Chapter Text
“The only reason you're here, Forest Boy, is because of your dear father, Colonel Sully,” Ao’nung taunted. He stepped closer to Neteyam, daring him to do something.
“Must I remind you of your own linkage?” Neteyam challenged. “Great soldiers, Ronal and Tonowari, survived the same war that killed my mother. What an honor.”
Ao’nung looked down. “What happened in the past stays in the past. We’re talking about now.”
He dug out a cigarette pack and put it in between his teeth, patting his pockets for the forgotten lighter.
“That’s what everyone says. But war is such, isn’t it? A pathetic battle between fools who couldn’t pass an elementary quarrel,” Neteyam said coldly, yanking the cigarette from Ao’nung’s mouth and putting it in his own. “You know nothing of war yet.”
Ao’nung licked his chapped lips, watching Neteyam light the cigarette with his own shiny, brass lighter. “You’re just like me. Fed all these stories about our great parents, only to be starved in their shadows.”
“No,” Neteyam puffed smoke. “I’ve seen war, and it nearly killed me. You’re an ignorant child playing pretend. Only this time, the guns are real and will stain your pretty face red.”
Ao’nung huffed indignantly and stared down at him. Neteyam took one final drag before throwing the cigarette down and stamping it with the sole of his boot. Then, he gestured for the taller boy to take out another. Neteyam took the cigarette and pushed it between Ao’nung’s heart-shaped lips.
“If I were you, I wouldn’t make my stance as a military brat,” Neteyam said, lighting the cigarette. “Make your own legacy.”
—————————————————-
The hall was stuffed with soldiers, and the only thing everyone was conquering was their food. It was all the same meal for lunch: a slop of some sort for protein, a dollop of peas, and grain bread. Plus, two quids of chew per man. Ao’nung would often trade his tobacco for cigarettes. Occasionally, they were given two pieces of biscuits each for dessert. Today was one of those days.
Ao’nung sat beside one of his fleet members, Rotxo. He was a short man with curly black hair, but, unlike Ao’nung’s long hair that he kept up in a bun, it was cut short. Nash’vi and Koro, the other two members of their fleet, sat next to each other. Everyone in their fleet, besides Neteyam, was of Metkayina heritage.
Neteyam was Omatikayan. His skin was darker, hair longer and woven into long, thin braids, and he had fascinating hazel eyes. They shone like gold in the sun.
Across the table, Neteyam snapped open a small lavender container and pulled out a pale yellow note. The edges were crinkled and tinted pink from the moisture and fruit.
“Perks of being the son of the colonel, am I right?” Rotxo murmured. “He gets his packages early, so it’s still fresh.”
“Why strawberries out of anything?” Ao’nung frowned. They seemed too soft, too sweet for such a soldier. He glanced down at his bland tray.
On second thought, strawberries didn’t sound so bad.
“I’m pretty sure his family has a strawberry farm or something,” Rotxo explained, playing with his peas and scrunching his nose distastefully, then looked up at Neteyam.
“Hey Neteyam, what’s that?” Rotxo pointed to a butter-yellow envelope next to Neteyam’s hand. It was still sealed with a gold-rose wax stamp.
“A letter,” Neteyam deadpanned, grabbing it quickly and slipping it into his pocket.
“But from who? Or are they battle plans? Does it say our next move?”
“It’s nothing that concerns you.”
“Aw, c'mon! You can trust me.”
Ao’nung pinched Rotxo’s arm. “What are you doing?”
He only received a smirk in return. Ao’nung leaned back and watched the conversation.
“Neteyam. We’re like, best friends now,” Rotxo continued.
“No, I don’t think we are,” Neteyam studied him, as if he was trying to presume his motive. “Why do you persist?”
Rotxo threw his hands up in a mocking you caught me manner. “Ah, I’m just curious.”
“There’s a saying from the Sky People, you know,” Neteyam drawled. “‘Curiosity killed the cat.’”
“‘But satisfaction brought it back,” Rotxo winked. “I hope you didn’t forget what side of the war you’re on, Neteyam.”
Neteyam collected his things and stood up. “Of course not. It was a silly whim my father used to say to my siblings and me. I’m surprised you know the next line.”
Rotxo paused for a split second, hand tightening around his fork. His hesitation flashed so fast that Ao’nung thought he imagined it.
“How else are we supposed to beat the Sky People if we don’t think like them? I’ve been studying their language a bit,” Rotxo explained.
“Mhm, I suppose. Good night, Rotxo. Ao’nung.”
