Falling in the Black

Falling in the Black was a story set on the Southern Continent in the Fractures Universe. It was written by BobTheDoctor27 and Abc8920.

Chapter 1
Written by BobTheDoctor27

''Screams in the dark. '' The yell of a Matoran sentinel pierced the silence of the night. The village exploded into life. Fully awake warriors were already racing towards the guard by the time Sarnii managed to whirl around from her watching post near the main gate. Torches were flung into the shadows, causing fiery trails of orange light to burn through the darkness, revealing the scene. Sarnii could just about make out the shape of Rakui, a Le-Matoran sentry who was new to watch duty… ''and a brutish Rahkshi of Fragmentation. '' The Matoran of Lightning’s heat-light skipped a blink at the sight of the monstrous creature, at how it was clutching the almost certainly-doomed Matoran of Air in its claws – as if it was closer to a Toa than a terrifying creature that had been spat out of some Makuta’s backside. Goll – the village’s brutal, battle-hardened leader – was the first on the scene. The Po-Matoran snarled before advancing on the monster, swinging his weapons and hacking wildly, burying one of his axes deep into the Rahkshi’s thick, muscular legs. It screeched in pain but didn’t release its grip on Rakui. Instead, the Rahkshi lashed out at Goll with a clawed, slimy fist, knocking the warrior down. Before the Pakari Nuva-wearer could return to his feet the creature hissed and clamped its nightmarish jaws around Rakui’s neck. The Le-Matoran’s eyes bulged as his throat was crushed. ''His dying screams were a sickening choking sound. '' Sarnii looked away, not wanting to see the pained expression on the Le-Matoran’s Kanohi Garai. Instead she found her eyes resting upon a trio of warriors as they charged towards the Rahkshi, a Le-Matoran named Torlo at the lead. The Panrahk didn’t hesitate to swing its staff at the closest of the advancing villagers, a Po-Matoran. The Matoran was slow. The tip of the weapon struck him directly in the eye as he charged forwards, sending a spray of broken circuits and shattered metal splinters to the ground. The warrior crumpled to his knees, screaming in agony at the loss of his eye. A burst of blue energy surged from one of Torlo’s weapons, striking the Rahkshi square in the head. The creature grunted as the Le-Matoran’s Mental Bolt Launcher’s effects kicked in. Almost instantly the Rahkshi’s mind went into overload. Its memory became a scramble of images and shapes flashing across the creature’s fractured mind. Soon enough, the Panrahk fell into a vegetative trance and toppled backwards, its Kraata crippled beyond recovery. Nobody took any chances. Goll, who had returned to his feet, pushed his way to the front of the mob of warriors and produced a knife from a sheath strapped to his back. With a single, infuriated roar, he drove the blade deep into the Rahkshi’s spine. Making a hole in the casing, the Po-Matoran wrenched the metal apart with his bare hands then tore the paralyzed Kraata out. He grunted in disgust then threw the creature to the ground. It squirmed around for a moment before another warrior’s armored heel stamped down on it, crushing the organic slug into pulp. “More!” came a call from near the gate. It was late – later than the village was usually attacked. Most of the villagers on the main watch had long since retired for the night, replaced by some of the less experienced warriors. Their eyes and audio receptors were usually sharp, but this close to dawn, most of them were tired and sluggish. They’d been caught off guard. The Rahkshi had the advantage. Matoran spilled out of huts. Hands locked around spears, swords, axes, and knives as groggy fighters leapt from of their beds and joined their fellow villagers in the unorganized gaggle of fighters. At least a half-dozen Rahkshi began to pound the high wooden barriers that encircled the village, tearing planks of rotten wood apart in sprays of splinters as they climbed over. The wooden barrier was only remotely effective against Visorak: Rahkshi were a different matter. The Panrahk must have been a diversion. Or at least it just had a terrible sense of direction, as most walking slugs in suits of armor tended to have. Goll finally put his embarrassment at the hands of the Rahkshi of shattering behind him and began barking out orders. He bellowed at those on watch who had drifted away from their posts. “Stay the hell where you are!” he roared ferociously. “Call if clear!” The trembling guards looked at each other – debating whether or not a scolding from Goll was worse than almost certain death at their posts. In the end, they decided to do as they were told, hoping that somebody else got mauled by Rahkshi. Sarnii turned back to her post and watched the guards return to their positions, waving torches over their heads as they peered into the darkness. “Clear” yelled one of them, a Po-Matoran named Turas. Like usual, his Kanohi Rode was stricken with a peculiar mix of doubt and fear, unusual traits in a Po-Matoran but not something Sarnii had ever lost too much sleep over. “Clear” echoed Fiancha. The Onu-Matoran was a lot more relaxed than his fellow guards but there was still a trace of dread in his voice. Although his Akaku Nuva twisted his face into a natural squint, his eyes were open wide enough to give him away – even in the little light that the torches created. In turn, the other guards yelled out similar warnings. “Clear.” “''Clear. ''” A conceited Ko-Matoran named Kyros snorted then glanced at his area. He was clearly irritated about being posted as a guard. The power hungry Matoran of Ice had been seeking to overthrow Goll as the village’s leader for years. But still, for public appearance, he bore his tremendous burden and began to shout “Clea-” only to flinch and curse halfway through. “NO!” he wailed. “There’s one of them over here.” Sarnii watched as Goll turned to the warriors surrounding him. “With me” he ordered Torlo and the others who though the first Rahkshi, plucking up one of his axes from the Panrahk’s leg as he spoke. The Vo-Matoran could see rage in his face. He wasn’t fuming about the Rahkshi though, but himself. He made a mistake with the first one and let it knock him down. ''That wouldn’t happen again. '' As the warriors engaged the invading Rahkshi, Sarnii moved to the centre of the fortified village. Normally she threw herself into fights without thinking, but the first attack had given her reason to be cautious. Although living on the Southern Continent was dangerous, deaths were rare enough. Rakui’s brutal murder had been one of the first that month. Sarnii had almost forgotten the number one rule of surviving on Voya-Nui these days: “''Stick to a group and let someone else die first. ''” The Matoran of Lightning was surprised to see Connla – the village’s healer – charging into battle. That was strange. The Ga-Matoran was considered too valuable to risk. Her knowledge of both plant life and medicine were unrivalled by any of the other inhabitants of the dying breed of resistance fighters. Although Sarnii doubted the shy Pakari-wearer could deal much damage to even the weakest of Rahkshi, the others in the fortress liked to think otherwise. Everybody had their doubts of the Ga-Matoran, but they just pretended she was some great healer – mistress of all things magic and supernatural. The lie seemed to comfort them, giving them a faint glimmer of hope, but not Sarnii. She was too old for fairy tales like that. Any story that ended “and they all lived happily ever after” had never been anything other than trash to the Vo-Matoran. If experience had taught her anything it was that there were no happy endings in life, full stop. That was Sarnii’s life. She could overcome great obstacles, face great dangers, look evil in the eye and live to tell the tale – but that was never the end. Her life was controlled by a cruel, omnipotent child high up in the heavens. It swept her up, swung her around, bruised and battered her, then seemed to drop her in some new drama or tragedy. ''As long as you’re still breathing, your story’s still going. '' A blue and silver armored Rahkshi managed to make it over the wooden barrier of the fortress – a Rahkshi of Gravity. It had demonic red eyes and a large, monstrous jaw that was filled with a mixture of needle and fang-like teeth, Sarnii wasn’t sure which. There didn’t seem to be much of a different from where she was standing. The creature screeched and leapt from the barrier to the earth below it. The ground seemed to shake as the Rahkshi landed on a wooden crate, reducing it to wood chips. Goll barked an order, raising his axe in a battle cry as the majority of the village’s warriors charged towards the Rahkshi of Gravity. ''The fools.  Sarnii was suddenly alerted to an abrupt CRACK'' behind her. The female Matoran tensed then spun around. A Visorak Keelerak crawled out of the guard-hut and into the light. The beast must have found the emergency escape tunnel that ran under the village and tunneled its way up to the trapdoor in the hut, then broke through the planks covering the entrance. The piercing crimson eyes of the creature scanned the area then widened as it hissed. It had found prey. Sarnii ducked for cover behind a stack of wooden crates as a Rhotuku Spinner soared through the air. There was a scream to her left as a Ce-Matoran named Kentran hit the ground, struck by the spinner. She shrieked and toppled backwards, the armor on her chest bubbling as if on fire. Two glaring facts flashed through Sarnii’s mind in that moment. The first problem was that Kentran was lying in the mud, her chest corroding away and clearly in pain. She needed medical attention quickly if she was going to survive. The second problem was that the Keelerak was still at large. The green spider-like creature seemed to spit a triumphant victory-cry. Sarnii was in luck. Goll heard the scream too and began looking for warriors to send to their aid. However, before he could bark out orders, two volunteers presented themselves, charging towards the Visorak and blocking it from Kentran. Torlo and Iolan, two of the village’s finest warriors, and both armed with a pair of blades each. Goll grunted to himself then refocused on the Rahkshi at the main gate. He didn’t bother sending other warriors to deal with the spider. He trusted the dynamic duo. Although they both came from dramatically different backgrounds, the pair had grown to be just about inseparable these days. They hung around together, ate together, and killed Visorak together. Sending reinforcements would be unnecessary. Iolan was a strong and noble Ta-Matoran. He was likeable but wasn’t all too bright. He had travelled to the realm of Karzahni from Vacca-Nui in search of repairs after a mining accident had paralyzed him from the waist down. As a result, his legs had been extensively rebuild, more so than the rest of his body. What had once been a tall, lean, proud Ta-Matoran was now a small, bulky, disproportionate warrior who had clear trouble walking – which had clearly impacted on his confidence. Iolan barely spoke in village meetings and relied on Torlo to do the talking for him – something that Sarnii could not understand. He faced all manner of hellish Rahkshi and Visorak every night. It was almost ironic that he’d be afraid of public speaking. Torlo, the taller of the pair, was almost the complete opposite. He had come to the village as a free-lancing crafter many years ago. When he had arrived, he had everything the average, respectable Matoran could want: a stable job, the best tools and materials in the area, and a goodly partner with whom he could make a home. Torlo was a stand-up type of guy who tended to speak his mind around the village. His word and his craftsmanship were synonymous with honor and integrity. He took pleasure from his belief in justice and exposing hypocrisy, which he was widely respected for. But that didn’t seem to be the case anymore. By the time Sarnii had joined the village community Torlo had been married – something she had not known at first. She had fallen in love with the Le-Matoran. She would break spears and weapons just for him to repair them for her. However, the craftsman had become corrupted by his lust for her. Before either of them knew it, Torlo’s goodly life had become irreversibly tainted. When Sarnii learnt that he was married she had reacted shamefully and blamed him for being disloyal to his partner. Torlo had begun to feel he had lost his most prized possession: his self-respect. He had become the very thing he had hated: a hypocrite. As a result, his wife had left him and committed suicide, leaving him caged by guilt. Watching him now, Sarnii realized that she was watching an empty shell of a Matoran, like he had been left behind in Karzahni all those years ago. She had destroyed him. Trying to push thoughts of Torlo out of her mind, Sarnii turned to Kentran. The armor on Ce-Matoran’s chest was burnt an ugly scarlet color. Bubbles of flesh burst. The acid sizzled. The Matoran screamed. Sarnii didn’t know what she was doing. She had no knowledge of acid wounds or medicine – that was Connla’s department. Desperately, the Vo-Matoran began trying to calm the pained Visorak victim. Kentran had been her friend some time ago but the two had grown apart when the war started 3,000 years ago, back when the attacks had first started. But that didn’t matter. Her duty to the welfare of the village came first. Always. A thick shadow suddenly cast itself over the two female Matoran. Confident that Torlo and Iolan were taking care of the Visorak, Sarnii calmly raised her head to see Krennato – the village elder standing above them. Again, similarly to Connla, Krennato was considered far too valuable to be out in the open at night. Her appearance was unnerving. This particular Ga-Matoran was the pillar of the entire community. If something bad ever happened to Goll then she would probably be the next in line for leadership, much to Kyros’ annoyance. Krennato’s knowledge and expertise in Rahi and ancient legends made her the village’s Turaga figure. She was a symbol of strength and resolve for all who lived behind the curved wooden walls of the village. Krennato was nothing short of a living legend for most of the misguided villagers. After all, they’d lost faith in “Mata-Nui” and his “Toa” long ago. ''Who else could they look up to? '' Without a word, the village elder tugged a small bag from her pouch, opened it, and poured the contents of it into her left hand. Sarnii wasn’t sure why the Ga-Matoran had gone to Karzahni in the first place. She had heard that Krennato had developed a blood clot in her core processor, which could possibly be the cause of the creepy village elder's poor working. She watched as coarse green grains spilled into Krennato’s palm. Dropping the bag back into her satchel, the Ga-Matoran spat over the grains and mixed them together with a finger of her right hand, forming a paste. She then proceeded to rub the mixture into Kentran’s disturbed flesh and it stopped dissolving. “Will she live?” asked Sarnii, her voice sounding a little more desperate than she had wanted. “She will be scarred horribly” sighed Krennato as she returned to her feet. “But, essentially, yes, she will live. There are other pastes and lotions that I can use to help her wounds clean properly. But not now. There are Rahkshi to deal with.” Sarnii stole a glance at Kentran as the effects of the thick paste began to sink in, causing her to sigh and relax, her eyes closing behind her Kanohi Arthron. Moving Krennato out of her mind, Sarnii sprung to her feet and leapt into battle. Torlo and Iolan had made little progress with the Visorak Keelerak. Iolan seemed to be drawing its fire of Rhotuku Spinners while Toro flung himself at the creature, latching onto its back and trying to find hand holes among the scaly, slimy ridges of the Visorak’s hind. She could always call Goll for assistance, but Sarnii wanted to handle this on her own. She could help, leaving Torlo and Iolan to concentrate on some of the Rahkshi with the other warriors. Taking a firm stance, the Vo-Matoran her hands out and gripped her Shock-Thumpers. As Sarnii activated the weapons a low pitched hum filled the air. As she strode forwards the weapons began to charge, emitting a static buzzing. “Move!” she snapped. Torlo and Iolan glanced back at her, surprised, then took cover. Iolan ducked back a few steps while Torlo simply let go of the Visorak’s rear, letting it throw him backwards – clear of the danger zone. The Shock-Thumpers burst into life as a crackle of electricity blasted the Keelerak. The creature screeched as thousands of volts of electrical energy surged through its scaly moist body. The wailing continued as the spider lost interest in everything other than Sarnii as her beam of electricity. Iolan and Torlo returned to their feet, one on either side of the creature. Four blades glinted in the light of the torches – and four slimy legs went flying into the darkness. The Keelerak collapsed uselessly onto the ground. It squirmed around, completely immobile. After watching it wriggle and whine for a moment long, Torlo boldly stepped forwards, making sure to press his foot down on the creature’s head to keep it down, then buried his one of his Mental Bolt Launchers into the Visorak’s heat, staking its brain. The Keelerak stiffened, whined one final time, then died. The Le-Matoran withdrew his blade and leaned down to wipe it clean on the dry, water-starved grass. He looked up at Sarnii through hollow, empty eyes. He wasn’t going to thank her, not after what she had done to him. He probably would have preferred to have been mauled by the Visorak than have accepted Sarnii’s help. “Nice work!” grinned Iolan, answering on behalf of the resentful Le-Matoran. Snorting, Torlo turned to leave, breaking into a run to return to the action – much to Iolan’s disadvantage. The unbalanced Ta-Matoran Calix-wearer whined and waddled off after his friend. The Vo-Matoran turned to follow, ready to lend a hand when she realized there was no point any longer. The efforts of Goll and his warriors had ensured that the main gate stayed secure. The creatures were retreating. The Rahkshi of Gravity had been slaughtered, along with a couple of its other unfortunate brethren. There was, however, a single Rahkshi of Plasma trying to scale the wooden fence in desperate hopes of escape. It was clinging to the top of the barrier, its staff abandoned and with nothing for it to stand on – leaving it unsupported. When it finally lost its grip, the Rahkshi plummeted back to the ground, where the warriors began hacking, stabbing, and slicing at it. There was a screech as the tan and red armored Rahkshi leapt back to its feet and began its retreat. Half the warriors hadn’t even realized it was escaping until it was too late: it was Kyros’ moment to shine. As the Rahkshi of Plasma launched itself out the gate and into the open, Kyros ran after it and hurled a spear in its direction. Although Sarnii’s view was blocked by the arch of the gate she could see the Ko-Matoran yell triumphantly – it must have been a hit. Laughing cruelly, Kyros turned to grab another spear off a nearby Matoran. Aimed it. Then lowered the weapon. It had finally dawned on him that the Rahkshi were retreating. ''They'd survived. '' Not a word was spoken until the gate was firmly closed, and even then silence hung over the fortified village. ''The battle may have been won, but the war was far from over. ''

