Chapter Text
He awakens, slowly.
He chuffs a tiny laugh as his body becomes aware because that sounds like the beginning of a really dramatic story. It comes out as barely a huff, his breath bouncing off his mask and swirling around his mouth and nose.
Only his mouth and nose though.
Frowning, he reaches for his face. Tries to, at least, but at first only his fingers twitch. A few more, and he’s exhausted but his hand is finally airborne and headed for his nose.
There’s something weird about his mask, and he wants to adjust it. Maybe the rubber seal got shifted while he was asleep, and the squad member meant to watch him didn’t notice. It’s a bit uncomfortable against his cheek, and actually, the bridge of his nose too now that he thinks about it.
A hand suddenly wraps around his wrist, and guides it gently back to his side. He scrounges enough energy to whine, tugging it back. He wants to move it not take the mask off, he’s not suicidal.
Above him, someone clicks their tongue, and the hand holding his down presses it down into the floor.
“Stubborn child,” a woman mutters, the warmth around his wrist pulling away.
He doesn’t recognise her voice, but she sounds a bit fed up with him already.
He attempts to open his eyes, but it feels like they weigh a ton. He barely manages a flicker, and his eyelids protest. But he is stubborn, so he fights until they slit open. It does nothing, because everything’s blurry and weird, and he feels a bit dizzy. They slide shut again, but not before he frowns so hard that his mask shifts.
His nose scrunches further, and the discomfort gets worse. Like something’s digging into his nose.
He finally pries his eyes open, and has enough energy to blink a few times. Then he scows in confusion. He can’t see the HUD of his exopack, it’s not there. In fact, the glass panelling isn’t there at all.
Normally, he would panic, but he’s still breathing so he doesn’t. He just lifts his hand again, and feels around its rubber edge. It barely comes up to the bridge of his nose.
“You are to keep that on,” the woman says, sternly, bright blue hand easily pulling his away. He turns his most innocent look at her, and falters.
She looks like the woman from the island, the one who had a bruise decorating her right temple. Same light blue skin, same coloured eyes. Dark hair braided away from her face, but with a shell laying against her forehead, and different tattoos framing a different shaped face.
“Do not try to argue,” she says. “It will not work.”
As if her words alone should be enough to stop him, she leaves his side. Heading instead for the basket resting against the wall of the pod.
He shuffles, trying to command his muscles into movement so he can take a look at where he is. There’s a disconnect or some kind of miscommunication because an overwhelming rush of dizziness shudders through him, and he flops back down again.
As unconsciousness snatches him away, he swears he hears the woman hiss something about the stubbornness of teenagers.
When he next opens his eyes, it’s a lot easier, and faster.
It helps that he doesn’t feel as groggy, more aware of the mask on his nose and the quiet movements of the other occupant.
“That is keeping you alive,” the woman practically barks at him when he shifts the mask so it’s not digging into his skin. She’s sitting at the firepit, stirring something into a paste and giving him a very stern, serious look.
He swallows.
“It is uncomfortable,” she states, and his head bobs, “but your…exo-pack, will take some time to get fixed.”
It’s one of those oxygen masks that are connected to a small tank. They usually cover the nose and mouth, which must be why his cheeks feel itchy. When he glances down, he follows the tubing to the tank, and takes his hands as far away from it as possible.
He remembers being told about them at one point, maybe when they’d been prepping to go into the forest. They’re a lot less robust than the exopacks, but last longer when the person wearing it stays idle. The tank powers the mask; no need for changing a battery pack every few hours. It’s a lot quieter too. He takes a big breath, and doesn’t miss the obnoxious hissing.
The woman suddenly stands, the spoon tapping the edge of her bowl as she steps around the firepit to get to him. Elegant, even with her pregnant belly, she places the bowl down once she’s settled on her knees to hold her empty hands out to him.
They’re so long. He stares at how her pinky finger joins seamlessly with her wrist.
“I will help you sit up,” she states, snapping his attention away from her hands. “You will not try on your own.”
“Y-Yes ma’am,” he manages to rasp out.
Her brow wrinkles a little, but she places one hand on his shoulder, the other on his arm and helps him up. She’s not gentle, more efficient and her grip tells him she takes no shit.
He tilts to one side, body complaining at the change in position, but adjusts his legs and ignores the headache. He manages a smile when he’s properly upright, and manages to steady himself when her hands pull away. He’s so tired, but oxygen deprivation does that to a body he assumes.
“Will you be able to drink?” she asks brusquely, and he manages a nod.
In theory, he knows how to work around the mask. In reality? He’ll need to try it to find out, won’t he.
He’s given a cup, which he has to hold with both hands because his fingers are still shaking. There’s the first problem. He frowns for a few seconds, then puts the cup down again. From where she sits, stirring her paste, the woman watches curiously.