Ao-oh-nung. Neteyam did not stutter his name to get rid of it faster, as people often did. He pronounced each syllable carefully. Ao’nung watched as the man walked away, disappearing behind the large doors. A good night response soured in his mouth, never spoken. Then he turned back to Rotxo.
“What the fuck, dude?” He hissed, absently tracing a long scar on his palm. One of his many nervous habits.
“I was just interested. I mean, why else would Neteyam hide the letter like that?” Rotxo huffed. “He’s too secretive. It’s strange, isn’t it?”
“I mean…”
Rotxo scooted closer, the mischievous glint in his eyes never wavering. “You know, back when I was stationed across the country, I heard so many stories. Many people still don’t trust him. Or his father.”
Ao’nung frowned. Neteyam was closed off, yes, but a traitor? Neteyam was far too loyal and good-hearted to be so.
A beat passed. Then, Rotxo kicked Ao’nung’s leg under the table, his shit-eating grin back in place.
“What?” Ao’nung snapped, kicking the man back. Rotxo glanced around for a moment, making sure nobody was looking, before leaning down to unzip his duffel bag. He pulled out two glass bottles, wet with condensation.
“Vodka? Where’d you get that?” Ao’nung gaped.
“Snagged a few bottles when I was on kitchen duty,” Rotxo winked again. “If you know where to look, you can find anything.”
He stuffed the liquor back into his bag, one by one, with towels wedged in between to muffle the noise.
“Maybe you should be a spy for us instead of on the front lines,” Ao’nung mused. He traced the grooves worn down into the table by the multitude of clattering plates.
“Nah. Where’s the fun in that?”
—————————————————-
Hello Neteyam,
I have so many things to tell you! I am good, and so is Grandmother, but we both miss you so, so, so much.
Lo’ak came over from London and gave me a tulkun carving for my birthday! It’s a kind of whale, I think. He said I got taller! He also said his job is doing okay and that the people over there talk in funny accents and wear silly black hats. I got to wear his (but don’t tell him it smelled like coffee, and I don’t like that smell). Lo’ak said he brought something for you as well, but he didn’t want to mail it because it could break. He also misses you a lot.
Grandmother said she wishes you were here, but I told her to have a strong heart, because I know you and Dad would’ve said that. She’s sleeping a lot now. Lo’ak bought her tons of medicine, and she says it tastes good, but I know she’s lying because the pills smell like grapes, and I know Grandmother hates grapes.
For my birthday, Grandmother and Lo’ak made Mom’s special strawberry cake, and Lo’ak brought a special candle that looked like a rose and opened up when he lit it! It had nine candles because I turned nine, and it played the happy birthday song. It sounded like when you used to play piano for me. We had to sell the piano, and that made me a little sad, but Grandmother said nobody was using it anyway.
Of course, I went to the field and picked the best strawberries just for you, ‘Teyam. They taste really good right now. I hope they don’t rot.
I love you so much, Neteyam. Please come home safe with Dad. Lo’ak says if you do, he’ll plan a vacation for us and take us to where he lives, once he gets enough money. He said I could eat as many chocolates there as I liked. I remember you love chocolate, so you’ll like that too!
Love,
your sister Tuktirey, your brother Lo’ak, and Grandmother.
—————————————————-
Rotxo flicked on the lights of the fleet’s sleeping quarters. Everyone groaned in unison, squinting and covering their eyes.
“What the fuck, Rotxo?” Koro hissed. His short, curly hair was plastered to his face.
Ao’nung sat up, adjusting the collar of his shirt quickly. It was ill-fitted, much too large for his frame, and to his dismay, it shrugged off his shoulders in the middle of the night—a hand-me-down from someone who was once much broader.
Neteyam’s bed was empty, though no one seemed to mind. Neteyam resided in his office at night more often than not.
“Let me amaze you, gentlemen,” Rotxo held up a set of keys. “Our way to the shed.”
“No way,” Nash’vi laughed. “You fucker! How’d you—?”
“One doesn’t question how, but when. Which is now! Boots on and hurry up!” Rotxo bounced excitedly. “I’ve pinged fleets two, three, and four as well.”
“Fleet Two? With Tarsem? And he agreed?” Ao’nung gaped. Tarsem was slightly older than him—around twenty-eight, he supposed—and appeared to be more like Neteyam than anyone else. Ao’nung had heard they grew up together, so he assumed the man would be just as cold and imitating as the rest of the Sullies.
“You better believe he did. He and I are tight like that,” Rotxo crossed his fingers.
“If we get in trouble, I’m blaming you,” Koro said pointedly.
“I love how you’re always so enthusiastic, Koro. We’re not doing any harm.”
