Klivam (Nero, Ayel)
They still smelled the same. Through time and distance, they still stank of dogs and walked heavy, walked carelessly. Boots bunched together atop glass and Nero watched the sound. The flickering green was not enough for them, they could not maneuver the jagged curves of the Narada, not before the gaping black. Nero could see Ayel, clearly through the pitched night. The ship curved around them, hiding them, concealing them among wires and living panels, dark and sleeping like a Aihai sand-snare. They were waiting.
When the beasts crossed over their trap, they would strike and suffocate them. Drag them down, and they would eat.
“Legh pa'!”
Their voices cracked like whips as they landed on deck. The umbilical of the warbird pumped foreign air into the Narada's lungs. It was holding its breath. Heavy boots, lined in thick plates of metal and unforgiving spikes, crunched and skittered across the grates and decks. They tromped loudly, wildly, and there was a wet snap as they strolled across a piece of someone. A laugh erupted through the Narada and deathly silence crushed it as surely as the cold.
“Bing! Tlhap. Pa'!”
Lights snapped on, harsh and white, and they flashed in broad circles across the talons of the ship. Everything was black beneath their light, metal and glass were clear, dark, and terrifying. The light slipped past Nero, across him, over him, and he was unseen as the Klivam moved closer. They tore at panels, pulled at the floor, and tossed parts aside. Each resounded dull and soft, innocuous against the walls. The Narada thrummed deep and Nero's eyes darted, in the blackness, to Ayel. He could see the man, even if he couldn't.
One strayed too close, bumbling in the darkness, his light low and focused near his feet. Nero closed on him silently, cracked his neck with a twist that the Narada swallowed. His light rolled and dropped between the floor, tumbling blindly into the depths. His body fell and Nero moved, swift and silent. The compliment was eight men. Always eight for salvage. Now seven.
Two more fell to him in the quiet. Stragglers, looting shiny baubles of glass and empty casings. One dropped as his knees snapped, his mouth twisted shut with a spare wire. The second couldn't shout, his throat full of broken pipe and shallow fear.
“Wab! Mangpu'!”
The shout was crisp, too close, and Nero dropped back, sliding into the Narada. Too few answers came, too few shouts. He counted them, they did not echo.
Only two called back.
(No translation for the Klingon because they're all dead anyway.Aihai - A desert on Romulus.Klivam - Derrogatory for Klingon. )