Chapter 2
Written by BobTheDoctor27

No clouds. The clearest day in a long time. That was supposedly good for healing. Connla had worked through the night, applying all manner of potions, pastes, and medicine where they were needed, though there was little the coy Ga-Matoran could do for those with serious injuries.

The warriors were tired, their sleep disturbed. They would probably rest later but many were too edgy to return to their huts straightaway. It had taken an hour or two for the battle lust to pass. After that the villagers had relaxed and put away their weapons, setting about their normal daily routines – pretending nothing had happened.

Connla herself felt fine. She had managed to grab a full night’s sleep having only woken up a short while before the attack. That seemed to be her regular pattern on nights where there was an early assault. Having tended to Kentran and the Po-Matoran who had lost an eye to the Panrahk, the Ga-Matoran began to wander around the village, just in case she’d missed anybody. She used to think the ring fortress was huge back when she had first settled in the community. Back then there had only been around ten huts contained behind the circular wall, providing plenty of space for the desolate village’s inhabitants. But things had changed in recent years. More huts had been built since the Rahkshi started appearing in order to shelter the refugees, who had come flooding through the gates, desperately seeking refuge. At first the residents had feared that the village would run dry of resources under the wave of newcomers. But when the Rahkshi started attacking villages in groups the wandering Matoran seemed to stop coming. ''Strange coincidence. '' The shape of the entire Southern Continent had been altered by the war. Rahkshi and Visorak had besieged entire villages. Many of the neighboring settlements had been burnt to the ground and left in destruction. There were now twenty-two huts in the village, and, although the walls of the fortress had been extended outwards many decades ago, the surrounding forests and perilous year-wide mudslides on this part of the island prevented them from growing much. ''It was as tight as a noose. '' Spending all morning healing had tired Connla, leaving her hungry. Setting off in search of something to eat, the anxious Ga-Matoran found Goll sitting alone near the village’s abandoned shrine. He looked downhearted. Many centuries ago, Goll had been the leader of the whole west side of the Southern Continent, the most powerful Matoran in the region, with command over every local village. There was even talk that he may have gone on to rule the entire landmass, something no Matoran from the western district of the continent had ever done. It had been an exciting prospect. Goll had once had the support of every other village in the neighboring regions. But then it had gotten out of hand. The Po-Matoran had been stabbed in the back by another would-be-king and forced to step down due to his injury. He wasn’t bitter though. He never spoke of what might have been. This was his fate and he had long since accepted that. But the Pakari Nuva-wearer was in a gloomy mood that morning. He hated making mistakes. Feeling sorry for the former ruler, Connla decided to sit down next to him. The Po-Matoran looked up at her and smiled weakly, his eyes ghostly. “It wasn’t your fault” reassured the Ga-Matoran softly. “It was a lucky strike by the Rahkshi.” Goll grunted lightly and turned towards the shrine. The villagers had all but deserted Mata Nui when they had been shipped off to Voya Nui centuries ago. Connla wondered why anyone had even bothered to build the shrine in the first place. All she was sure of about the miniature temple was that it had long since been left derelict. It was neglected. Nobody knew any of the old legends of Toa and Rahi anymore. His grunt should have marked the end of Goll’s temper. However, Kyros chose that moment to stride past the forsaken shrine with his posse of warriors, boasting of the Rahkshi he hit with his spear. The Ko-Matoran had heard Connla’s comment and laughed out loud. “Ha!” he snorted cruelly. “That wasn’t luck! Goll’s just a rusty old Mahi!” The Po-Matoran stiffened and glared at Kyros. Having come from Metru-Nui, the Ko-Matoran seemed to think he was automatically smarter than everyone around him. Due to his greedy, materialistic nature, Kyros seemed to switch his weapons every so often, his attempt to stay both fashionable and as the center of attention. At the present, he seemed to be carrying a pair of short swords and, unlike most of the other males in the village, Kyros had taken to wearing a Gukko-hair sash. Although Connla personally saw no point in the questionable strip of peculiar cloth, several of the Ko-Matoran’s followers had taken to wearing similar attire. The armor he wore was of the finest quality in the village and was shined to perfection. He looked more like a king than Goll ever had and when the Po-Matoran died, Kyros would – unfortunately – be one of the probably contenders to take his place as the village’s leader. But he was no warrior. Everyone knew the self-centered Matoran of Ice was a distinctively average fighter at best. And far from the bravest. “Well at least I was there to make a mistake” grunted Goll darkly, menace in his tone. “Where were you, Kyros – polishing your mask perhaps?” “I was in the thick of the fighting!” insisted the Ko-Matoran. “I struck a Rahkshi. I think I killed it.” “Aye” sneered the Matoran of Stone coldly. “You hit it with a spear. In the back. While it was running away.” The Pakari Nuva-wearer clapped his firm hands together in a sarcastic applause. “A most courageous deed.” Kyros’ face twisted into a warped snarl of utter disgust as he raised his swords. Goll snatched for an axe. Enough!” barked Torlo. The Le-Matoran had been tending to one of the village’s Gafna nearby and had been keeping a watchful eye over the scene. He always seemed to be at hand when Goll and Kyros argued – which happened all too often. The weaponsmith stepped forwards, his Kanohi Zatth dark. “Isn’t it bad enough that we have to fight Rahkshi every night, without battling amongst ourselves too?” “He questioned my courage!” declared Kyros, pointing an accusing finger at the village’s leader. “And you called him an old Mahi” retorted the Le-Matoran. “Now shake hands, and forget it. We don’t have time for quarrels.” A moment of silence hung in the air as the three Matoran glared at each other. After leaving the awkward silence open for as long as he could stand, Goll finally caved. He sighed and extended a hand, realizing that Torlo was right. Kyros took it, but his mask was twisted into a repulsed expression. After on stale, unwelcoming handshake, the Ko-Matoran shook Goll’s hand away then turned to return to his group of warriors – who always seemed to be huddled close to him. As they left, the Matoran of Ice continued bragging about the Rahkshi he had speared and how he was certain the blow had been fatal, boasting of his skill and courage. Connla watched after him as he disappeared from sight, wondering how so much hatred could exist inside a single Ko-Matoran.

After leaving Goll to brood to himself, Connla decided to go for a walk. The village’s gate was open in the daytime because Rahi had to be let out to graze at some point. It was just as well that the attacks only happened at night. If Rahkshi swarmed the settlement in the daylight the villagers wouldn’t be able to tend to their Rahi or crop to their plantations. They’d be dead within a week. The blue armored Matoran left the outskirts of the village behind and continued her aimless wander. She liked to get out of the ring fort when her duties allowed her, to stretch her legs, to breathe in fresh air. Lost in her carefree hike, the Ga-Matoran strolled towards a small hill. From the top of the earth mound she had a fantastic view of the valley below. She could see the rural sprawl of burnt black trees. It had been one of her favorite spots before the war. Back then it had been alive with all forms of plant life and flora. She used to pick up spices and seeds to use for medicines, but there was little vegetation left in the area and ingredients for her mixtures were scarce. The fortress was located on top of the hill and surrounded by charred woodland – a strategic advantage against invaders. That was probably why only a dozen or so of the creatures attacked the fortress every night. The Ga-Matoran found no comfort in that information. From the dull grey rock she was sitting on, she could see all the way across the Tren Krom river to the steeper hills on the other side. Many of the warriors had travelled to those hills, to hunt or fight. Sometimes Connla dreamt of climbing along the peaks and seeing what the world looked like from the top of the almost mountainous terrain – though, in reality, it would be a journey of many days and nights. There was no chance of doing that while the Rahkshi and Visorak were attacking. And for all Connla knew, the creatures of the night were never going to stop. “When will it end?” muttered the worried healer, her eyes fixed on the distant hills. “Will these monsters keep coming until they kill us all?” Silence. A breeze stirred the scorched, blistered branches of the nearby trees. Connla studied the moving limbs, almost praying for something out of the ordinary. But it just seemed to be a regular gust of wind – not some otherworldly voice to guide her. After a while, the Ga-Matoran sighed heavily and bid farewell to the hills and returned to the path behind her. There was still work to be done. Her world may be going up in flames, but the village had to carry on as normal. The villagers couldn’t afford to let the Rahkshi think they were winning. They didn’t dare let them know how close they were to collapse.

Having had a quick bite to eat and after refilling her water canteen, Connla returned to her daily chores. Weaving should have come first on her agenda for that day. She was a skilled weaver. Her small, capable fingers were able to dart across cloth like lava eels. She wasn’t the fastest in the fortress, nor was she the best, but she was still good enough to be of use. Arriving at her hut, Connla noticed several of the male villagers returning from their morning hunt. Emerging from the gaggle of Matoran, she spotted Fiancha and Iolan, carrying a grand total of four Ruki fish between them. The two had obviously spent the morning on a fishing trip, struggling in a small handmade raft against the dangerous rapids of the Tren Krom river. Because the Visorak and Rahkshi swarms had difficulty getting up the hill to attack the village they would usually lurk around the flood plain of the river, the large valley that Connla had been admiring mere minutes ago. That meant that the creatures would destroy any boat the Matoran left in the river or on the shore overnight. The fishermen had to rebuild rafts every morning if they wanted to catch anything other than a sand fly. Connla smiled as she watched the two Matoran deposit their catches on wooden stakes outside her hut. She enjoyed cleaning the Ruki fish. Everybody else seemed to hate the whole ordeal because of the smell, but not Connla. She liked to observe the fish guts for signs and omens. She hadn’t deduced anything from a Ruki’s innards yet, but she lived in hope. The Pakari-wearer stole a glance up at the cloudless sky and decided in the blink of a heart-light that it was far too bright a morning to be weaving inside. Instead the Ga-Matoran picked up her utensils and set up a crate to sit on outside her hut. The village was buzzing with activity. Most of the residents of the ring-fort were either hunting or helping to rebuild damage caused in the night. The latter was Connla’s favorite. She enjoyed watching her friends walking along the roofs of the nearby huts, thatching and mending holes. It was fun. But the miniature town was eerily quiet, save for the rhythmic CLANK of metal coming from Torlo’s forgery on the opposite side of the street. Even as late as noon, a couple of the Matoran were still sleeping. Several were cleaning blades and discussing the night’s battle. It had been one of the earliest attacks, despite it being short-lived and the fact there were only seven attackers. Some of the villagers reckoned that was a sign that the swarms of the Brotherhood’s foot soldiers were dying out. But they were dreamers. As far as they knew, in their isolated region of Voya-Nui, the war against the Makuta was far from over. ''Connla didn’t need Ruki guts to tell her that! '' Sitting down on her crate, the Matoran realized that she had a decent view of Torlo in his dwelling. The Le-Matoran was working away, straightening crooked swords, fixing new handles to axes, sharpening knives. This was the only village in the whole region with its own personal weaponsmith. That had been Goll’s doing when he was king. Most of the crafters had wandered around from settlement to settlement in the early days, picking up work where they could find it. Goll had figured that if they paid one to settle then Matoran from nearby villages would come to them if they wanted weapons and tools fixing instead of waiting for a drifter. He had been right. The fortress-village had become the focal point of the entire region until the attacks began. The Rahkshi had put a brutal end to the good-spirited scheme. Nobody travelled now, unless they wanted to flee the monsters in the night. Growing bored, Connla decided to wander over to where Torlo was hammering away at a particularly stubborn blade. She watched him silently, smiling shyly when he glanced at her. She liked Torlo. He was a lot thinner than most of the other villagers, but he was far stronger than he looked – an unusual trait for a weaponsmith. The Le-Matoran was very skilled too. He could swing heavy hammers and weapons with ease, bringing them down on both warped blades and on the heads of Rahkshi. But it wasn’t just his appearance. He was noble and kind with distinctive morals and an unwavering sense of justice. The Ga-Matoran recalled how Torlo had stood up to separate Goll and Kyros from their argument earlier. Most other Matoran would have ducked back, not wanting to anger such powerful figures. But Torlo had boldly stepped forward and scolded both of them. In Torlo’s presence, a fool felt their foolishness instantly. The Zatth-wearer had made it more that clear in the past that he did not care much for authority. He said what he thought, disregarding the rank of whomever he was talking to – something that he made look attractive. The Le-Matoran paused to catch his breath between swings and looked up, catching Connla staring. He glanced at the weapons, then back at the Ga-Matoran. He smiled, but not in a teasing way, not like Kyros would smirk if he had seen Connla gazing at him. “You did well last night” he grunted, after cooling off from his toiling. His voice stayed strangely calm and fluent. “I’m sorry I couldn’t see you fight, but getting involved was very brave of you.” The Pakari-wearer could feel her cheeks going red. “I didn’t do much” she murmured, sticking the tip of her foot into the sand and drawing a circle. “Nonsense” grinned the Le-Matoran, his warm grin broadening. “You’re getting bolder. You’ll be fending off Rahkshi by the tenfold soon enough.” They both knew that was a lie but Connla loved him for saying it. She flashed him a smile at the praise. “Can I give you a hand with anything?” she asked gawkily, hoping for an excuse to stay with him and not have to return to her weaving. The Le-Matoran’s smile dwindled as he shook his head. “There’s no need” he responded. “I’m almost finished, and I’ve volunteered to go off hunting this afternoon.” “Oh.” The blue armored Matoran tried to suppress her disappointment. “Well, if you need me, call.” Torlo nodded, a smile returning to his face. “Sure. Thank you, Connla. I will.” Simple words, but as the Ga-Matoran began weaving strands of yarn into a half-finished fabric, they rung inside her head for ages, making her smile. At that moment in time her life was content. She was not ill. She was not scared. She was not fleeing. Instead, she was working away, assembling the textile with careful precision, inebriated by her own fantasies and ambitions, hoping to one day achieve them. She had her whole life ahead of her. ''And best of all, she was happy. ''

