyam looks at him, face twisting in a way that makes Ao’nung’s stomach drop, “and we can’t breath,”
2087
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