Maybe he should ask her to be ready with some kind of rescue mask. Or CPR, if she even knows what that means.
When one hand grabs the bottom of his mask, his heart thunders against his chest, and the other grabs the cup again. It’s one quick movement away from death, but it’s as simple as breathe, pull, sip, and back on it goes.
“Simple,” he croaks, taking a large shuddering breath, and holding it. Down comes the mask and–
Not simple. Definitely not.
He nearly knocks over the water as soon as the mask is down because his fingers grip it so hard that it slides between sweaty skin. Inwardly, he screams for breath, outwardly he tries to keep his body from panicking. He focuses on drinking the water instead. The bowl is in his hands, and he’s lifting it but it takes so long. His arms begin to shake when they reach the halfway point.
It becomes a desperate few gulps before he’s dropping the cup on the floor and spilling water all over his knee. The mask is back over his nose and mouth then, and he’s dragging in that sweet sweet air like it’s the best thing in the world.
Which, it is.
Once the panic has dissipated, he smacks his lips at the taste. “Is it–”
“Fresh water,” the woman supplies, back at his side with the same paste, the cup gone and a small cloth draped over his knee. Before he can ask, she gives him an unimpressed look. “We do not drink the ocean. It is a resource that is to be respected.”
There’s a few seconds of silence, and then he says, “It’s because it tastes gross, right?”
She doesn’t deny it, but then she doesn’t react to the cheekiness in his voice. The water does very little to soothe his sore throat, but it does help him feel a bit better. The cloth is taken away, and the few droplets left on the ground are wiped off.
“Sor–” a cough cuts off his apology. She eyes him, giving the paste one more stir before scooping some onto her fingers.
“Hold still,” she says when it dies away, and his whole body tenses as her fingers get close to his skin. Through the mask, he can smell the faint bitterness of the paste. He shies away from it.
“Do I have to?” he asks.
If he was this petulant with Quaritch…well, he’d never be this petulant with the Colonel. He probably would be getting a piece of gauze and little else, suffering in miserable silence.
“It will help,” she says, having probably dealt with whiny children before.
He can’t argue further, instead sits and takes it as the stuff is smeared over his collarbone. The burn from the barrel of Wainfleet’s gun has burned off a layer of skin, and it smarts badly. He startles at it, the brief flash of hot fire that sends a shudder through his whole body.
The woman pulls her fingers back immediately, still covered in paste. She watches, and waits, expression neutral.
“W-What’s,” he says, forcing the words out from between his teeth as a distraction, “What’s your name?”
Subconsciously, the knot in between his shoulder blades tightens, and his head pulses. Like it’s waiting for the perfect moment to become a raging migraine. He focuses instead on her fingers, the drip of paste slowly working its way to her wrist as it grows warm and malleable.
“Ronal,” she says, once she’s able to get to his collarbone again, the smear of paste now cooling the pain. “That is my name. And yours?”
He opens his mouth to say the same thing he’s told everyone these past few months, like a damn broken–
Spider!
The headache suddenly rams into his neck and skull so hard it makes him dizzy, and he slumps towards the ground. A hand catches his arm, and his own lands on the woven floor, shoulders curved over as his eyes squeeze shut. He sees stars, and clamps his teeth together again as his head rattles and his wrist protests.
The change in position makes his body angry, his chest shifting, and dislodging something in his lungs that he didn’t even know was there. He coughs, shoulders shuddering with the strength of the fit as the wo– Ronal’s hand holds the rest of his weight before he goes pitching to the ground. His throat must be really really dry, because that sip of water has done nothing.
The pain from his headache isn’t the worst it’s ever been but it’s not nice. He can manage it, at least. At the same time, he fights back against the thing that seems completely against him remembering anything.
He concentrates so hard around the coughing, and the pain, and the listing of his body, that he feels sweat drip down his face. It’s like fighting against one of the recoms, it’s so hard. But, amazingly, he’s able to keep his focus, dragging that name back from the amorphous black hole that’s taken residence in his brain and finally dragging it across his tongue and past his lips.
It’s his damnit, and he’ll keep it.
“Spider,” he gets out through his tense jaw, and just for good measure, he says it again. The headache rages, but he couldn’t care less.
He did it. He did it! He could jump for joy, but settles for grinning like an idiot with his remaining energy.
Ronal is staring at him, her expression unreadable, almost blank. They work together to get him back into a slumped seat once he’s able to keep himself upright, but still her warm hand remains on his arm. Just in case. He’s grateful; both for the support and the touch. He’s been so long without human contact that isn’t violent it feels…a bit weird.
Like a brand burning into his skin.
“That is what you are called?” she asks, once the coughing dies away. He manages a nod but even that aggravates so many things.
He wishes he had his datapad.
She picks up her bowl again, letting her fingers hover at his collarbone until he’s settled. The pain’s not as bad this time, but that might be because it’s only an uncomfortable pulling in comparison to the raging headache.