Chapter 3
Written by Abc8920

A Toa lay on the beach, eyes shut, relaxed and calm. The sand was warm and soft, inviting him to continue resting in his position. He could imagine what the scenery was like – a Toa Canister next to him, half-buried in the white sand, the sun setting in the distance and an endless ocean that extended beyond his range of vision, everything unstressed, listening to the bird Rahi flying above the sea…

But then he made a big mistake. The Toa of Fire opened his eyes and what he saw could only be described as anticlimactic. The sand wasn’t white. It wasn’t even sand, but rather water soaked soil. There was no gentle, cooling breeze. No waves hitting the shore. No beautiful landscape for him to admire. When the Toa had enough courage to raise his head and sit on the mud, he noticed that he was in fact next to a puddle of water. No canister around, which meant no shelter as the final whisps of sunlight began to seep away from the impossible sky.

But none of that seemed to bother him. His head was his biggest concern. He simply couldn’t remember anything. There were traces of something – jumping between energy rings, some sort of a metal robot – but he just couldn’t make sense out of it.

And his name… It eluded him for a brief moment until a thought burst into his head abruptly. The word “Santis” echoed for a moment then disappeared. It was far too short, too ephemeral, for him to retain it. Perhaps that was who he was. He didn’t seem to have any other identity. Although the passing thought had already long-since escaped the Toa’s mind, he decided that it must be his name.

The Toa could only tell for sure that he was in the middle of some pestilent swamp and that, if he stayed there too long, chances were that he would die anyway from either inanition or just plain boredom.

And he felt an urge to make up a plan, a scheme, whatever got him out of there. Purposefully, he rose to his feet and overlooked the panorama that extended before of his eyes. The marsh region was extensive, alternating zones with puddles and reeds with patches of land, but not endless. In the far distance, he could see the outlines of a forest… nothing too strange about it, besides the fact that the trees seemed to be made out of some kind of black wood.

Taking a deep breath, the red-armored figure made his first steps into the bog. He took one stride and felt his foot slide across the muddy surface. Nearly slipping flat on his mask, the Toa managed to flail his arms out and steadied himself, like some frantic winged Rahi trying to fly. Cursing under his breath, he decided to take another route. His right foot was now encrusted in filthy brown muck.

Shuddering in disgust, Santis worked around the clammy patch of ground until he found more solid land. As he began walking, the Toa looked behind him. His keen eyes spotted something covered by a dark piece of cloth. It was synthetic, something that didn’t occur naturally in the charred wilderness. Therefore it was fairly safe to assume it had been left there for a specific purpose. Perhaps it was covering the entrance to an subterranean passageway or protecting a rotting carcass from attracting the local wildlife. Curious, he edged daringly closer and cautiously snatched up the material, revealing what concealed. His eyes widened in mild surprise as he discovered there was a sword and a dagger hidden below it. Why someone had chosen to leave them out in the open like this was beyond him.

He was lucky. Maybe his day wouldn’t be as bucolic as he had imagined, but he felt his self-confidence growing. Attaching both weapons to his scabbard, he used the cloth as an improvised cape, then started his journey into the unknown.

As he trudged onwards, the Toa was becoming increasingly aware that there were only a few more minutes left of daylight, and the swamp was starting to grow silent. Or, that is, it would be silent if it weren’t for the fact that every step that he took made a horribly loud splashing sound.

Shortly after, night fell, and the Toa of Fire decided against lighting up a torch. It would probably attract unwanted attention; he now wondered what the point of that was since the water-saturated field pretty much killed any of his chances of a stealthy saunter across this strange forest of ash and debris.

Fortunately, he was already starting to walk on drier, more coherent ground, and trees were becoming more common. Those were the ones that he had seen from distance, and a closer look confirmed that they were indeed burnt. This place was surely a crooked and twisted realm.

However, being a Toa of Fire, Santis couldn’t be bothered to find reason for the mindless destruction or to harvest firewood. He could light up his sword any time and use it as a torch, but where was the fun in walking through a well-illuminated forest?

The moonlight was enough for him, but even if there was no moon, he was sure that he would still refuse to artificially light the pitch-black night. It was a question of pride, maybe arrogance, but that was how he wanted to picture himself.

A hunter of the night.

Running – the warrior known as Torlo was fleeing for his life through the night. The expanse of charred woodland and burnt forests which surrounded him didn’t seem to have an end in sight – and even if they did, the chances of the doomed Le-Matoran reaching it would be the same as a Kikanalo bounding up and start licking him. Luck just wasn’t on his side that night. The Matoran of Air could feel his lungs burning in his chest and he could barely hear his footsteps over his heart light blinking. The ground felt damp and warm. Every step he took left a sloppy squelch in the mud. The ground was sticky, the air clung to him, and he had just about caked himself in dirt. But that was the price one had to pay when running was pretty much his only way of surviving every day. Torlo could not remember a time where that had not been the case. Living on the Southern Continent was hard work. He had to keep his blades sharp and his senses sharper still. The Matoran could still hear noises, the screeches of the twisted spiders of the night that scurried after him. Of course, over his travels, he had learnt that the creatures were called Visorak . He also knew they liked to make cocoons to wrap people inside them and that they had a fondness for firing Rhotuku Spinners. Not a group he particularly wanted to be spending time around, let alone be running away from. He missed the days when the Brotherhood of Makuta gave a broken Kanohi what became of their creations. He did a lot less running in those days. For the umpteenth time that evening, Torlo reviewed why he had gotten himself into this situation. He was supposed to be in his hut, crafting weapons and fixing swords. His role was essential. He was the only craftsman in the village, better than any Po-Matoran for sure. Rahkshi attacked his home just about every day and the metal that his people used was brittle. There were always weapons to repair. Which was probably why he had volunteered to serve the late afternoon as a hunter. Unable to ignore his primeval sense of duty, Torlo had demanded more information and gotten himself roped into doing the task himself. So far he’d gotten lost, broken his spear while trying to vault over a ditch, angered a Burnak, and at least halved his weight from running. If there was no risk of death he may have recommended the experience as a fitness program. He definitely needed the work out more. ''Mata Nui hated him. '' The Matoran of Air dove for what he thought was a cluster of wild grass. It turned out to be prickly undergrowth. He slipped and skidded into the tangle of thorns before crashing to the damp, muddy ground. Torlo winced and ignored the pain that flared through his legs. Fear engulfed all other senses. If one of the Visorak saw him he would be as dead as an Archives Mole in a Nui Kopen hive. He had to stay out of sight. Who knew, perhaps Mata Nui was looking kindly on him today. The Great Spirit certainly owed him, the least he could do was swat a couple of Visorak. He liked being the optimist. At least falling over embarrassingly had saved him having to dive into the sharp shrubbery. The fixed victim of Karzahni lay still where he’d fallen, conscious that any hint of movement might reveal his hiding place to his beastly stalker. He fought to stifle the urge to suck in lungfuls of air, each breath roaring in his audio receptors as if screaming “''Over here! ''” With the passing of each agonizing moment, he could feel the dampness of the sodden grass, soaking through his battered armor until it met his flesh. Yet the crafter remained surprisingly still, listening expectantly for any sound of pursuit. ''Silence. '' Torlo lay there a moment longer, exhausted. The pain in his leg was starting to hurt more and more, gradually increasing in intensity. Could he have twisted something as he fell? Would his ankle still take his weight? Could he still run? Then came the screech of the creature itself: a scream that ripped through the air from the depths of Hell itself, a noise not of Mata Nui’s creation. ''The Visorak were coming. '' The fixed Zatth-wearer raised his head tentatively. He could see the dark yet reassuring shape of his village’s circular wooden barriers in the distance, silhouetted against the grey clouds that marked the clearing in the burnt forest: a vision of hope. Shelter was so close. Even with his potentially injured ankle Torlo could make the short journey home, he was sure of it. All he had to do was get close enough to yell for assistance and help would come. Even in these dark times, help would come. Wouldn’t it? One thing was for sure, he couldn’t stay lying in the mud-splattered field. If the Visorak didn’t get him then he would probably pick up some incurable infection from the filth knowing his luck. Gathering his last reserves of energy, Torlo made a run for it. Pain surged through his leg instantly, but it wasn’t enough to buckle him – meaning his ankle wasn’t twisted. Trying to find motivation from that hollow thought, Torlo gritted his metallic teeth and carried on, his single thought was to reach the village’s entrance. Nothing more than his determination drove him on, running, running, resisting the urge to look back with all his inner strength. When it came the force of the impact was as powerful as it was unexpected, and for a few moments the Le-Matoran couldn’t move from shock. Shaking his head to clear it, Torlo grunted and struggled back to his feet, spinning around to search for his assailant, but there was nothing there. Confused, the Le-Matoran’s gaze fell upon his shoulder, which had borne the brunt of the attack. He couldn’t see a cut in the darkness but he could feel the wound. There was blood, and lots of it. Strangely, he felt no pain. It simply didn’t matter. He would be fine, he just had to keep moving. Drawing breath defiantly, the turned towards the village and staggered on. He had barely taken two steps when it hit him again, a weight slamming against his head, jerking his body awkwardly and hurling him through the air into a twisted heap. This time there was no choice but to stay down. His body was weak and he was stunned. More blood now, from somewhere just above his right eye. It trickled down behind his visor, clouding his vision with a crimson tint. His head spun. This was just a bad dream. I couldn’t be happening. There was no reason for this to be happening, not to him. And then his attacker looked down upon him: a Visorak Roporak. Its deep-set orange eyes glared hungrily at him, the prey. That at least explained how Torlo hadn’t been able to see anything when he turned around. Roporak had remarkable, yet surprisingly inconvenient access to a chameleon ability. The creature had been fully concealed in the darkness when the fixed Le-Matoran had looked for a follower. It was a neat trick, one that Torlo was satisfied as being the trick that would kill him. “Well go on then” he challenged the Visorak limply. “Hurry up and kill me you miserable excuse for a Visorak. I could kill ten Matoran while you’re fooling around!” The Le-Matoran snarled, daring the Roporak to continue. The creature screeched and gnashed its nightmarish teeth together. Torlo sure as hell wasn’t going to be mutated by the creature’s venom. His head was probably too delicious for that. Instead he puffed his chest up and growled menacingly as the jaws of death opened wide and moved in for the kill. Only, the bite never came. A burst of heat shot through the air and scalded one of the already-scorched trees, reducing it to dust. The fireballs startled both the Matoran and the Visorak for a brief moment before they both turned towards where the flames had come from. When he finally regained some measure of clarity in his vision Torlo was able to see the dark outline of a figure standing in the distance. The newcomer was clad in what looked like crimson and yellow armor, though it was harder to tell in the darkness. In his right hand was a magnificent sword, crafted to resemble a flame that was bigger than most people Torlo knew. The warrior’s helmet was smooth and untroubled save for three spikes, which jutted out at different angles. The fixed Zatth-wearer would have marveled at how original the abrupt appearance of the scarlet-armored giant was, but at that moment – having just looked into the very jaws of his potential killer – he was a hard guy to impress. It was undoubtedly a Toa. Torlo had only ever seen one before in his life, back on Metru-Nui – where he’d been before he had been sent to Karzahni for repairs and never come back. The name of that Toa escaped him but this towering stranger was nothing like what he imagined his hero to be. He was broad and muscular with a tatty dark cape strapped around his neck. The sword began to glow as the Visorak hissed and growled as the newcomer. The Toa tilted his head and raised an eyebrow at the creature before him. “I don’t think much of your welcoming comity” grunted the Toa in a voice as hollow and stiff as a coffin. “I was expecting a parade.” As he raised his sword a jet of flame erupted from the tip of the blade, blasting the Roporak with nothing short of pure fiery energy. The creature screamed one final time as it was torn apart by the ball of fire and engulfed by the heat. The spider-like abomination was incinerated on the spot: not even ashes were left to mark the brown creature’s passing. Torlo flinched and scrambled backwards frantically only for the Toa to turn to look at him, his blade still glowing with energy. “Fear not, Little One” grunted the Toa of Fire in a voice that was far too calm than it should have been for a person who’d just given a Visorak a free cremation. “If I wanted to harm you I could have done so already, with far less effort than it would take to raise this sword.” Speechless, Torlo turned his attention from the Toa, to the burn mark in the shrubbery, then finally to his village in the distance. “You’re a Toa?” “I was the last time I checked” replied the warrior as he tucked his weapon away into his pack and began scanning the area. “And where am I this time? Judging by the trees, I’d say safety-with-fire-day gone wrong.” “You’re on Voya-Nui” explained the Le-Matoran cagily, still cautious of the stranger. “Or at least what’s left of it.” “Ah! That’s good!” exclaimed the Toa of Fire cheerfully as he clapped his hands together. “So I take it I’m in the right giant metal robot?” Torlo grunted and shrugged, dismissing the idle comment. “What’s your name, Toa?” he asked, hoping to get some useful information out of the potential serial killer. Who knew, if he turned this guy into the Brotherhood for the murder of a Visorak it could be his ticket off the barren rock that was the Southern Continent. ''He lived in hope. '' The Toa frowned and turned away, mulling the question over in his mind. “My name?” he repeated before beginning to pace around. “My name, my name, my name. Wait!” Torlo flinched and recoiled as the Toa suddenly spun around. “Don’t tell me! I know this!” The Le-Matoran watched in confusion as the Toa of Fire continued pacing, pondering over the simplest question he could ever be asked. “I wasn’t planning to” he muttered in response, becoming increasingly aware that the Toa was probably insane. ''Just his luck to get the eight-foot warrior who didn’t even know his own name. '' “Look, that doesn’t matter” shrugged the Le-Matoran. “If you don’t want to tell me then I’m fine with that. It’s probably a name you don’t want going around.” “NO!” growled the Toa, a dangerous tremble in his tone. “I know this. My name… my name… is… Santis.” The Toa frowned then muttered something flatly, sounding deflated. There was definitely something strange about him. Torlo tilted his head questioningly. There was every possibility that could be the Toa’s actual name, just as easily as it could have been the name of a friend of his or the name of some brand of Kanoka Disk Launcher manufacturers in Metru-Nui. He had no way of telling, but the Toa’s voice gave it away. He sounded let down, as if it wasn’t what he had been expecting, and that contrasted the cocky, arrogant, egoistical attitude he had introduced himself in. “Are you sure?” asked Torlo as he took a step closer, debating whether or not a Toa who was unsure of his own name could be much of a threat. The Toa raised his head again, as if he had completely forgotten about the Le-Matoran in front of him. He quickly adopted a smug wink. “Oh, ye of little faith” he chuckled in a tone that was probably slower and more sinister than he expected it to be. “Anyway,” continued the fixed Matoran, wiping as much of his frown away as he could, “my name’s Torlo. I’m a craftsman at the village down there.” He raised his arm, extended a finger, and pointed towards the black silhouette of the fortified village in the distance, just in case the Toa was that deranged. The Toa nodded. Silence hung as the two warriors stared at each other. Torlo shrugged expectantly, as if encouraging Santis to speak, but no reply came. “Well, you know the drill” grunted Torlo. “Toa shows up, Toa helps Matoran, Matoran sleeps easy at night. Aren’t you going to help us?” “Sure I will” shrugged the Toa of Fire as he turned his attention back to the village. He seemed different now, as if he was thinking. Maybe he was still dwelling on how he had forgotten his name. Or – more likely – perhaps he was trying to find an excuse to be looking thoughtful whilst wearing a stupid black cape for a moment longer. When he glanced back at Torlo there was a faint glimmer of excitement in his eyes. “Very well. Hello, Torlo. My name is Toa Santis, Toa of Fire.” The Toa extended an armored hand to the Matoran. “Here to help.” The Le-Matoran hesitated then accepted the handshake. The Zatth-wearer smiled faintly and watched the Toa strode past, his cape rippling behind him. His eyes were fixed on the Toa, and sensing trouble of the very worst kind, though he wasn’t sure why.