Nash’vi tied his shoes and bounded out of bed eagerly. “Hurry, hurry!”
“Fine,” Koro accepted defeatly, allowing Nash’vi to grab his hands and pull him up. He bit back a smile and slipped his shoes on.
They had to keep quiet as they walked through the corridors and into the shed. Once inside, everybody grabbed a bike and rolled it out into the cafeteria.
“Great things are underway,” Roxto declared, hopping on his bike. He started pedaling and led the way, increasing his speed the farther he went.
Ao’nung caught up to Nash’vi and Rotxo, weaving through the gleaming tables like they were obstacles in some grand, ridiculous racecourse. Rotxo glanced back and pumped a victorious fist.
“Ao’nung joins the elite!” he proclaimed, nearly tipping over in the process.
“Eyes forward!” Taresm called as he swerved to avoid colliding with him. His dreads whipped in the air wildly.
Ao’nung laughed as he followed the other men, moving quickly on his bike. Rotxo was in front, Nash’vi by his side, and Koro behind. They weren’t so intimidating up close.
They cut through a patch of darkness, then shot back into light. Trays rattled on tables as they sped past. A cup rolled off a counter and clattered to the floor behind them. Their shadows stretched and warped in front of them like long-limbed ghosts.
Koro shouted from the back, “I swear, if we get court-martialed for this—”
“We won’t!” Rotxo exclaimed, taking a sharp turn that sent him skidding. “Not unless you crash into a general!”
Nash’vi barked a laugh. “If anyone’s crashing, it’s you, Rotxo!”
Rotxo suddenly swerved left and shouted, “Obstacle!”
There was no obstacle.
Koro flipped him off without looking.
They looped around the tables, past the silent serving station. Nash’vi leaned sideways to try ramming Rotxo’s bike, claiming, “I’m gaining on you, spy boy!”
“I’m not a spy!”
“Then stop stealing shit from the kitchen!”
“That was a miscommunication!”
Ao’nung surged forward, overtook Nash’vi, then nearly clipped Rotxo’s back wheel. Rotxo shrieked and swerved dramatically, screaming, “HEY! BRAKE, YOU MENACE!”
Ao’nung laughed again, breathless and surprised by the sound of his own voice.
Nash’vi sped after him, cackling as his bike fishtailed slightly. “You’re gonna eat shit, and I’m gonna laugh so hard, bro—”
“Jealousy is ugly on you, Nash’vi!” Rotxo shouted back.
Ao’nung almost collided with Nash’vi when the latter zigzagged wildly, laughing so hard he nearly slipped off the seat.
He didn’t feel like a soldier here. He didn’t even feel his age.
He felt naive in the most oblivious, honey-sweet way possible.
He was not twenty-three, but maybe five, or sixteen at most. He had all his teeth, but he had yet to fit his sailor suit.
Ha! Ao’nung giggled to himself. This bike was his boat, and he would conquer the seas.
He would bare his canines to the world and show them all that he could.
Ao’nung let go of the handles, wobbling but not falling over. “Hey, watch thi--”
Rotxo screeched to a stop.
“Kill the engines.” Neteyam’s deep voice cut from the doorway.
They froze like deer caught in front of the headlights. Neteyam stepped into the cone of light, jaw set.
“Tarsem,” Neteyam said curtly, eyeing the older boy with displeasure.
“Ah, Neteyam. That’s my cue to leave,” Tarsem turned away quickly, signaling the rest of his fleet to follow. As he walked past Neteyam, he put his hand on his shoulder and whispered something quietly.
“Go, before I write this on your report.” Neteyam snapped back. Tarsem chuckled and disappeared with the rest of fleet two. Rotxo crossed his arms, irritated.
Neteyam looked them dead in the eye. Ao’nung straightened his back quickly and stared at the floor.
“We have a mission in two days.” Neteyam scolded as he stepped closer. “Instead of sleeping, you all race around the hall like children.”
“As far as I’m concerned, Captain Tsu’Tey is our fleet’s leader,” Rotxo retorted, coming closer. “Why are you stepping in?”
“If you want to kill yourself, go ahead,” Neteyam snipped. “But we’re supposed to be a team. I’m not going to watch you throw that away for one night of selfish pleasure.”
Rotxo had the temerity to roll his eyes. “We’ve been training for weeks. What’s one night? Or are you just allergic to seeing everyone actually enjoy themselves for once? Right, Ao’nung?”
Ao’nung blinked at the sound of his name. Everyone turned to him.
“Uh—I, uhm—,” Ao’nung picked his nails and shrank in on himself. He knew it was fun, and it had been; Neteyam’s judgment made him feel ill.