“This will heal in a few days. You are lucky it is small,” Ronal says once she’s finished, wiping off her hands and eyeing him critically.
“How did it happen?” she asks.
Finally, a question he can answer easily. “A gun– a weapon, it was pushed against here,” he says, pointing at the smear of paste hiding the burn. “It was still hot so it burned.”
She scowls, and smears on a tiny bit more paste for good measure. It’s such a simple, motherly gesture, and yet it’s like a punch to his stomach.
“What else,” she says curtly. When he blinks stupidly at her, she adds, “It is obvious you are not well. What else is painful?”
“Uh…” he says intelligently, and she clicks her tongue.
“I do not expect a list,” Ronal says, “but I would like to know if you are hiding a broken bone, or a wound that is currently bleeding.”
He laughs, which catches in his ribcage and draws out another raspy cough. “Has that happened before?” he asks.
The smile drops from his face when she says nothing. Just reaches behind him to twist a dial on the oxygen tank, flooding his mask with oxygen rich air. It loosens a band around his chest he didn’t realise was there, making it easier to focus on other things.
Like how tired he is.
Ronal narrows her eyes, like she knows he’s trying to fight back a wave of sleepiness. She probably does; actually, she totally does. She wouldn’t be helping him back down onto the pallet if she didn’t.
His bones, muscles, tendons, everything sinks into it. His head throbs at the blood flowing to the back of his skull, his brain feeling like it weighs a ton. But then, his whole body feels like that. His eyelids are hard to keep open.
“Rest,” Ronal murmurs when he struggles against their weight. “We will discuss when you can speak cognisantly.”
Everything’s turning blurry, but he’s able to lift his hand a little when she starts to stand. “Wait,” he says, and surprisingly, she does.
“Can you…” Wow, it’s really hard for him to make sentences right now. “Can you…please, remember…”
She waits, patiently, for his mouth to work around the words. Maybe she’s got kids or relatives the same age as him; no other adult has actually waited for him. Not that he can remember, anyway.
“My name,” he finally gets out, so quiet she might not have even heard him. He can’t really check anyway. He’s dragged into unconsciousness again.
He awakens abruptly.
Eyes snapping open, stomach sloshing against the sides of his ribcage, something sour rushing up his throat as he flails upright to avoid it escaping into his mask.
The blood rushes from his head to his feet at the abrupt position change, so he fights hard at keeping that little bit of food he’s eaten in his body, and keeping his brain from leaking out of his nose. It means he just sits and breathes. Shakily, in through the nose and out his mouth.
He hasn’t had a dream that vivid in a long time. He thought, like the other memories that’ve come to him, that it would slip through his mental grasp as quickly as it came.
This is not the case. In fact, the blue tail he’d been chasing through the forest is burned into his eyelids, and his knees smart with the remembered pain of colliding with the thick tree branch underneath his feet. It’d been an explosion that had sent him stumbling, then rolling to the ground. The landing hadn’t been soft, his body is telling him that.
He breathes against the secondary panic, head throbbing at the memory of a distant, familiar shout calling after him, even as the blue tail disappeared. His wrists are now free from the cuffs that had been wrapped around them, but they hadn’t helped his less than gentle landing. The skin smarts with phantom pain, but a quick swipe at it and it’s gone.
Had they been the same as the ones Quaritch had packed into one of the pockets of his vest? A tiny part of him hopes not. The more logical part of him realises they were, and instead shoves the thought away before it can spiral. He doesn’t have the brain cells to spare anyway.
A gentle clearing of someone’s throat, and he’s straightening up. Or, as upright as he can get. His head protests it, and the skin at his collarbone tugs. He hides the winces of pain with genuine curiosity as Ronal ducks into the pod, followed by a complete stranger.
He’s tall, he notices first. Dignified. Those broad shoulders probably have no trouble carrying the weight of responsibility that surrounds him. There’s also a kind of gentleness in his blue eyes that offsets the stern leader vibes he’s getting, and with how close he stays next to Ronal, he guesses he’s her husband.
“Spider,” Ronal says, letting go of the woven basket she carries to gesture to the man next to her, “this is my mate, Tonowari. Olo’eyktan of our village.”
There’s too much information in that one sentence, and like any injured brain, his decides to focus on the easiest bit first. “Your mate? I kind of guessed,” he blurts out, voice raspy and catching against the back of his dry throat.
The stern look that had been turning Tonowari’s eyes hard softens suddenly, his tail flicking in a playful way that betrays the crinkled press of his lips. Ronal’s chest rises a little, pride glinting in her own expression even as she busies herself with putting her basket down and settling herself on the ground.
Meanwhile, he presses a hand against the bridge of the mask, pressing it into the skin of his nose. “Sorry,” he says as his eyes widen, “that was rude, I didn’t mean– I mean–”
“Peace, child,” Tonowari says, waving him away. “We were complimented many times when we first came to be a couple at how handsome we looked together.”