There are times when one knows that a conversation is over, that there’s no point in continuing a meaningless chat, where the other’s proximity becomes uncomfortable and annoying and the silences starts being music to the ears.

In Santis’ case, his conversation with Torlo had long since died. ''Probably the fact that he’d just fallen into the unknown place, with his memory blackened. '' It didn’t help with his antisocial mood. He was acting like a fussy Ko-Matoran, but he wouldn’t take the initiative to start a conversation when the Le-Matoran next to him didn’t help at all.

He felt some sympathy for Torlo, though. Apparently Matoran of Air was a skilled craftsman in his village, and had gone hunting late in the afternoon. Santis had saved him from his unfortunate encounter with a Visorak, and in gratitude he’d offered him the chance – or begged him – to visit the Matoran settlement.

And there was something about him… he wasn’t sure but Torlo looked like he had seen better times. They were both walking uphill towards the village walls. They were still far, which meant that Santis would have to fight over the prized silence.

However, Torlo finally decided to break it up. “Have you ever been to Metru Nui?”

For a moment, Santis’ mind went off the physical place where he was, and rocketed to the City of Legends. He saw the chutes, the Matoran walking in the streets, the sun rising behind the Coliseum… and a Tryna-wearer. The Matoran was wearing grey and silver armor, and suddenly the crowd around him stopped, and started whispering something. At first, the Toa couldn’t hear it, but the whispers raised intensity to the point where the crowd of Matoran was a homogenous mass – all pronouncing the same chant over and over… kill Tollubo.

''Kill Tollubo. Kill Tollubo. Kill Tollubo''. Santis couldn’t help but keep repeating the same phrase over and over in his head. It was his objective. He was there to kill Tollubo. Confused, he decided he needed to meditate over the matter, then he should probably find out more about this Tollubo, but his Le-Matoran travelling partner interrupted his musings.

“Are you listening or not?”

“Go on.”

“I was talking about Le-Metru, with all of its innovative technology. Have you ever tried to take a ride on moto-sled over the roofs of the factories? It’s a really exciting experience. ”

“Moto-sleds are just an excuse to sell more petrol. The whole point of building tracks over the factories was to increase the income that the vehicle-companies were having in the area. And there’s nothing better than bored Po-Matoran Tourists for that purpose.”

“Are you always so cynical?”

“Only when I’m materialized in the middle of a swamp that smells like rotten Furnace Salamander dung.”

“That marsh is our most reliable source for food.”

“That explains your poor performance against the Visorak.”

“I like that.”

“You like getting kicked in the backside by a Roporak? That sounds a bit masochistic.”

“No, I like that you are so direct, so sincere. If there’s something I hate it’s hypocrisy.”

“Couldn’t agree more.”

Both the Toa and Matoran stayed silent for several minutes longer. Their open silence was broken when Santis realized he needed to have some thought over the Tollubo affair, but he just couldn’t concentrate. Maybe he would once he had had some rest in the village.

“Have you ever heard of a person named Tollubo, Matoran?”

Torlo hesitated then rolled a shrug. “Doesn’t sound familiar. Why? Who is he?”

“I don’t know. A Matoran with silver and grey armor whose element I couldn’t identify.”

“A De-Matoran.”

“Couldn’t it have been an Onu-Matoran, Torlo?”

“Since when are Onu-Matoran silver? They all have black armor as far as I know.”

Santis snorted. “Believe me, Onu-Matoran can be full of surprises… Anyway, are you sure you haven’t seen any Tryna-wearing De-Matoran lately?”

“I don’t know about you, but I’m more inclined to looking at Ga-Matoran.”

“Now you’re the one playing ironic, Torlo.”

“No one said that only Toa can be arrogant. Anyway, why do you want this Tollubo-guy anyway?”

“I want to… give him a big hug when I find him.”

The Zatth-wearer fell silent, as if he had expected Santis to say something more serious. The Toa of Fire just wasn’t willing to reveal the fact he wanted to kill a Matoran, at least not before he’d entered the village and had enjoyed the villagers’ hospitality for a while.

At that point, they reached the hill’s crest, and the fortified village lay a hundred meters away. However, there was something strange going on. Some of the wooden barriers were being rammed by red, four legged beings with pincers, and some dark reptilian figures where climbing them as the Matoran on the top of the wall fended them off with whatever they could get their clumsy, little hands on.

Before Santis could even think about the best line of action, Torlo had already run to one of the doors and was fighting Rahkshi and Visorak. No time for thinking. The Toa of Fire grunted something to himself then ran straight for the nearest group of Rahkshi by the wooden wall. But his dash was halted when something hit him in the back, making his armor erupt in pain. He fell to the ground and whipped out his sword from its scabbard.

In the light of the flames in the village, he could barely make out the shape of his attacker but he knew enough to tell that it had been a Vohtarak. The red Visorak lunged at him, its piercing green eyes staring in the Toa’s, as if burning through him and into his very soul.

Then something happened that Santis couldn’t understand. It was one of those situations when one made a bold deed, usually improbable in normal conditions, due to the adrenaline pumped to his mechanical brain, but it was far from that. The Toa felt a strange sensation of his face burning behind his mask, going crescendo, when the climax reached and two beams of fire sprouted from his eyes and connected with the Visorak in midair.

He was blinded at first, but as his sight returned to him slowly he admired the Vohtarak’s crisp, crinkled corpse next to him; it was the first time he’d fried a Visorak brain like that, and though it was sick, it made him proud.

But there was no time for celebration, and the death of one spider was not great achievement. That became increasingly obvious from the point a Rahkshi was thrown off the barrier and landed next to him. Tan abdomen, red limbs. That meant Plasma. The Rahkshi quickly rose to its feet, a bit dazed and didn’t notice the Toa of Fire. It started walking away slowly, exposing its back to Santis, who wasn’t willing to waste the opportunity.

So he quickly rose too and kicked the Rahkshi between its legs. He was surprised to see it slowly turning to confront him, no expression of pain – not even disgust – on its ugly face. Without a second though, he sent a vortex of flames at the beast. But again, it stood there, impassive, almost bored; like if it had no time for amnesic Toa.

The Rahkshi of Plasma sent a bolt of super-heated gas through its staff, which Santis blocked with his sword. The Toa absorbed the energy through his weapon, but soon realized he probably shouldn’t that again. Still, he grunted and dismissed the burning sensation caused by his weapon.

Knowing that his sword might as well melt before the Rahkshi started to tire, he decided to roll on the floor. He’d taken the wrong decision. The Rahkshi started toying with him, knocking him to the ground with its staff. The Toa decided to repeat the eyebeam trick that had worked with the Visorak, though the beams of fire just made a small scratch on the beast’s armor. Still, it didn’t take him long to realize he’d managed to distract his opponent.

The situation repeated again, but this time it was Santis who was sending waves of heat at the Rahkshi. The Toa raised the intensity, and to his enemy’s dismay, he reached a point in which he melted the Rahkshi’s staff. Was that plasma? The Toa was no longer sure of what his capabilities were or how far they were limited. But he liked it. Whoever said power corrupts obviously hadn’t been a Toa.

The Rahkshi, not having its staff was unable to resist the Toa. Killing the Kraata with a clean slice in his foes’ thorax, Santis entered the village as he heard war chants of victory.

And, as he crossed the main wooden door, now open, he saw the Matoran staring at him in surprise at first. But when a Matoran from the crowd, possibly Torlo, screamed his name, the whole village started cheering and greeting him warmly, repeating his name over and over as if it was a synonym for victory.

He was triumphant, he was admired, and he had glory in his hands. He had the sensation that it was the start of a startling career as a hero, and maybe, just maybe, as the village leader.

The Toa of Fire cracked a smile. This almost made everyone else in the world wanting to kill him worth it.

Chapter 4
Toa Santis ducked his head into Torlo’s crafting workshop and examined his surroundings. It was a large structure, made from bleached wood and metal, unlike the many huts that surrounded it. Excellently equipped, probably designed to be used by four crafters at the very least. Perhaps some Ta-Matoran had wanted to bring a little chunk of Ta-Metru with him.

The forge was square-shaped, situated towards the southern reaches of the cramped settlement. There were a total of four work benches lined up against three of the four walls, not that the wall on his right was anything more than a window, though it did have one of the workbenches pressed up tightly against it. The only one in obvious use. The wall was just a barrier that ran up to his knees, only a little higher than the table. Above that was a gap stretching the entire length of the forge, designed to let smoke escape and for light to spill out onto the street. Indeed, a warm, gingery glow illuminated the dirt-trodden path, as if someone had taken the time to paint the ground a different color.

Santis lost interest in his surroundings and wondered over to the center of the workshop, towards the actual foundry. There was a large, circular hearth in the middle of the room, like something taken from a Ta-Metru forge. Only there was no fuel. The hearth couldn’t be run by gas or oil, and it certainly wasn’t solar powered. The Toa took a careful glance at the flickering flames and concluded it must be running on firewood, which must heat up the metal. There was probably some chemical inside that was designed to react and increase the temperature. Whatever it was, it didn’t engage his interest, so he didn’t give the topic any more thought.

For a moment, he wondered whether or not it would burn him if he placed an armored hand on the metal. After all, being a Toa, his heat resistance capabilities could only go so far. But then again, how many Toa of Fire could shoot Lasers from their eyes?

In the end, he decided against the dangerous impulse and sat down in front of the hearth. He closed his eyes and saw the same ginger glow through his eyelids. It took him a moment to adapt to it and when he did, a deep blackness consumed his vision. He let out a deep, heavy sigh as the warmth of the foundry filled him. It had been a cold, chilly night and his feet were still muddy from walking around through the marshland for so long. But still, he ignored the dirt and crossed his legs, then placed his palms on his knees.

''Breathe in. Breathe out.'' The Toa inhaled slowly, withheld a lungful of air, then exhaled at the same rate. After about a minute or two of focusing on his breathing, he felt his tense muscles beginning to slacken. A deep tiredness rolled over him, like a warm, gentle wave from a sapphire -blue ocean. He imagined water swirling at his waist, licking at his chest and soothing his discomfort.

Sometimes he wondered if his creator – whoever the hell he was – had made a mistake when making him a Ta-Matoran. Granted, most of the time he lived up to the fiery, arrogant, violent stereo-type that existed of his kind, but Santis was sure he wasn’t always like that. Although the reaches of his memory escaped him, he knew from his conversation with Torlo that he could be erratic and calmer than most other short-tempered Toa of Fire, capable of great compassion and forgiveness. He did have some redeeming qualities.

A deep cough shattered the Toa’s concentration. Irritated, he let out a low grunt then peeled open one eye to see who it was. When he realized it was only Torlo he closed it again.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Meditating. It helps me keep calm.”

“You don’t say” muttered the Le-Matoran sarcastically.

“You should try it” grunted Santis emotionlessly. “It’ll get rid of your wrinkles, probably take the last 10,000 years off your brow.”

The Zatth-wearer exhaled. A snort. Santis guessed he must be smiling. “I’ll stick to my beauty sleep” he responded smoothly. “Besides, good looks are overrated.”

“And you’d know?”

There was a pause. Santis pictured the Le-Matoran, leaning at the door frame, arms folded, shaking his head. “Some people, no matter how old they get, never lose their beauty. They just move it from their faces to their hearts.”

The Toa of Fire chuckled to himself then opened his eyes only to see that Torlo was deadly serious. “My wife was like that.”

“Was?”

“She died” shrugged the Matoran, taking a sad step closer to the hearth. “Suicide. 12 years ago.”

The Danju-wearer snorted. “Doesn’t seem very heartfelt.”