“Sorry, Rotxo…but I’m with Neteyam for this one.”
Rotxo stared at him, disappointed. “Not cool, dude.”
“Leave now. Everyone leave!” Neteyam said louder. “I’ll distribute your consequences tomorrow.”
The rest of the soldiers dispersed one by one, leaving the bikes behind. The wheels on a few of them were still turning.
Ao’nung was back to being the quiet one who floated in the back of the group. Ahead, Rotxo, Koro, and Nash’vi were whispering intently, and every few seconds, Nash’vi snickered.
His heart lessened a few sizes.
—————————————————-
The sky was a dark blanket of nothingness, splattered with pillows of stars and clouds. The moon was hidden tonight.
Ao'nung wordlessly walked beside Neteyam, the rest of the fleet four in front. Rotxo, Nash’vi, and Koro hadn’t spoken to him much since they’d been caught riding around with the bikes. He supposed they ostracized him, and for how long, he didn’t know.
His chest ached like a gaping wound. He should’ve kept his fucking mouth shut. He had one opportunity, and he blew it.
“So we just need to grab a few boxes, and we’ll be on our way, right?” Rotxo called back.
“Yes,” Neteyam replied.
They were an hour away from Bridgehead, their main base, to get supplies: rifles, combat boots, provisions, those sorts of things. There was always a need for more; the eternal mouth of war was never satisfied, no matter how many materials and people were fed to it.
It spoke to the hands that feed, to the hands pressing four fingers together and tapping their thumbs underneath, personifying speech. Ao’nung wished to criticize it, but how could he? He was another child making finger puppets in the dark, reciting scripted lines of propaganda through the taut strings of his wrists.
Ao’nung would not ponder on this; he would not. He was not a marionette. His purpose was to contribute and make a name for himself. He didn’t need anyone to do that for him. He huffed and lengthened his strides to put a short distance between himself and Neteyam.
If Neteyam noticed, he didn’t comment. He was busy watching Rotxo, who tapped his hands against his hips boredly.
Ao’nung didn’t know Morse code, but he imagined Rotxo was saying Come here, we forgive you. Of course, in reality, Rotxo was saying nothing at all.
He wanted to know how to say I’m sorry, or, I miss you.
I should’ve listened to you because I’m still so fucking lonely and can’t do shit.
Shut the fuck up.
Ao’nung pressed his nails deep into his wrist, though not hard enough to draw blood. He exhaled slowly through his nose and counted his steps.
One. Two. Three. Gravel shifted beneath his boots, too loud in the quiet. Somewhere far off, metal groaned. A strained engine, or maybe just the wind worrying at loose debris.
The night felt wrong. Too quiet. Too stiff. Even the stars seemed to be holding their breath.
He flexed his fingers, then curled them again. His heart thudded unevenly, a second too late every time.
Ao’nung opened his mouth—he wasn’t sure why, maybe to call Rotxo’s name, or to say nothing at all—
“Watch out!” Neteyam called. Overhead, aircraft sent fire.
The acidic smell tore his lungs and made his eyes water. The world blurred, orange, and burning.
Ao’nung froze, as if the ground beneath him grabbed his ankles and wouldn’t let go.
Nothing prepared him for the screams.
They were high, desperate, and shrill. He was breathless, as if the rising ghosts and smoke clogged up the air. He was drowning on land.
He didn’t realize Neteyam in front of him, or the fact that the man had been dragging him across the field this whole time. He followed in a dazed trance, tripping over his own feet.
They passed over corpses, bodies, people. Why were there so many people?
A person called his name.
Ao’nung whipped his head back. One of the cars rose in flames, and underneath, someone was wailing.
“Nash’vi!” Ao’nung shouted, running up to the man. His lower body was pinned down and crushed by the vehicle, blood pooling around him like a dark tide.
“Please,” Nash’vi gasped, one arm outstretched, fingers clawing the dark, “help me.”
Ao’nung reached for him, but Neteyam yanked him back hard enough to make him stumble.
“Get down!”
Ao’nung ducked and squeezed his eyes shut as the sky rained fire.
He couldn’t breathe.
He coughed roughly and waved at the air, blindly grabbing Neteyam’s arm.
“Nash’vi—” Ao’nung whispered.
The stake Nash’vi had been nailed against had fallen. He burned on the ground that he once trodden with pride.
“Go, go!” Neteyam led him, Rotxo, and Koro behind the building, into the underground trapdoor.
Everything was blurry. Ao’nung tripped on a dusty rice sack and went down hard, the breath punched from his lungs. His palms scraped against the concrete as he caught himself, grit lodging under his nails.