Ronal clicks her tongue, but doesn’t deny Tonowari, shuffling over to make space and avoid his hand when he tries to help her down. The light outside glints against Tonowari’s impressive necklace and the bright colour of the shawl around his shoulders.
“Still,” he says, watching as Ronal lowers herself, and Tonowari merely watches her keenly, “I should know better.”
“You are healing,” Ronal says in that brusque way of hers, tugging jars from her blanket and arranging them to her right, “you are allowed to not have control over what your mind wishes to say.”
She reaches for the dried paste on his collarbone, using a brown, rough cloth to scrape it off and reveal the burn underneath. It’s a bit better than it was, but the irritation has shrunk into the shape of the actual wound. A long strip of red that looks exactly like the barrel of Wainfleet's gun.
She doesn’t realise he’s staring at her, blatantly. Not just because of how careful she’s being with the wound, but because she remembered!
Now he can too.
“This is doing well,” she says, reaching for a jar and scraping free green gunk this time. It’s not smelly when she spreads it, but it's cold. “A few days and it should only be a memory.”
“Oh,” he says, unsure if he’s even meant to say anything as she presses a thin, almost translucent leaf to the burn, “that’s good.”
“My mate is Tsahik of our village,” Tonowari tells him. Instinctively, he knows what the word means, and the tiny drop of guilt he’d felt for using their resources grows into a raging river. “You are in good hands.”
“Surely you have more important things to be doing than taking care of me,” he says weakly, not daring to move even though something screams at him to back away. He’s being a nuisance, a waste of resources–
Useless.
“You are injured,” Ronal says, sitting back on her heels and pressing her hands into her knees so she can stare at him, “which means you are important. I am Tsahik, I take care of those who are injured.”
There’s no arguing with her, not with that tone, so he stays perfectly still as she twitches the leaf.
“Is there anywhere else that I need to attend to?”
His brain, maybe.
“I just have a headache,” he replies instead, the words catching in his throat and driving out a dry cough. Her jaw tightens, and she turns her head to give Tonowari a look.
There’s an unspoken order, because Tonowari grabs a wooden cup and fills it with water, then hands it to him carefully. His hands don’t shake under its weight this time, but his brain still screams for it.
It makes the cautious, careful way he removes his mask all that more torturous, but the cool feeling when he finally drinks that much more relieving.
“When did this headache start?” Ronal asks, shuffling in her basket again as he finishes the bowl and replaces his mask. The muscles in his legs shake at the oxygen deprivation.
“It comes and goes,” he says, truthfully tugging his mask down briefly to wipe off his chin. “Some days it’s really bad, and others I barely feel it. I can’t remember when it started.”
She purses her lips, and lifts a glass container to the light that enters through the gap in the cover. The stuff inside glows bright yellow, like the amrita in Garvin’s laboratory. However, it’s thicker, and sticks to the sides of the glass.
“Tonowari,” she says, “perhaps you should ask your questions before I attend Spider. I’m afraid that the best medicine for pain in the head is rest.”
Ah, so this is an interrogation. Damn, he thought he’d left them behind with the RDA.
Now that it’s mentioned, a tiny bit of him really does actually want to curl back up under the blanket pooling at his legs please. The pallet is really warm and cosy at his toes; he wiggles them a little to appreciate it.
“If the boy believes he is up to it,” Tonowari replies. Two pairs of bright blue eyes look at him. Not with expectation but with complete and utter patience.
He could cry. It’s why he’s able to actually sit up a little further.
“I-I think I’m up for it,” he says truthfully.
“Very well.” Tonowari settles on the ground fully, crossing his legs and laying his arms over his knees.
Ronal simply rustles around in her basket again, glass clinking as she sets it to rights. A few of the glass jars disappear into the basket, and she lays out the rough cloth to fold, remnants of the paste still clinging to the fibres.
“I would like to begin with what you can tell me of the humans, and their excursions into our territory,” Tonowari says, dragging his attention back. “They have never attempted to encroach, but they have grown bolder in recent months.”
“It’s probably because of their tech,” he admits, noticing how both Tonowari and Ronal’s ears flicker at the unfamiliar word. “Their ships are capable of going over the water now. They travel at such high speeds they are able to avoid the strong currents.”
“How?” Tonowari asks, a crease forming above his nose.
“These big turbines they put on the back of their ships, they generate enough power and lift for the ships to float just above sea level. They’re not as easy to manipulate as the smaller aircraft,” he adds, “sir.”
Tonowari’s ears flick. “Just Tonowari will be fine, for now.”
That’ll take some getting used to. It makes sense though; he’s not part of the clan, so Tonowari is not his leader. He vaguely remembers something about names having power…
“What else can you tell us about these ships?”