Torlo stopped in his tracks and twisted his head up, insulted. The flames from the foundry danced in his eyes, making them wide and shiny, piercing Santis. They were ancient eyes. Old and wise, yet burning like the fire they reflected. They belonged to someone who had clearly seen his fair share of injustice. But there was something else there, hidden behind the flickering blaze. It wasn’t just offense. The Toa of Fire was pretty sure he saw traces of anger in there. An inferno. A dark, sinister side to the Le-Matoran that made even him to grow uncomfortable. Torlo’s eyes were unnerving him, making him wary.

Santis grunted to himself and broke eye contact. Torlo had gotten the better of him. “I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault.”

“How did it happen?”

The rage in the Zatth-wearer’s eyes blinked away and, instead, began to cloud with memory.

“It was my fault” he stated. “She fell ill one year, I neglected her and began seeing someone else.”

“I thought you hated hypocrisy” he frowned. “But that makes you a hypercritic for – ” He trailed off when he realized that probably hadn’t been the best thing to blurt out.

“I know” muttered the blacksmith. “I’ve become the very thing I hate the most, the thing I argue against in every town meeting and yell at people like Kyros for. I’m a sinner and I know.”

Santis stayed silent.

“There’s a special place back in Karzahni for people like me, the damned. If there wasn’t then I don’t know what the world’s come to. For my crimes – my sins – I don’t deserve forgiveness.”

The Toa of Fire swallowed uncomfortably and glanced at the hearth. A full minute of awkward silence followed the Le-Matoran’s words. It hung uneasily until Santis realized he couldn’t take it much longer. He groaned to himself, pulling his bulking, over-armored body into the air. Rising to his feet, the Toa turned to face Torlo. “I trust your village elders are waiting for me?”

“They should be” grunted the Matoran. “I doubt they’ll have much else to do at three in the morning.”

The Toa nodded then glanced at Torlo. He had a proposal to ask of the village’s leader, whoever the hell that was. The words “kill Tollubo” were still echoing through his head, like nails being drilled into his skull, like water dripping against his forehead – slowly driving him insane. He had to find this De-Matoran. But then what? The Matoran of Sonics had obviously been a part of his past – be it a past he couldn’t remember  – yet he was supposed to kill him? He wasn’t an expert but Toa weren’t renowned for assassinating Matoran. Besides, after torturing him, Tollubo could probably tell him something else about his past – maybe something useful this time.

The Toa of Fire took a fleeting look from the Matoran, to the empty doorway, then back to the Matoran again. He couldn’t remember anything about who he was, who he had been or what he had done and it was torture not knowing. Torlo seemed to trust him, but he doubted the village leaders would. And for all he knew, they were right not to.

“I’m going to propose an expedition” uttered Santis as the pair began walking. “I’m setting off on a mission tomorrow morning and I would like a Matoran to accompany me, to be my aide.”

“Anyone you want to travel with in particular?”

“Well, I don’t see you doing much around here.”

The Le-Matoran hesitated then frowned, his eyes trained on the ground in front of him.

“Me?” he spluttered. “You want me to put my life on the line without knowing the reason why?”

The Toa shrugged. “Yes” he answered simply.

Torlo’s frown disappeared and his shrugged. “Fair enough.” The pair shared a smile before continuing their hike to the village center.

“And this mission,” continued the Matoran, “would it take us far away from here?”

“Probably.”

“Anywhere specific?”

“Probably” he repeated.

“Let me guess” chuckled the poorly-built Zatth-wearer. “You’re heading for Metru-Nui to find this Tollubo-guy, right?”

Santis nodded.

“Have you thought about how you’re going to get there?”

“Yeah. Walking.”

“Across the Silver Sea?”

The Toa stopped in his tracks and shot the Le-Matoran with a confused look. “I thought we were on Voya Nui. Isn’t that the one above all the domes with all the underground passageways?”

Torlo smothered a snort. “Since when has Voya Nui been in the sky?”

“I’ll take that as a no” grunted the Toa. He continued walking. “All the more reason why I need someone like you as a guide, someone I don’t argue with who can show me the way off this burnt wasteland.”

The righteous Matoran took a skeptical glance at him but remained quiet, or at least until they ended their walk in the village center. Santis’ eyes widened in terror when the horrific scene was revealed to him and he saw the one thing he possibly hated more than Rahkshi: A party.

“You have some sense, Santis” muttered Torlo as the horrible sound of an overly-cheerful drumbeat deafened them both. “I hope you can leave some of it behind here before you go.”

Normally, a wanderer like Santis wouldn’t have drawn so much attention. Under ordinary circumstances he was likely to be ignored – just an over-sized mouth and another hungry appetite for the tiring village fishermen and farmers to provide for. They had enough of their own problems to cope with. But the mood in the fortress was seemingly lighter than it had been in a while. As the Toa soon discovered, one of the nearby Matoran resistance settlements had fallen to the creatures of the night and three new arrivals had turned up in the village, only a couple of hours before sunset. Though they were only refugees and would probably be more of a burden than a blessing, they’d given their fellow Matoran hope. If survivors from other villages had manage to make their way to them, perhaps they could build a great fort and a mighty army to keep the Rahkshi and Visorak out forever. It was wishful, crazy thinking, but the Matoran seemed to be thinking it anyway. The desperate and the damned could build a mountain of hope out of a Stone Rat’s droppings.

That was why Santis found himself as the focus of the banquet. Being a Toa, he literally was the army the Matoran had been praying to Mata Nui for, which – strangely – did nothing for his or Torlo’s solemn moods. He barely touched the food he was given and only ate anything out of politeness. All around him Matoran were sinking their metallic teeth into their own feasts. Huge hulking chunks of organic meat, mugs of broth and sugared Madu cubes were being passed around.

Not wanting to cause too much trouble by ruining the celebration, Santis waited until the mood had begun to dwindle until he confronted who seemed to be the village’s leader, a Po-Matoran named Goll. He’d been observing each member of the crowd for some time now, not wanting to have to ask Torlo to explain everything to him. But it hadn’t been that simple. As soon as he’d begun talking a gaggle of onlookers had crowded around him and whispers had been passed in the background, which distracted him. In the end, he’d had to pull Goll aside into one of the nearby council huts to have his discussion. After explaining his proposal to the Pakari-Nuva wearer he began to feel guilty about the Matoran’s downtrodden expression. The village needed him for protection against its attackers and he was abandoning them. But worse still, he was bringing Torlo with him too. It must be like he was selecting a single survivor then bringing him to safety whilst leaving the others to die.

“I see” muttered the Po-Matoran when the Toa had finally finished. “You will leave in the morning?”

“That’s the plan” shrugged Santis casually.

The Po-Matoran glanced from the Toa of Fire to the Le-Matoran by his side. “Very well” he grunted. “But are you sure you want Torlo to be your companion? He’s the village’s only blacksmith. If our weapons are damaged he’s irreplaceable.”

“I have to go” shrugged Torlo. “But I don’t intend to stay. No matter how dangerous it is, this is my home. Plus, I hear there are Toa in Metru-Nui. If I get there, the first thing I’ll do is send them here and bring the rest of you to safety. And failing that I could at least train in a Metru-Nui forge, learn to make weapons that are stronger and lighter. That way I could make better weapons here, when I return.” The Zatth-wearer paused then sighed. “I’ll stay if you order me to Goll – I have enough honor to obey you – but this is for the best, and deep down you know that too.”

Goll raised an eyebrow then nodded decisively. “Indeed” he grunted. “But I don’t want you two going alone. You won’t stand a chance, even with Santis.” He turned and looked up, indicating he was addressing the Danju-wearer. “Toa, I accept your offer but, in exchange for taking my village’s only craftsman, I must insist, I cannot see any pair of travelers crossing this merciless wasteland – Karzahni and Tren Krom probably couldn’t make it past Mount Valamai. No good can come of your quest if there are only two f you. My one condition is that you bring more Matoran with you, save as many as you can from this hellhole.” Santis frowned.

“I don’t want a tagalong-team of Matoran squabbling at my feet” he grunted. “Besides, my journey will be dangerous. You’ll only be putting innocent lives at risk.”

The Matoran of Stone shook his head and raised his arms, openly referencing the entire village. “Look at this place” he retorted. “Living here is dangerous enough as it is.”

“And that’s worth Matoran sacrificing themselves? Last time I checked, Metru-Nui wasn’t all that great.”

Goll sighed deeply and shook his head, like a tired Turaga. “At least in Metru-Nui they’ll have a chance. Here they’ll just wither away and fall victim to the prying pincers of a Visorak to be dragged off and torn to pieces. That is my offer. You take as many Matoran as you can, and you put your life before theirs.”

“That seems fair” grunted Santis sardonically.

The Pakari Nuva-wearer ignored him. He just stared at the duo through weary eyes then he extended a hand. “Then it is agreed. We have a deal” he announced. The Danju-wearer almost felt sorry for the village’s leader when neither he nor Torlo shook his hand. There was nothing more awkward than standing there, ready to shake hands, when the gesture is ignored. It is foolish to keep standing with your palm stretched out, yet, at the same time, it is somehow worse to retract your hand back. When he finally realized neither of them wanted to thank him, Goll nodded to himself, swallowed, and lowered his arm back to his side. Uneasily, the trio began shuffling towards the doorway and back into the party-atmosphere.

It was at that moment when a crooked-looking Ga-Matoran hobbled up to them and began glaring at Santis. He frowned and waited for one of the others to introduce him. In the end, neither of the Matoran said anything. As he watched, the Toa saw the strange, twisted Matoran raise her arm and point a bony, wrinkled finger at him. It was twitching with suspicion.

“I do not trust him” she gurgled. Obviously insane. Santis turned to Goll questioningly. Again, the Po-Matoran sighed and shifted his attention to the aged Matoran of Water.

“Krennato, my friend, that’s hardly the way to address a Toa, particularly one who has just saved our village.”

“The Makuta sent him” countered Krennato with a snarl. “They could have conquered his last village, muddled his senses and sent him here – luring us into a trap.”

“You afford those cowards too much respect” grunted Torlo, returning to defend the Toa. “The Makuta hide behind their armies. Their solution to every problem is to throw foot-soldiers at something until it breaks. Besides, the Rahkshi are mindless, clumsy and dimwitted creatures. They couldn’t mastermind whatever senseless nonsense you’re blabbering about.”

The female Matoran froze and shot the Le-Matoran with an icy stare, which barely fazed him. “Indeed” she murmured. “But our attackers are changing. They are growing more intelligent.” She paused to extend another shriveled, fragile finger in an eastern direction. “Until yesterday we had a craftily hidden subterranean passageway. Now the Visorak have discovered it they will adapt and attack it more regularly. It will become their primary target. They’ll form plans and calculate tactics, all by themselves. Soon they’ll attack at the same time as their Rahkshi allies at the gates. They are thinking and planning clearly, more like us than you could imagine, Le-Matoran.”

Goll massaged his chin thoughtfully. Santis could guess why. He imagined that the one great advantage the Matoran – besides the fact they were only attacked at night – was the fact they were smarter than their enemies. But if their midnight stalkers were getting smarter…

“It can’t be a trap” snorted Torlo, dismissing the idea with a curt wave of his hand. “If the Rahkshi were smart enough to be manipulating Santis into luring us – which is preposterous – he’d have slaughtered us all already, you first probably.”

Spurred by the Matoran of Water’s accusation, Santis bristled angrily and flexed his muscles. He raised his arms to crack his knuckles aggressively then threw a dark glare at her. She just stared blankly back at him through empty eyes. In the end he decided she wasn’t worth ruining his heroic reputation by pummeling into the ground. She was just some dusty, deranged, senile excuse for a Matoran, probably not above fortune-telling and pessimism, claiming the world was going to end in a column of brimstone and hellfire on a daily basis. Engaging her in a fight – be it one he would surely win – would come to no good. In the end, he just grunted and turned his attention away, casting her from his mind. But a small crowd of Matoran was gathering around him. While there were only a handful of villagers surrounding him it felt like the heads were tilting towards him. He was becoming something of a spectacle. A sleek, vain-looking Ko-Matoran stepped forwards, eager to get his word in on the matter. ''A wanna-be center of attention. ''

“Moving on from our protector being possessed,” he snorted, “who’s to say this quest is that important? We need help too. Out plight is just as serious as your memory loss. What do you expect us to do, Toa? Send our warriors to protect you, leaving our weak and helpless at the mercy of the Rahkshi?” He spat into the dust, which turned a few more heads and suddenly made Santis think about how fitting the Matoran’s head would look on a plaque above his bed. There were murmurs of agreement before Krennato nodded too and silence fell. By now the party mood had died down for the villagers to listen. Many of the lights had been doused and some Matoran had been set the task of tidying up. Many of the villagers who weren’t crowded around for the debate even appeared to be sitting down, conversing in hushed, orderly discussion with each other. Some were even sleeping, one of Santis’ favorite pastimes.

“He puts it harshly, but there is wisdom in what Kyros is saying” muttered the aged Ga-Matoran, as if patronizing Santis by giving him a running commentary, pretending she hadn’t said anything worse. “Protection is one thing, but appearing in the night to sweep away out people? If this quest goes ahead, our village will fall!” At the moment, the situation didn’t look too good for the Danju-wearer. Krennato and Kyros seemed to have sided and turned completely against his idea, while Torlo and Goll were of the opinion that the villagers should send a small group with him, to help him find his way north. He wasn’t sure why, but Santis had the strangest feeling that these four Matoran were inevitably going to be stuck with him for his journey, squabbling amongst themselves and doing a number on his audio receptors.

But then Torlo stepped forwards and snorted, countering the cynical Ga-Matoran. He moved fluently and smoothly – obviously used to defying people in public, just like he claimed.

“It’s no accident that he came on the same day as the other refugees” he argued, gesturing swiftly to the crowd. “Yesterday we couldn’t have let anyone go. But our ranks have been bolstered.”

“Bolstered?” The Ko-Matoran almost shrieked, casting a scornful glare at three of the crowd members, presumably the new arrivals.

“Kyros!” snapped Goll sharply, before the hot-headed villager could disgrace the settlement’s guests of honor. When he was sure of the Matoran of Ice’s silence, he leaned forward, concentrating hard. The Toa could probably guess what he was thinking. Torlo had a point. To the misguided Matoran, this was a sign. Goll wouldn’t dare ignore something like that, not in this superstitious society where people would willingly believe anything that brought them hope. ''If he said he’d once beaten at a game of Kohlii they’d probably believe him. '' But he wasn’t sure this was a sign. Santis hadn’t told them anything and they couldn’t exactly stop him from walking off on his own. They’d all seen it, he’d butchered two Visorak and a Rahkshi of Plasma and that was against his own Toa Code. If he wasn’t going to obey those morals, who was to say his arrival was a blessing? Still, he decided to wait for someone to throw in a query of their own. It was becoming clear that Goll couldn’t think of anything.