A blast thundered overhead. The ceiling groaned in protest, dust raining down in choking clouds. Ao’nung curled inward instinctively, covering his head with his arms, as something heavy slammed shut above them. Darkness swallowed the space whole.
His ears rang. His heart tried to claw its way out of his chest.
Neteyam stayed in front of the trap door, covering it with his body. The ground rumbled above; dirt caked their bodies.
Ao’nung pressed his hands against his ears, cries wracking his frame. He didn’t care if anyone saw.
He wanted to go home.
—————————————————-
After a few hours, they deemed it was safe to step out and see the damage. Ao’nung raised his hand to cover his eyes, squinting, as the morning sun peeked through the fog.
All he could breathe in was the thick ash of dread.
“Watch your step,” Neteyam murmured under his breath, side-stepping a burnt body.
“Nash’vi. Where’s Nash’vi?” Koro said quickly, tugging Neteyam’s arm. The latter pulled back distastefully.
“Find him,” Neteyam said dryly. “He couldn’t have gone far.”
Koro whimpered and turned around. He cupped his hands around his mouth and called out his name.
Ao’nung wiped his cheek and winced. Stray sharpel had gashed his face.
“Shit. I think I found him,” Rotxo said after a few minutes with Neteyam by his side. Koro stumbled forward, tripping on debris.
“Is he okay?” Ao’nung whispered. Some desperate part of him willed that he was. Neteyam moved away to show Nash’vi.
Vomit burned in the back of his throat.
His leg was gone, bitten off by the hungry metal birds and flames. His face—or, what was left of it—was twisted skyward, skin melted off and torn, leaving his hollow skull staring unblinkingly at dawn. His wavy hair clumped and stuck to his face.
Koro leaned down over his friend and found his dog tag. He folded it in, then out, then in again to unclasp it.
“We leave in a few hours. Clean up.” Neteyam said, turning away.
Right. The mission.
Ao’nung ripped his gaze away from the corpse.
He swore Nash’vi was begging him to turn around.
—————————————————-
A dimly lit candle awoke Neteyam during the night. He opened one eye. “Can’t sleep?”
“No,” Ao’nung resigned. “Can I sit with you?”
Neteyam shifted in his compact bed to one side. “I’m not getting up. You can join if you want.”
Ao’nung sat on the edge and set the candle on the small nightstand, illuminating a black-and-white framed photo of a woman. “Is that Neytiri?”
“My mother, yes.”
“I didn’t realize how similar you look.”
“Not the first time I’ve heard that,” Neteyam mumbled. “Something’s worrying you.”
Ao’nung bit his lip, pressing his nails into his palm. “How can you sleep? Knowing you killed people today?”
Neteyam rolled over and nodded for Ao’nung to lie down. Their limbs bumped, and noses faintly brushed against each other.
“I’ve grown accustomed to these beds. Sleep comes, no matter what festers.” Neteyam said.
“That’s not what I meant,” Ao’nung corrected. “I mean…I see them—everyone I killed. I can hear their screams ringing in my ears like endless bells. I still have their blood in my nails—it wouldn’t come out.”
Ao’nung didn’t realize he was crying until Neteyam thumbed the corner of his eye, wiping the tears away.
“It’s hard the first few nights,” Neteyam agreed softly. “I’d be lying if I said those people disappear. They won’t. Their bodies leave a deep hole in your chest, and it never truly goes away.”
Ao’nung chuckled, though it was humorless. “I haven’t been shot, yet I’m immortally wounded.”
“I’m afraid that’s the price for pride and legacy.”
“What if I don’t want it? I never did,” Ao’nung spat.
Neteyam blew a stray curl from Ao’nung’s face. “Then why are you here?”
Ao’nung snuggled closer. “I don’t know anymore.”
For the first time since Ao’nung met him, Neteyam looked unsure. He assumed the boy was trying to think of an answer, but instead, he lightly kissed his forehead.
“It gets better. I promise.”
—————————————————-
Unit: Recon Fleet One, 24th Cavalry Squadron, 2LT N.T.S
Date/Time: ## ## 19## / 00:43 hrs
Location: Sector Delta–4, Bridgehead
- PFC Nash’vi Pōtiki – KIA. Cause: crush injuries, thermal burns sustained after a vehicle explosion from aerial bombardment. Declared deceased at 01:12 hrs.
- Attempts to recover remains were delayed due to continued airstrike activity. Body retrieved at 04:34 hrs. Condition: unrecognizable. Identification confirmed by dog tags and dental records.