There’s a second where he wonders if he should be giving up this information so willingly, when he’d been so tight-lipped with Ardmore and Quaritch. There’d been a level of distrust with them, even when he’d first encountered the General. Some kind of base instinct that sent alarms blaring inside his skull.
He doesn’t know what actually makes him give so easily. Maybe the stern way Ronal’s said he needs to be cared for. Or Tonowari’s polite, calm, patient nature. Or the large part of him that instinctively sides with the Na’vi, which is getting really hard to ignore.
Whatever it is, he gives, the information spilling from him easily. He does his best to explain the workings of the SeaDragon with the small amount of information he has, the submarines in the hold, the weapons - or what little he’s seen.
By the end of it, Tonowari is scowling.
“Is it possible the humans could use these ships to get further into our territory?”
“I don’t think so,” he replies. “There’s too many factors against them, like the currents and the winds. They’d crash or capsize. Or run out of supplies and starve.”
Tonowari hums an agreeable noise. “This is good. We had worried that their attacks on the eastern villages would spur them, make them confident.”
“I was able to put them off some of the villages. In the west,” he tells them. They know which he speaks of, so he mentioned, “The humans think there’s nothing there to find. They’re more focused on inhabited villages,” he hurries to mention.
Ronal and Tonowari trade a look, their ears flickering.
“You know about them?” Tonowari asks. He shrinks under the sudden intensity, the flicker of pride dying as soon as it appeared.
“I was told their village is deep under the coral reefs, and that they only use the island for storage and growing crops,” he admits, fingers picking at a small loose thread. His gaze lifts abruptly and he reassures that, “I didn’t tell them though!”
Tonowari simply hums another noise, ears twitching in thought.
When it’s clear her husband is falling into a silence, Ronal says, “We have heard rumours these humans have been hunting Tulkun far to the south. Is this true?”
His stomach churns at the memory of Scoresby’s sneering face, his constant threats about his quota. The large hunting gear and subs that were obviously meant to do more damage than good. His eyes catch on the bright yellow liquid now sitting next to Ronal’s knee and his stomach rolls ominously.
“Yes,” he barely gets out before Tonowari hisses quietly. Ronal’s hand clenches into a fist where it rests on her knee, and her ears press back against her skull but otherwise she’s quiet.
He doesn’t think he can get the words out at this point, he’s so scared. Even though he had nothing to do with the Tulkun hunting, it’s people who look like him that’re doing something so horrible. Humans who are hunting animals far more intelligent than they could ever be. But he unsticks his teeth and tongue, and forces the words into sentences.
“They’re being hunted for a specific reason too. The humans want a liquid that’s f-farmed straight from their bodies. They call it amrita,” he says, swallowing back the burning lump of bile inching up his throat. “It’s worth a lot, and fuels their whole operation. They don’t care how they get it.”
Ronal’s eyes glisten with tears.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers.
“Did you witness this happen?” Tonowari asks through his own anger, and he’s quick to shake his head.
“Quaritch had the entire crew too busy searching to be able to do anything else,” he replies. “And they’ll be more focused on regrouping than trying to fill a quota now.” He hopes.
Tonowari’s eyes narrow, considering, muttering to Ronal too quietly for him to hear. She frowns and says something back. He turns back to the loose thread he’s found rather than trying in vain to listen in.
The secretiveness makes sense. He’s not to be trusted and probably won’t be for a long time. Besides, who’d vouch for an amnesiac human boy anyway?
“And the incursions into the villages?” Tonowari suddenly asks, voice raising with emotion. “Why the violence and destruction of homes? The harm of my people?”
“They weren’t able to get much information because they don’t know the language. And the tiny bit they do makes them sound like children,” he tells them. “They resorted to intimidation tactics to find Jake Sully, which hasn't gone well.”
“That does not mean they will stop attacking,” Tonowari says. “What little we know of humans is that they are stubborn, and ignorant. Willing to go beyond limits that should not be crossed to obtain what they want.”
He swallows against the bile, his stomach sinking along with it. Tonowari sighs, like the responsibility on his shoulders becomes too heavy.
“They will kill,” Tonowari says. He flinches; it’s blunt and true. “They will burn down our villages, our history and kill our spirit siblings to get what they want.”
He bows under the weight of the words, his back folding and the threads of the blanket cutting into his fingers.
“From what I have been told, you would be against that.”
“Yes,” he says, his head snapping upright so quickly it cricks. He rubs the back of it as he says, “what they’re doing is wrong, and cruel. This is my h–”
His headache spikes, and for a second his frustration and anger gets so much that he thumps a hand against the floor. He can’t even finish a sentence now? Is that it? Bullshit.
“This. is. my. home,” he grits out, whole body quivering with the effort as his head thumps in time with his heartbeat.
Ronal shifts, placing a steady hand against his shoulder. It’s a relief and a comfort, his body leaning into the heat of her fingers. The band around his chest tightens but he works through it, until he’s able to hear what’s going on around him.