In the end it was Torlo who spoke. “We should go,” he stated, addressing the crowd, “as many of us as possible. After all, is the chance of escape from this dark, hellish wasteland not what we’ve been clinging onto all this time?” ''Silence. '' “Plus we’re stronger now” added the Zatth-wearer. “We can easily spare a few warriors and I believe it will benefit us in the long run. Once in Metru-Nui we can send supplies back: more food, better weapons, maybe even organize an evacuation.” To Santis’ surprise, Krennato leaned back on her staff and nodded. “True” she croaked. “Bad luck would befall us if we refused this opportunity.” It appeared she had switched sides, which was all that was needed to bring a slick grin to the Toa’s mask. Argument won.

Goll glanced at the Ga-Matoran then nodded slowly. “If we are decided then that is the end of this matter. But the question of who to send still remains. I don’t want to command anyone to leave. Are there any volunteers?”

“Aye.” A red-armored hand immediately shot up. It belonged to a stout Ta-Matoran wearing a Kanohi Calix. He seemed desperate. He was either stupid or felt the need to be close to the group, which struck the Toa as odd. “Anything to kill a couple of extra Rahkshi.” The starting stages of a psychopath. The Po-Matoran growled unhappily. Despite his small stature, the Matoran of Fire looked physically fit, which suggested he was a good fighter, possibly one of the best in the village and certainly the most determined from how he’d stuck his hand up to swiftly. Good reflexes, which meant Goll probably didn’t want to give him up. But, at the same time, he couldn’t exactly refuse the Calix-wearer the chance without insulting him.

After some careful thought he nodded reluctantly. “Any others?” he asked. A number of other hands rose up. To the Toa’s counting, there were four: the Ta-Matoran, a somewhat thickly-built Matoran of Lightning, a timid-looking Po-Matoran and a unperturbed Onu-Matoran. There were no objections so the four Matoran stepped forward, into the center of attention, allowing Santis a better look at them. Most of them were well-built, except for the Po-Matoran – which was somewhat strange, he had to admit. But if he didn’t want to fight then the team had their own cook, weapons carrier and firewood collector. After a careful examination, the Toa nodded his approval. Calling upon his grand mastery of the Matoran Language, he chose to say nothing. A simple grunt said more than any of his words could.

“I might as well accompany you too” grunted Goll, which was also surprising. “Since I argued the case, I have to go. Plus I used to rule these lands. I know my way around my kingdom.”

The Danju-wearer cocked a mocking eyebrow. “And who will lead the village you’re so eager to protect in your absence?” Immediately Kyros’ hand was in the air, his eyes wide with greedy, gluttonous ambition.

The Po-Matoran chuckled and shook his head. “I’m hardly going to leave this settlement in your hands. You’ll probably evict everyone and keep the fortress to yourself. You will have to come with us too.” The Ko-Matoran’s jaw dropped as he gawped at the Pakari Nuva-wearer. Others in the crowd were surprised too. The quest was going to be a perilous one. The land was full of shadowy creatures and the chances of survival were slim. Yet Goll himself was going and he was bringing his seemly only successor – or at least that was how the situation appeared to Santis. Not even the Toa of Fire saw wisdom in that. Goll just didn’t want his village to succumb to the selfish Po-Matoran.

But one person in the crowd did. The Ga-Matoran known as Connla had been listening to the debate for some time now. Despite how much the villagers hated the idea, it was becoming increasingly obvious that Kyros was going to end up as Goll’s successor. If the Po-Matoran died on the quest, there would be several challengers to replace him and Kyros might find powerful allies hard to come by, particularly as he was so untested in battle. ''Which was what Goll was hoping for. '' If the Ko-Matoran completed his task and returned to the village with a bloodied blade, desperately-needed supplied and tales of glory, that would be the making of him. But that was hardly likely. The tiring village leader was missing the obvious. If Kyros survived he was hardly going to return to Voya-Nui. He would stay in Metru-Nui and build himself up there, claiming to have faced monsters and Makuta alike. He would spread his poisonous lies anyway. This would do the Ko-Matoran more justice than the Po-Matoran realized. While the conceited Ko-Matoran blinked stupidly at Goll, Krennato took a short step forwards.

“I may as well accompany you fools” she grumbled bitterly. “You’ll need a healer because you are bound to get yourselves hurt with your aimless traipsing.” ''The thunder in Toa Santis’ eyes was unmistakable. ''

Goll nodded then grunted.

“Very well. Now, if that’s all…” he looked around, seeking any final volunteers, making it clear by the way he had asked that nine people were more than appropriate. But one last hand went up, a tiny hand. Connla’s. “I want to go too” she announced. Goll was astounded. Everyone was.

“Connla” hissed the Po-Matoran. “This quest isn’t suitable for –”

“For what?” she retorted. “Ga-Matoran?”

“It will be dangerous” added Torlo, his tone warning her. “This is a task for warriors.”

“But you’re going and you’re no warrior.” “I have to go so I can learn to make better weapons to craft and bring back here.”

“Maybe I can learn something too” argued Connla, clinging on to scraps of arguments. “Who knows, maybe I could learn how to make bandages from leaves or something.” She paused then searched the blank masks of her fellow villagers for support only to find none. “I have to do this” she continued. “I sense failure if I don’t go. I’m not sure what good I can do – maybe you’re right. Maybe none at all – but I believe I must travel with you.” Goll shook his head, troubled.

“I can’t allow this. If Krennato’s coming then you’re the village’s only healer. Who will aid to the injured every night? The village needs you.”

“It needs you too” she countered. “And what of Torlo, Fiancha and Krennato? Who will fix our broken weapons? Who will endeavor for our fish each morning? Who will give us wisdom?”

“That’s different” struggled Goll, losing the argument. Seeking help he turned to the Toa. “Please, tell her.” But the Toa of Fire only shrugged.

“She lives in this village by choice – and now she chooses to leave it” grunted Toa Santis, some of his first words since he’d emerged from the council hut mere minutes ago. “I see no reason to rob her of that right to decide.”

“You’ll accept her?”

“I’ll accept anyone with the courage to join my expedition” shrugged the cape-wearing warrior. “Besides, you’re the one arguing to get as many Matoran out of here as possible.” Brave, provocative words, which Goll couldn’t ignore. It would appear the Toa of Fire was on her side of the argument, which gave Connla at least some stance in the debate. Perhaps he recognized her as a healer and planned on getting hurt, though the Pakari-wearer knew she was no more of a medic than some of the Gafna sleeping peacefully around the huts on piles of straw. But she was closer to the ways of medicine than anyone else in the community and, deep down, that somehow seemed to give people hope. Nobody would dare cross her is she brought some spiritual, ritualistic trash into her argument. It was strange how closely her remedies could be linked to the paranormal.

Goll grunted hollowly, sighed, then seemed to grow angry.

“Very well.” he growled irately. “We’ve pledged some of our greatest warriors, our leader, our elder, the only blacksmith in these lands and a fisherman to this reckless cause – why not add our only healer too?”

And so, in a bitter, resentful fashion, the Po-Matoran finalized the decision and the Matoran were dismissed, as if it had been some motivational speech to an army about to go to war instead of a party. With a mixture of fear and excitement in the pit of her stomach – ''mostly fear – the Ga-Matoran began trudging back to her hut to enjoy one final night of sheltered sleep, before leaving the only home she’d known for the past 50,000 years to face whatever demons were lurking beyond the safety of the village and other dangers that were beheld by the world beyond. Metru-Nui had damn well better be worth it.

Chapter 5
Written by BobTheDoctor27

There were no further attacks that night – an encouraging omen. The group departed at dawn, with the first slithering stretches of sunlight spilling out over the the newborn sky, bidding short farewells to their fellow villagers. Connla wanted to take one final look back at the huts and walls of the fortress as they left as she knew she might never see them again, but that would be inviting bad luck. So she kept her eyes fixed on the path ahead.

It soon became apparent that it was going to be a cloudy day. There were erratic showers and a bone-chilling gales. The climate was different lower down, something the Ga-Matoran had almost completely forgotten about having spent the past 3,000 years atop a hill, cowering at night and tending to soft, gentle Rahi. The air smelled cold and clammy, an element she was not comfortable with. They marched at a steady pace, staying close to the Tren Krom river, heading East. All the village’s boats had been destroyed by Rahkshi attacks some months back, so they could not cross the river easily. Goll seemed to have an idea that, if they headed further inland, the river would reach a point where it would be narrow enough for them to cross and head north at, which should take them all the way to the tip of the continent if all went well – which it probably wouldn’t. However, as a rare stroke of fortune, the earth was solid underfoot from the trampling of their midnight attackers. As there was no vegetation left to obstruct their way, the group found plenty of paths through the burnt trees, making good time. Torlo and Iolan were at the fore of the pack, followed closely by Goll. Then came Connla herself, along with Fiancha, Sarnii and Kyros. The Ko-Matoran was sulking and hadn’t said a word since leaving the village. Krennato and Turas seemed to be towards the rear of the group with Toa Santis strolling along slowly, bored senseless by the sluggish pace of the Matoran. The Toa was dawdling leisurely, taking slow, exaggerated steps, prompting them to hurry up. The young Pakari-wearer brooded upon her reasons for leaving the safety of her fortified home as they continued their trek, growing increasingly troubled the more she thought about it. Mostly she had chosen to leave because of the promise of a new world. But there was another reason – fear. The village seemed to be getting smaller and smaller with every passing day. She felt so confined, like it was betting harder and harder to breathe. She had nightmares where she was trapped, where the walls of the fortress closed in, even tighter, squeezing her to death. If her worst fears came true and they fell to the hordes of monsters, she didn’t want to die caged in. But, even so, no matter what way she looked at it, the Ga-Matoran began to realize she had left for purely selfish reasons. The villagers needed her and she shouldn’t have abandoned them because she was afraid or to save herself from an oncoming disaster. She should go back. Fight with them. Use her knowledge of healing to help her doomed friends back in the village as best as she could. ''But what if there was another reason? What if this is my destiny?'' Krennato’s teachings of faith always seemed to follow the guidance of spirits and the supernatural. The paranormal normally wouldn’t have anything to do with Connla’s life, but now she seemed to be torn between logic and belief. Mata Nui help me she muttered under her breathe. There were so many possibilities – her head was hurting just thinking about them. Perhaps she should stop and give herself a rest, to gather her thoughts. There was no point worrying now. They were more than half a day’s hike from the fortress, which meant they couldn’t return to safety before nightfall. ''There was no going back. ''

Everybody was quiet during the march, thinking about those they had left behind and what lay ahead. They stopped to rest and eat at midday. Torlo and Iolan managed to capture a couple of Hikaki, which they ate raw, along with some berries that Connla herself picked. After that they walked slower on their full stomachs, which annoyed their Toa guardian considerably. But it didn’t take long for conversation to pick up and talk began, low and laid-back, with Torlo asking Santis a question about his Sword and blade. Of course, his idle curiosity was followed by lots more questions after that. The Matoran of the village knew all there was to know about each other already, which left the Toa as the only mystery in the group. But the cape-wearing giant didn’t answer many of their questions and whatever answers he gave were sketchy and vague as he looked ahead, focusing on the track and not the circle of annoying Matoran. Still, after the Toa fell silent the conversation took a more philosophical turn, which came as something of a surprise to Connla, though she stayed out of it. Speaking of death and legacy didn’t seem to bode well for their expedition.

“I wouldn’t have a lot to leave other than memories” grinned Goll when the conversation reached him. “But they’d be good memories. I live in the light. I regret none of the mistakes of my past.”

“Except getting stabbed and losing your throne” snorted Kyros with a smirk, sending the Po-Matoran spiraling into a foul mood.

“You should not provoke him like that” hissed Krennato harshly as she glared at the Ko-Matoran, repulsively.

“He’s an old wreck!” retorted the egoistic Matoran of Ice. “I’ll have you know I had my own Knowledge Tower back in Ko-Metru. I’ll speak to the old Mahi any way I choose.”

“We’re not in the village now” growled Torlo as he turned to face Kyros. “We’re a small, isolated group and we need to rely on each other. Think on – Goll might hold your life in his hands one night soon. Will you compare him to a Rahi then?”

The Ko-Matoran’s jaw dropped when he realized that nobody was going to support him. He scowled but considered Torlo’s words. ''Off on another of his legendary sulks again. ''

Torlo and Iolan sparred with Santis in the evening as the group crossed bogland. The Toa threw a few knife feints with his blade which were new to the two warriors and they practiced until they’d perfected them. The two Matoran, in turn, knew a lot of moves which the Toa of Fire didn’t and they taught him a few, promising to reveal more over the coming days. Once warriors had been secretive. They had kept techniques to themselves, always wary of their neighbors, knowing that today’s friend could be tomorrow’s enemy. The Rahkshi had changed that. Now they shared because they had to –  warriors, blacksmiths, fishermen, healers. The Brotherhood’s creations had united the various Matoran of the land in a way no ruler ever had. It was devastatingly unfair that the survivors couldn’t join forces to face their attackers on a single battlefield, in fair combat – Connla was sure they would win. But, although Rahkshi and Visorak weren’t as clever as Matoran, they were sly. They spread out, taking control of paths and routes, limiting the opportunities for travel and isolating their enemies, dividing prospective allies. They shared arms, learning from others whenever possible, but they wouldn’t be able to share enough.

After they grew tired of jousting, the warriors dispersed and returned their attention to walking. Kyros approached Torlo for advice, which struck the entire group as odd considering he hadn’t spoken since his argument with Goll. He announced an idea for a new spear, topped with several sharp fins and wanted the weapons-crafter’s opinion. The Le-Matoran listened politely, then explained why the weapon wouldn’t work. Kyros was disappointed but the smith managed to cheer him up by telling him that any weapon could be forged in the furnaces of Ta-Metru and, if he met other blacksmiths, perhaps they could work together to come up with something along the lines of Kyros’ designs, which seemed to shut him up for a while. And that suddenly made everyone happy.