“Tonowari,” she says, voice steeped in calm and command. “The boy needs rest.”
Tonowari is silent, and when he glances up through blurry eyes his attention is snagged by his lashing tail. Shrinking, his gaze goes higher, but it’s not an angry look that meets him. It’s conflicted, his brow wrinkled with concern.
The sound of rotor blades above them cuts the atmosphere in two sharply. His eyes widen in shock, and the cloth flutters with the sudden gust of wind. Betrayal and everything else churns his gut until he feels he’s actually going to have to pull down the mask to be sick.
Ronal’s hand tightens briefly, and when he looks at her she says, “It is an ally.”
“Ally?” he asks weakly as the rotor blades get louder, closer. “But that’s–”
“I did not expect for their friend to arrive so soon,” Tonowari mutters, and any possibility of an RDA presence disappears.
Tonowari rises to his feet to secure the cover before it’s ripped off, leaving one side free. When he turns back, the smile on Tonowari’s face is comforting. “They thought it best that you be looked at by someone more…in tune with human physiques and needs.”
A tiny dismissive noise escapes Ronal’s mouth, but she still keeps the jar of yellow liquid out of the basket. Her hand has slid down to hold his wrist, like she’s noticed how nice and helpful her touch is, even though it dwarfs his arm. Tonowari settles back into his spot and watches the entrance.
Their little group hears the visitors before they see them. It’s difficult not to, with how loud they are; their voices, their heavy footsteps, the clatter of equipment. He feels his whole body draw tense, hand tightening around the blanket again.
“--told you we needed that! The copter could’ve taken the weight–” one voice practically whines.
“But we don’t know how it would’ve coped with the sand,” another argues back through the hissing of an exopack.
He perks up in interest. A human on the side of the Na’vi?
A dark blue hand pushes the cover aside, revealing a tall, thin faced Na’vi. He hurriedly produces a greeting even as he steps aside to let his companion in.
“Olo’eyktan, Tsahik,” he says in accented Na’vi, “thank you for letting us visit your village again.”
“I see you, Tonowari, Ronal,” the human says, speaking like he’s reading from a textbook. “It is good to see your faces again.”
He knows when they spot him, because their faces flit through so many emotions so quickly it’s hard to keep up. But then Na’vi’s face finally splits into a happy grin, and the human looks relieved.
“May we enter?” the Na’vi asks, and although Ronal’s glaring at them, Tonowari gestures them forward.
They come clunking in, equipment rattling against their legs and bags slipping off their shoulders. They sit opposite Ronal and Tonowari, and when the human settles he places a warm hand on his other shoulder. Dark brown eyes stare at him, even though he’s offered a smile.
“Good to see you, bud,” the human says, and he can’t do anything but nod.
Here’s another person who’s causing an itch somewhere he can’t reach. He does know them, but they’re too busy for him to ask their names, yanking out supplies and muttering between themselves. With every piece of equipment that’s laid out on the floor, Ronal’s tail twitches and her face narrows in disgust.
“I am not needed here,” she mutters quietly enough for him to hear. He nearly gives himself whiplash with how quickly he turns his head. Tonowari lays a hand on her arm, and a silent word passes between them. She stays where she is, jaw clenched, and the tension in his neck releases.
A pinch at his arm startles him, a needle dipping in and out of his arm as the human rattles off an apology. Long, blue, experienced fingers snatches it away before he can protest.
Five fingered hands, versus Ronal and Tonowari’s four. Is this guy another recom then? He’s not nearly as uncoordinated but then…maybe. Or is there a human driving this body somewhere else?
“I just need to take samples,” the Na’vi says when Ronal makes a horrified noise. “We don’t know what the hell they did to him. This’ll tell us if we need to contend with any substances.”
The Na’vi slots the vial into a slim white piece of kit. He frowns over it as his companion rustles in a bag for a bulky datapad and bright white squares. The human holds one at his forehead, and after a few seconds of silence he realises he’s being asked for permission.
“It won’t be for long,” the human assures him. “Just a few minutes to analyse, then we’re done.”
“Careful, they’re itchy,” the Na’vi says once he’s nodded, pressing two white patches onto his forehead.
He’s right, they are itchy. He wants them off, now.
The two of them bend over the datapad, pointing at the screen and muttering between them. At one point, the human scowls, the Na’vi swears, and beside him Ronal tenses.
“Alright,” the human tells him, laying a hand on his covered knee, “can you tell us if the RDA interrogated you at all? And not just asked questions, but actually tried to get you to talk.”
“Huh?” he says back intelligently.
“Did they use any intimidation tactics? Did they cause any mental or physical harm?” the Na’vi clarifies, the light from the datapad casting shadows on his sharp jaw.
He shakes his head slightly. “I’m not sure.”
They go back to pointing at the datapad, and the concerned whispers are stirring up confusion until he feels sick with it again.
“What?” he asks, when they take too long staring at the datapad. The stickers are getting really uncomfortable.
“There’s a lot of heightened activity in the prefrontal,” the Na’vi says. “But there’s no visible effects.”
“You think it could have been internal?” the human asks, and his headache throbs again.
“I suggest,” Ronal suddenly says sternly, “that you ask your questions quickly. Your methods are doing nothing but agitating the boy.”
“Apologies, Tsahik,” the human says, “we won’t take much more of your time.”
At the incredulous look aimed at his head, the human elbows the Na’vi, who stifles a yelp before it can escape.
He snorts quietly, and the fond looks he gets from the two of them makes heat rush up his neck to his cheeks. The urge to duck his head is strong, but the wires attached to the white stickers keep his neck straight.
“One more question,” the human says, and by the way he leans forward it’s important. “How much can you remember before your time with the RDA?”
Ah. So the conversation he had with that other kid hadn’t been a dream then. And the expectant looks he’s getting from Ronal and Tonowari…yeah, they have an inkling too.
Time to come clean then.
“Not a lot,” he admits slowly, carefully. “There’re bits that’ve come back.”
The tension rises exponentially. He compares himself to the epitome of a lightning flash. Quick and violent, leaving invisible shockwaves racing across the land.
“Bits?” the Na’vi asks, and he nods.
“I wrote them all down on my datapad,” he says, and the human frowns.
“Datapad?” the Na’vi mutters, and he goes to explain - maybe he could get it back - but the human interrupts.
“You’re saying you find it difficult to recall them?”
“Could be linked to a trauma response,” the Na’vi suggests.
“That would be true if we were asking about the interrogation. Not his past,” the human replies. Warm, intense brown eyes pin him down as the human asks, “Can you tell us what happens when you try to remember something? Are there any effects?”
“I get headaches, bad ones,” he says, gesturing at his skull. “And the memories…it’s like something in there is pushing them away from me. Like it needs to keep them hidden.”
“And when you have remembered something, what were you doing?” the Na’vi asks, because the human has gone pale and silent. “Did anything specific trigger it?”
“The forest,” he says, ticking off his fingers, “fighting. A map.”
“Map?”
“Of the archipelago,” he supplies, glancing at Tonowari and Ronal. “It was how I was able to put Quaritch off the scent.”
“Damn bastard,” the Na’vi hisses, and in the silence of the pod, it’s much more than a swear but a promise. His ears are flattened against his skull and his jaw tense. The killing intent seeps off him.
The human just sighs, like everything has become too exhausting. He reaches over and removes the stickers, even though his companion squawks at him.
The human gently grabs his shoulder, and when their gazes connect he’s surprised by how glassy the other’s are. There are tears clinging to the edge of his dark lashes, and his expression is clouded over by anger.
“Spider–”
Right, that’s his name. He’s gotta try to remember that too without letting the headache empty his stomach.
“--we shouldn’t have let this happen,” the human says. “We’re gonna do everything we can to help, okay? I’ll analyse the scans we’ve taken until the eclipse comes and goes.”
“Please don’t,” he says. “You need sleep.”
The human barks a laugh; it sounds wet.
“But, bud,” the Na’vi says, and he’s getting emotional too; his tail lashing erratically behind him, “you need your memories back. We’ll work as hard and as long as we need to to get them back. Even if it means sacrificing a few hours of sleep.”
He’s stunned speechless. Literally, blinking at the two of them like they shouldn’t exist. But they do. He can feel his eyes and nose burn with tears, but he ducks his head this time to hide it.
“We’ll need to take an inventory of what you can remember–” the Na’vi begins, interrupted by Ronal pointedly clearing her throat and finishing with, “but of course, that can wait until you’re a bit more rested.”
“I will tend to him until he is fit for your examinations,” she says sternly, and it’s enough to get the two of them scrambling for their equipment and bags.
“I shall go with you,” Tonowari says, pressing up onto his feet. The two companions nearly trip over themselves to hold the cover open for him, but Tonowari turns back. There’s a paternal look, although he can’t figure out why it’s aimed at him.
“I hope you rest, Spider,” Tonowari says.
“Thank you s–I mean, Tonowari,” he replies, another wave of heat turning his ears red at the smile he gets in return. Then they’re gone, slipping into the bright light of the day and letting the cover fall behind them.
It’s quiet, a lot more comfortable than the one that had fallen before. He focuses on staying upright as the silence makes him aware of the exhaustion dragging his shoulders downwards. It helps that the movement of Ronal’s fingers as she smears the yellow stuff on his forehead is so entrancing.
“You will rest now,” she states, and then gathers up her things with brisk efficiency. “I shall return before the eclipse with some food, and we shall see if that ointment has not aided your headache. There will always be someone within earshot, so if you require something, you may call.”