The group finally came to the crossing point of the Tren Krom river late in the evening. The river was shallow and narrow where they had arrived, easier to cross. The valley had once been the land of another region. A much larger fortress than the one the travelers had left behind had once stood in the marsh, the largest in the entire district. Several dirt trails still led up to where the once impressive stone fort had stood. Matoran used to travel there in masses, naturally leaving eroded footpaths in the earth. But now the fortress was little more than a pile of rubble and most of the roads in disrepair, washed away by the river. The villagers had heard that this particular pocket of resistance fighters had been overrun centuries ago but had hoped the reports were wrong. The remains of the massive stone structure would have been the ideal place to shelter that night.

“What now?” demanded Kyros impatiently, studying the untidy mound of rubble that had once been the pride of the region. “Cross the river or camp here?”

“Cross” grunted Toa Santis, though he eyed the water warily.

“He’s right” added Iolan irrelevantly. “There’s no safety here.”

“So?” snarled the Ko-Matoran. “Where Visorak attack once, they’ll sure as hell attack again.”

“True, but most Visorak can’t cross running water.”

“Well, who’s to say they’re not already there?”

“They can’t be” grunted Goll. “The fortress used to be protected by a moat. Maybe there’s something left of it that we can use.” Kyros glared at Goll then nodded hesitantly. He was still uneasy.

But, as they drew nearer, the entire group was overcome with the anticlimactic sense of disappointment. From the looks of things, they had been completely wrong. There had never been a fortress on the opposite side of the river, just some huts when Matoran of the neighboring village dwelt. They used to greet those who crossed the river and either granted them the freedom of their village or turn them back. The dwellings were still standing but they had long-since been abandoned. Matoran had lived there at one point, that was for certain, but there was no sign of them now. They might be hiding but Connla knew that to be wishful thinking. It was far more likely that they’d all been murdered with Rahkshi sheltering from the sunlight inside their dwellings.

“Come one” grunted Santis, taking the lead. “The sun is setting. Let us get across and find a hole for the night which we can defend. I expect no safety here.”

There were small wooden boats tethered to the banks of the river, bobbing up and down on the gentle evening current. Each held four Matoran at most. The group headed for the nearest then divided into smaller groups. Torlo and Iolan teamed up together with Sarnii and Fiancha whilst Goll, Krennato, Kyros and Turas took the second vessel, leaving Connla to share the third with Santis. Turas leaned forward and grabbed the rope of his group’s boat and hauled it in. He’d almost pulled the dingy up onto dry land when there was a flash of crimson and Santis’ Kanohi burst into life. A red flare sparked from the rear of the crowd, making everyone turn as the Toa’s eyes widened in shock. He was using his Kanohi.

“'''Turas! No!'''” he roared. The Po-Matoran reacted instantly. He dropped the rope and leapt backwards just in time. A huge demonic eel-like Rahi unleashed itself behind him, rising out of the boat like an arrow shot from a bow, reducing it to splinters. It’s jaws were impossibly wide, filled with teeth that would be more suited to a Fenrakk. The Rahi snapped for Turas’ head and only missed by a finger’s breadth. It landed hard on the riverbank and writhed angrily, going for the terrified Po-Matoran’s legs. Toa Santis was at the poor villager’s side in the blink of a heartbeat, his sword aflame with fiery energy, blazing like a god. He took a swing of his mighty sword and stabbed at the place where the monster’s eyes should have been but it didn’t have any. It was blind, operating by some other form of sense. There was a deafening battle-cry as Iolan threw himself forward, landing on the Rahi’s jagged, rock-like back and hacked at it with his blades. The creature bucked and twisted desperately, trying to dislodge the Ta-Matoran but he rode it like a Mahi, digging his heels in, expression twisted as he roared hatefully, his Kanohi Calix rippling with fury. Kyros snapped into action, as if he’d been waiting for a cue. He took aim with a spear and hurled it at the beast, down the maw of its gaping mouth. The spear stuck deep in its throat. The Rahi choked and slammed its head downwards, trying to spit out the spear. Goll darted forwards, a war-cry on his lips. He grabbed the shaft of the spear and drove it further into their attacker’s throat, twisting savagely. The Rahi spasmed, then weakened. Suddenly, the warriors were all over it, hacking away like Fikou trying to bring down a Spiny Stone Ape. Connla, Torlo, Krennato and Toa Santis watched them from afar.

“Do you think I should help?” grunted the Toa of Fire, fingers tapping the hilt of his sword which hung from his waist.

“They’re in control” shrugged Torlo. And, indeed, moments later the battle was over and the broken Rahi lay at their feet, covered in the crimson blood which once pumped through its veins, torn to pieces, jaws stretched wide in a final snarl. Goll grasped the handle of the spear, yanked it out and handed it to Kyros. He laughed and clapped the Ko-Matoran on the back, leaving a red handprint on his white armor.

“A master throw!”

The Ko-Matoran smiled sheepishly. “I didn’t mean for it to go down the throat” he muttered with untypical modesty. “I aimed for the top of its head. But it moved. I got lucky.”

“I’ll always take luck over skill” chuckled the Po-Matoran, clapping his back again. The pair grinned at each other like lifelong friends.

“I’ve never fought an aquatic Rahi before” grunted Iolan, wiping his blades clean on the grass.

“They’re rare” grunted Fiancha, studying the corpse then turning it over with his foot. “We’re lucky it’s not night yet or we wouldn’t have seen it coming.”

“Come on” ordered Torlo with iron in his voice. The others glanced around uneasily. “It’ll be sunset soon and the Rahkshi will be coming. And they won’t be this slow.” That silenced everyone. After a quick check to make sure the other boats were safe to use the team clambered onto the wooden vessels and crossed the river as swiftly as possible. All eyes were on the water, wary of another attack from beneath.

Nobody emerged from the huts as the group docked, which gave the whole area an eerie echo. When the group was on dry land they stared at the dwellings suspiciously. It was customary to announce oneself before entering another village. Normally a traveler had to be confronted by a villager of their own rank and guided. But times had changed and many of the old laws no longer applied.

“You in the huts!” bellowed Santis, in case anyone was alive inside. ''Silence. ''

“Should we go see if anyone’s there?”

“They’d have answered if there was.”

“Unless they’re scared or sheltering underground.” Fiancha turned sharply and pointed at a spot to the left of the settlement. Connla’s eyes weren’t as sharp as his so it took her a while to focus. Then she saw is – a small arm, scrappy white armor, lying in the dirt. Santis sighed, drew his sword and moved to the front of the group.

“Let’s go” he muttered gruffly. His long legs forced the travelers to proceed at a forced nervous jog.

There was nowhere to shelter, so the group didn’t stop when the sun set, but kept going, hoping to outpace any Visorak which caught their scent. Connla tried to persuade herself that they wouldn’t be noticed. You had to be suicidal to travel at night in these troubled times. The creatures of the night wouldn’t expect to find anyone out in the open. Maybe they didn’t even look anymore. A silly, juvenile notion though, for an hour, it seemed as though it might just be true. They didn’t sight any Visorak and hope began to grow.

But then the Ga-Matoran’s entire world was taken and hurled upside-down. There was a howl of ruthless vibrancy from far behind them, but not far enough for comfort. The entire group paused and listened as the screech was answered by others. Like a call to attention. In her mind’s eye Connla saw a group forming, Rahkshi and Visorak lurking in the darkness. They would gather around the one who found their trail, sniff the air, perhaps lick the earth if they were still unsure, then quiver with excitement. Then they would lurch forward, insanity burning in their cold, starved eyes. Pincers slicing. Feet stomping. Rhotuku charging. Mouths foaming. It was sickening. She could hear them crashing through the scorched foliage, snapping off burnt branches, knocking over small trees.

“They might be after someone else” implored Kyros unconvincingly.

Goll grunted and turned to face the path ahead. “We keep moving” he growled. “If we can make it to the – ” A fierce rumble from the left caught Connla’s attention. Instinctively, she whirled around and caught sight of a Rahkshi leaping through the air. It had been hiding behind a rock. Three others stepped out alongside it. ''An ambush. The cunning beasts. '' The first of the monsters landed on Santis, knocking away his Sword with a swing of its staff. A streak of black and gold armor. Magnetism. The Toa seemed to snarl as the creature screeched. Before anyone could blink, the Toa’s arm shot up, grabbed the creature’s head and jerked it from left to right, trying to break its neck before it touched him. After a moment’s struggle, the cloak-wearer grew tired and activated his control over Plasma to melt the creature’s throat, leaving the head to slide off and the scorched Rahkshi to slump to the ground. But the other Rahkshi chose the easier option. They stuck together as they charged toward the Toa.

“Get the Hell out of here!” he bellowed, smashing the first Rahkshi’s head with an elbow, ducking to grab the second by its waist. He whirled around and ripped it away, leaving a trail of something scarlet. Connla didn’t know if it was blood or Plasma. “Go!” he yelled furiously as his first attacker regained its feet and leapt at him again.

“Do as he says!” roared Goll. The Ga-Matoran felt a hand clamp down on her shoulder and she started running. More Rahkshi were beginning to appear behind them, cutting Santis off from sight. There didn’t seem to be anymore in view but it would only be a matter of seconds rather than minutes before the others came to investigate the screaming. The Ga-Matoran found herself moving before she could consciously make the decision, her feet one step ahead of her brain. Santis was their leader. He’d given them orders to run. They’d be fools to ignore him, and the Toa didn’t seem the type to tolerate fools gladly. Never in her life had Connla known Rahkshi to be so excited. When they attacked the fort it was hard work. It must be frustrating, the scent of prey thick in their flaring nostrils, having to fight their way through, often failing. But out here, in the open, they only had to hunt the Matoran down and they were theirs for the taking. Without their Toa they were helpless. Like Sand Lions after a Dermis Turtle. Her last glimpse of the burly Toa was of him wrestling a Rahkshi of Hunger, while keeping a Rahkshi of Weather Control away with his Blade, backing up into the shadows of the forest, conceding ground reluctantly, stubbornly. Then the air filled with ash as Rhotuku Spinners tore the trees around them to splinters. ''The dust from each individual explosion enfolded to obscure Toa Santis and his attackers, swallowing them whole. ''

Chapter 6
The Rahkshi snarled menacingly as it advanced on Toa Santis. Black and yellow armor. A Rahkshi of Limited Invulnerability. The group’s leader by the looks of things. The cloak-wearer chuckled throatily and stepped forwards with a provocative grunt, beckoning him on. Challenging him.

The Rahkshi snarled again, uncertain. It was unsure if the strange Toa before it was a valiant, bold hero or a simpleton of some sort. It thought about the problem, which wasn’t exactly the speediest process the Toa had ever seen. Giving his attacker a helpful kick in the right direction, Santis let out a monstrous warrior-like roar, which seemed to clear matters up. The Rahkshi’s eyes narrowed and, with a screech of its own, it charged. His attacker was huge, with arms like tree trunks, only slightly shorter than Santis himself. The Danju-wearer planted his feet, twisted and drove his shoulder into the Rahkshi’s chest. It reeled backwards then tripped, knocked to the ground. Around it Visorak wailed and screeched, laughing and taunting him it appeared, as if it were some sick arena match.

As the Rahkshi returned to its feet the Toa landed a blow hard on the side of his head, which almost tore it right off. His attacker crumpled and fell.

''Not so Invulnerable now. ''

The Toa could sense victory, but remained focused. Many battles were lost in their last few seconds, when the one with the upper hand grew over-confident and gave his opponent the chance to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat. Sanits was sure he wouldn’t make that mistake.

But the other dominant pack leaders had other ideas. Seeing its chance for glory, one of them darted forward and latched onto the Toa’s arm, sinking its metallic clamp of a mouth deep into his armor. The wanderer grunted as he wrenched his arm free then swung it back to ram into the new attacker’s spine. The Rahkshi’s casing was torn off and its Kraata was ripped out in his hand. It withered and squirmed under his grip before he grew tired of it and squeezed until he heard a satisfying pop sound.

Another Rahkshi surged forwards, gibbering and screeching madly. Yellow armor. Heat Vision. The Toa didn’t waste a moment. He dove forwards immediately, wrapped one hand around the creature’s throat – making sure to jerk its head away so it couldn’t catch him with a wandering eyebeam – then grabbed its right thigh, rooted it off the ground and held it above his head. With a sharp grunt, the Toa flung the Rahkshi towards a group of Visorak. Those it landed on went wild and tore it to pieces.

A fourth Rahkshi stepped forwards from the circle of attackers, the largest yet. It had the widest, broadest shoulders of the entire pack, leveling out to Santis’ own height. But it was edgy. If it was a true leader it would have led from the beginning. Possibly the strongest Rahkshi on this side of the Continent, but it lacked courage. It was only challenging him now because it felt it had to, after he’d become tired by fighting the other dominant members of the pack. He was at his weakest. It was, tactically, the easiest opportunity for a Rahkshi to strike him down. The Toa leapt at the aggressor. It lashed out with its fist because its staff was missing. Brown armor, like mud. A Rahkshi of Fragmentation. He just let the punch connect with the side of his chest then laughed. He threw a fist of his own, striking his enemy clean in the chest. It stumbled away from him, winded and dazed. With a single beam of his Laser Vision, there was nothing left of the Rahkshi to worry about, just bits of ash gently fluttering to the ground.

Santis glared at the others. Neither the remaining Rahkshi or the Visorak advanced. He stepped forwards. When they held their ground he knew there would be no more challenges.

A sick, twisted smile crept across his Kanohi Danju as the Toa raised his hands. Jets of flame erupted from his fingertips, blazing through the air and engulfing the clearing on the outskirts of the forest. In the blink of an eye the entire village erupted in flames. The huts burned. The Visorak screeched. The Rahkshi squealed. The temperate vaulted up as the air began to burn. Entire Rahkshi simply melted away to molten metallic puddles, leaving their Kraata to topple into the liquid metal and fry away. And the Visorak seemed to soften and dissolve in the air, reduced to sludge.

But it wasn’t enough. The fire blazed around the Toa’s hands, his eyes wide with power. He was standing victorious, taking his victory in, imagining a couple of shocked faces in his head. He became filled with an overwhelming sense of pride and joy, like fresh energy.

''Was he going Nova? ''

He couldn’t tell. Fear suddenly gripped his concentration when he realized that he couldn’t stop. He was no longer emanating the heat, rather, he was beginning to absorb it. Fires were doused out, against his will. The puddles solidified. Mud hardened. Then the temperature plummeted from one extreme to the other. The river began to freeze over. Frost lined the burnt grass. The air became thick with ice. And all the time Toa Santis was helpless to stop the imminent explosion that was about to erupt from his fingertips.