He’s about to say thank you when her stern gaze stops him.
“You will call,” she says. “I shall not have you ruin my hard work because of your stubbornness.”
“Yes, ma’am, of course,” he gets out, and then she’s gone too. Leaving him to the quiet of the pod and the gentle sound of the waves literal feet from his head.
He thought, with the way the past few days have gone, that sleep would be an easy friend to welcome back. He’s exhausted, he can feel his bones sinking into the pallet beneath him, screaming for rest. And yet, his eyes aren’t heavy, and he ends up lying there for what feels like hours, staring at the woven ceiling, then turning over to stare at the metal oxygen tank. Then turning again to watch the light refraction of the sea on the pod’s wall.
He gives up once the outside world gets too loud, sitting up with a huff and dragging himself over to the wall instead. He can hear the village come to life around him; voices calling out to each other, water splashing as someone hoots, soft footsteps as they walk past the pod.
He gets now what Ronal meant. Her healing pod is right in the centre of the village. If he so much as whimpers, someone’s bound to hear it and go running for her. It’s a bit comforting, and a tiny bit scary.
But, everything between his ears feels so busy that he doesn’t think about it much. Just twitches his fingers around the absence of his datapad. There’s been so much, he could probably fill a page or four. Maybe he can ask the human to find it; it had still been strapped to his waist when they’d flown here.
There’s a sudden pattern of footsteps that’s too small, quick and light to be an adult. They race along the side of the pod and he tenses, watching the cover. Someone’s going to burst in, and he won’t know what to do shit–
“Tuk!” someone else hisses, thumping after the other set of feet. “Tuk, Tuk, Tuk, no–”
Somehow, they catch up before either could get through the cover, footsteps coming to an abrupt halt as a tiny shriek breaks the calm.
What they probably don’t realise is that with the direction of the daylight, he can see their silhouettes perfectly; a child scooped up by a taller figure. Maybe a sibling with the way they’re able to boldly pick them up under their armpits and set them down again.
“Why not?” a child’s voice asks, probably Tuk, sounding very upset.
The other silhouette crouches, placing both hands on their shoulders. “We can’t go in to see him yet because he’s not up for it.”
“Why?” the kid asks again. “He’s always been really happy to see us when he’s sick, we make him feel better! You’re just being mean ‘Teyam.”
“Ouch,” the other one, a boy, says, pressing a hand against his chest. “That–That really hurt you know? In here, that hurt really bad.”
It doesn’t make the little one giggle. It was meant to, but it fell obviously flat.
He gets up from his seat, wobbling on his feet, and inches forward. A shadow of a hand tries to tilt the kid’s chin up, but stubbornly it’s twisted away.
“We might not be helping him this time, Tuktuk,” the other says, voice heavy with sadness. “In fact, we might hurt him more.”
“What?” the kid says, little voice wobbling so much his heart squeezes and his feet stop. Someone needs a hug, really badly.
“It’s beca–”
“Neteyam! Good you found her,” someone else suddenly shouts. This voice he does recognise; it’s the guy from before. “Tuk, you know not to run off by yourself. If dad hears about this you’re gonna be in so much trouble.”
“But–”
“Guys,” someone else hisses, and he’s so close now that he can see the differences in hairstyles from their silhouettes, “you know all your really loud talking could’ve woken him up, right?”
“Ronal said he looked exhausted,” the kid from the other day says. “I doubt even a thunderstorm could wake him up.”
“Still, we shouldn’t be here,” the girl says. “Dad’ll skin us if we get in trouble with the Tsahik. We should go.”
“I thought you would be the first one going to see him,” the other boy says. “I’m surprised you’re not storming in, he’s right there, and no one’s watching–”
“Lo’ak!”
“What? I’m just saying.”
There’s quiet, and he tries to keep his breathing as soft as he can, setting the tank attached to his mask down gently. Being this close to the voices makes something in him loosen; he’s just happy listening to them, even if he doesn’t have half the context.
“It’s killing me not to go in there and see him,” the girl says, voice pitched so low he has to strain his ears. “He’s been gone so long and he’s literally right there. But you heard what Max and Norm said. Lo’ak you’ve seen it.”
He slowly reaches out a hand to grab the cover. He’s too curious not to see these guys. They sound like they know him, but much more than anyone else he’s encountered before, he feels like he knows them.
“That’s not our Monkey Boy in there.”
He freezes, and his breath hitches so loudly that it’s impossible they didn’t hear him. Their silhouettes go still, but the damage, or the deed, is already done. The words bounce around in his skill.
Monkey Boy.
Monkey Boy!
It’s her. It’s them, it’s–
The cover pulls back, and he winces briefly at how bright everything is. When he adjusts, he raises a hand at the four kids staring at him, and wiggles his fingers.
“Um. Hi?”