''He reached for the sky. ''

Torlo let out a snarl as he stumbled over the charred flora of the burnt forest. A spray of ash trailed after him as he charged forwards. It all seemed hopeless now without Santis. He’d been so sure the Toa would be the last of them to fall, and without him they were surely lost. But the hero had gone down fighting and the rest of them owed it to him to give escape a chance. ''But, if they failed, at least they could die valiantly – like Santis. ''

“Where the hell are we going!?” demanded Kyros as he sprinted past, now directly behind Torlo.

“Somewhere open where we can make a stand from!” yelled the Le-Matoran as they ran, answering for the wheezing village leader.

“We won’t find anywhere in time. They’ll catch us first!”

A brainwave struck the Le-Matoran and he suddenly stopped, wheeled around, waiting for the other Matoran to catch up. While he did so he scanned the surrounding area. It was a suitable place to make a stand, somewhere they could easily defend. A cave would have been preferable. Once inside the group could fend off the creatures for the rest of the night then escape in the morning. But there were no caves conveniently located in the middle of this scorched forest. The clearing they were in was small but a number of trees had been felled. The wooden trunks now lay strewn across the ground. Somebody had probably intended to graze Rahi in the area, or build a hut in the days before the war.

“Not here” panted Goll as he fought for breath, his face dark from the strain. “It’s too… exposed.”

“There’s nowhere better” retorted the Zatth-wearer with a confused frown. He pointed towards the mound of logs. “We can chop down a few more trees, stake their trunks in the ground and sharpen the tops.”

“These are Rahkshi!” argued Krennato, fiercely. “They will reduce your tree trunks to dust in a second!” Goll and the Ga-Matoran looked around, searching for support only for the entire to group to be thrown by the sound of a loud explosion.

Tense, Torlo jerked his head up to search for the source. His eyes widened in shock as they settled on a blinding fireball rolling into the direction of the village, like a ball of gravity-defying tumbleweed. A gigantic concussion ring blasted outwards. The entire forest was hit by a violent shockwave, causing branches to fall, twigs to crack off, splinters to rain down. The group was tossed sideways. Torlo wobbled, his right foot stabbing into a particularly moist patch of dirt as he tried to frantically keep his balance. The terrible explosion had blasted outwards and had met absolutely nothing in its path. The Le-Matoran closed his eyes and stood in silence.

When he opened them again a moment later there was nothing to see in the night sky other than a roiling cloud of thin smoke. No debris, no metal, no broken scraps of armor. Nothing at all except microscopic invisible particles of vapor accelerating into the atmosphere.

“What happened!?” gasped Sarnii in disbelief. The flames shone off her armor, lighting her eyes a blazing orange. With a vengeful snarl, Torlo stepped forwards and draw his Mental Bolt Launchers, preparing for battle. Following suit, the majority of the other Matoran did the same and began taking positions, leaving Goll and Krennato speechless. They all knew it was hopeless, that they were going to die. ''But what choice did they have? '' They couldn’t run any further, their stubby little legs wouldn’t allow it. There was nothing left to do but charge their weapons and aim for anything that shrieked.

''Die as warriors, with pride. ''

It was almost a shame that their expedition was going to end so abruptly but Torlo hadn’t held any high hopes of survival anyway. Right from the start he’d had a gut-instinct that it was all going to end horribly. He anticipating at least four Matoran dying – hopefully Krennato or Kyros first. But he never would have expected Santis’ death. He’d expected the Toa to go on until the end, battling his way through all manner of enemies, leaving the broken bodies of Makuta to burn as he trudged onwards.

This wasn’t right. His stomach was churning and his feet were tingling. Something was wrong but he couldn’t place his finger on what it was. He’d long since gotten used to the imperfect nature of the world in which he resided in, so why something would be bothering him now, as he prepared to fight to his death, seemed strange. He frowned and turned to his right. Kyros was kneeling down beside him, praying and gibbering frantically. He felt like joining him.

He hadn’t prayed in years, not since the first days of the war. The Le-Matoran had lost all faith in this Mata Nui character from Matoran folk legend. How could this creation of fools be both benevolent, omnipotent and omniscient? What kind of all-powerful, all-seeing, all-forgiving meddler could sit back and watch as his Universe was torn apart by war? To him, Mata Nui didn’t exist – and if he did then he was one hell of a cruel, childish, irresponsible jerk.

But, nonetheless, Torlo closed his eyes and reached out with his mind. His breathing slowed and the storm of his mind calmed. His bulging muscles slackened as a wave of serenity washed over him. While he no longer believed in Mata Nui’s protection, he still made his peace with whatever Gods might be watching over him, just in case. If he was going to die, he’d want a clear conscience. He probably wouldn’t ask for forgiveness for the countless sins he had committed in his long and barbarous life, probably for the times he’d been weak instead, when he’d disgraced his proud and demanding conscience. ''Then he prayed for help. ''

"You can help yourself" came a reply. The Le-Matoran’s eyes snapped open in surprise, searching for whoever had chosen to play a practical joke and spoken aloud. Nobody had. It had been a thought, and one that was not his. The spark of surprise was followed by a slightly larger one of confusion. He had never heard the voice before. It was hard and weighty. There was unquestionable gravity to it.

"Matoran, you are in a unique position" continued the voice. "You are at the crossroad of two possible destinies. Depending on which path you take at this precise moment in time, your fate is either to become a mighty, noble Toa of Air, or to die, falling in the black. Only you can determine your destiny but it is in my interest that you do not die... not yet at least."

Torlo shuddered then focused, scanning the area around him, searching for whoever was plaguing his thoughts with this nonsense.

"No, don’t bother looking around for me. I am not on the Southern Continent, but someplace far away, nice and safe. You, however, are not, so I would strongly advise you to listen to me."

Shocked, Torlo asked the strange consciousness in his head who it was.

"My name is Makuta Karabak and, right now, my voice is the only one in the universe that you can trust" came the reply, a dark chuckle. There was a pause then he heard the next sentence. "I speak to you because I know misery is your destiny and, for once, the suffering of a Matoran does not bring me pleasure."

“But this land is full of suffering and I don’t give a bucket of Burnak-bile about destiny. Why am I picked, out of the thousands of tortured souls, for this special attention?”

"Because the Great Beings were having a bad day when they thought up your role in the Universe."

Torlo didn’t answer.

"I can guide you to safety, Matoran, and I will give you instructions when I have to. But you must act quickly when I give you the order. So pay attention because I am not in the habit of repeating myself."

“And what’s the order?”

"Get out of here." This time the tone was commanding, abrupt even.

“How?” muttered the Zatth-wearer under his breath, unsure of himself as he lowered his weapons a fraction of an inch.

"Fight the Rahkshi on their own terms."

“I don’t understand what you mean.”

The voice sighed contemptuously. "Do I have to do everything for you?" Before he could respond, it added curtly, "Defend yourselves. There is shelter close-by, about a five-minute run from here. I can guide you but it is your responsibility to guide your friends. I have no interest in them. It is you alone who is of any value to me. Not even your precious Toa Santis. Right now, in this single instance, you are the most important Matoran in the history of creation. Whatever you do now will determine your future. You have the potential to either destroy all evil in this universe or you will die... So start running."

Torlo felt a sharp jolt of pain, blunt and agonizing. It cut through his mind, severing the mental connection between him and his mysterious Makuta protector. In that moment, he awakened, his mind reeling. Somebody had just been talking to him – but who? What was this about him being destined to become a Toa and smite the world of evil? What had just happened?

“Goll!” he roared. The old warrior raised his head and glanced at him. “We’re leaving.”

“But –”

“Don’t argue!” The Zatth-wearer lowered his weapons, willing them to stop charging. “I was wrong. We’ll die if we fight here. But, I think, if we carry on there’s…” He stopped, unsure of what might lie beyond, but sensing in the depths of his very being that the strange Makuta was right.

Everyone was looking at him now, torn between hope and suspicion.

“This place isn’t much” grunted Iolan “but it’s defendable. If we’re caught on the run, we’re finished for sure. Are you certain…?”

“Yes” he growled icily with unexpected venom. “We have to go… now. Like Santis said, there’s no safety here. If we stay here we’re dead.”

“But we’ll live if we go?” asked Kyros dubiously.

“Perhaps.”

It wasn’t enough. The others didn’t trust his instincts. They were going to stay. He opened his mouth to argue afresh, but then Krennato lowered her staff and came to the Le-Matoran’s side, like a faithful Dermis Turtle.

“I’m with Torlo” she announced.

“Why?” Goll asked – not a challenge, just curious.

The patchy Matoran of Water shrugged. “A feeling.”

Iolan picked at a crease in his Kanohi with the tip of one of his blades. “I don’t feel like we’ll live if we go, but I’m sure we’ll die if we stay.”

Goll looked around at the others and asked the question with his eyes. They all answered with weary glances and resigned shrugs. “So be it” he grunted, attaching his axes back in their sheaths. “It was your idea to stay here anyway. Torlo – lead us.”

''They ran. ''

''Sweat. Terror. ''The sound of their pursuing stalkers crashing through the crisp foliage behind them. The explosion must have attracted some more nearby gatherings of the midnight monsters. They were almost upon them. A minute, maybe two, and they’d be forced to stop and fight – stop and die.

There was a flash of blue energy and a cry of agony. Fiancha was ahead of the group, having overtaken the others to run alongside the Le-Matoran, so he should have been the safest. But the burst of sapphire energy struck his leg in mid-sprint and he toppled forwards, falling flat on his face. He hit the ground hard, bellowing into the night. One of his Stasis Blades flew out of his hands and disappeared into the darkness, leaving nothing but a solid crunch as it hit the singed leaves and charred flora.

"Help him" whispered the voice once again, this time with none of its previously typical vagueness.

Without even considering his own safety, Torlo leapt forwards and stretched his arms out, selflessly using his body to protect his felled ally. The Rahkshi could strike his friends down once, but he’d be damned if he let it happen a second time.

The wound was bad, probably caused by a Rahkshi of Molecular Disruption. Most of the armor on the fisherman’s leg had been burnt off. Some of his organic parts were hanging out of a jagged hole in his knee. Torlo was no medic but he doubted that was healthy.

“Can you walk?”

“…What do you think?” responded Fiancha weakly, between fits of screaming.

With a mighty grunt, the Le-Matoran hooked an arm around the felled Onu-Matoran’s waist and hauled him up, looping his other arm around his ankles. The chances of either of them making it to the clearing through mere support would be pretty slim, about as slim as the chances of a snowman lasting more than a minute in the fires of Hell.

Carrying the wounded Onu-Matoran in his arms, he charged forwards, his muscles straining. Already panting wildly for breath, he looked up, searching for oxygen. The trees were thick around them. Impossible to see far. It was dark. Too dark. Torlo looked up and noticed extra branches, scraps of cloth, thatch torn from roofs, all sorts of bits and pieces scattered among the tree tops, linking the upper branches, keeping out the light of the moon and stars.

His heartlight skipped a blink. It was a trap. He was wrong. This Makuta Karabak had tricked him and he’d fallen for it, leading himself and his friends to their doom. When the thunderbolt of realization struck him Torlo began to shout out a warning, but it was already too late. Then…

They burst into another clearing and came to a surprised halt. There lay a clear circle around them and at the center – a ring of giant stones. Most were taller than the fleeing Matoran. Some probably would have towered over the late Toa Santis. Set in the ground at intervals. Impossibly ancient, covered in thick green moss and creeping vines. There was an aura of power radiating from the circle, but power from a time before theirs. From the time of the olden days, before even the Matoran Universe was even thought of perhaps, when some other world had been the playground of the Great Beings.

The Rahkshi and Visorak were still hot on their heels, surging up behind them, their stench foul in the air. “Come on!” bellowed Torlo. The group flew forward at his call, rushing to the stones, readying themselves for battle.

They spilled past the stones, into the center of the ring, where the Le-Matoran set the battered Matoran of Earth down and the others formed a protective ring around him. The stones wouldn’t provide much cover but they’d make it marginally harder for their attackers to get at them and would buy them a few valuable seconds. They wouldn’t make a great difference but Torlo had always believed in hope; if nothing else.

Iolan jumped onto a stone which felled on its side many centuries ago. He waved a blade over his head, screaming a challenge at their stalkers as they began to emerge from the cover of the burnt trees. Dozens of hideous and twisted monsters. ''Rattling, snake-like spines. Oozing, sickly green saliva. Darting blood-red eyes.'' Nightmares everywhere Torlo looked.

Their aggressors advanced slowly. It was probably safe to assume that they were relishing the moment, prolonging it, toying with their prey. But then they stopped and screeched with anger.

As they stared at the Rahkshi beating the ground with their fists and staffs, or Visorak trying to tear at it with the tips of their legs and pincers, all cursing at them in their own garbled language, Krennato lowered her staff and rested a hand on one of the stones, stroking it as if it were a Gafna.

“And you all thought I was a lunatic” she muttered. “I was right… Mata Nui is worth having faith in…”

Over the next few hours, one thing became apparent: whatever invisible force seemed to be protecting them – or what Krennato had insisted was magic – proved to be too strong for their attackers to withstand. None of them could even come within striking distance of the stones and any bursts of energy seemed to flicker away and dissipate into nothingness. A few of them tried to get closer over the course of the night, making darting runs, heads low, screaming with defiance. Each came crashing to a halt or was thrown back, as if they’d run into an invisible wall. One Rahkshi even tried to fly above the stones then drop down only to be swatted aside, bouncing right off an invisible dome and onto the ground, where it landed with a sharp crack and lay still. Whether it was just unconscious and its staff had split or if its neck had been broken wasn’t something Torlo was in any hurry to find out.

When they’d finished celebrating, the Matoran had examined the stone circle in greater detail and what they found dampened their elated spirits. Bones. There were organic patches of rotten decay. Some belonged to small Rahi but most were from Matoran origin, stacked carefully at the centre, arranged so the head pointed west, in the direction of the setting sun. According to some of the shadier, lesser-believed areas of Matoran mythology, the sun was supposed to guide the dead to whatever came next.

But the bones were far more recent than the stones. Many were sill dotted with flecks of dried blood and flakes of armor.

“They must have been brought here to their deaths” muttered Sarnii. “To keep the Rahkshi from stealing their bodies and animating them with Kraata.”

“Perhaps” grunted Goll. “But why not just burn them?”

“Maybe the bodies are part of the circuit” suggested Turas. If you move them then maybe the whole thing stops working. The stones might need power from the newly dead.”

Goll shook his head. “Even if they did, what purpose would it serve? Why drag bodies here just to keep Rahkshi from overrunning a stone circle?” The mystery puzzled them all night – nobody could sleep with the screams of the Rahkshi. It was like trying to close your eyes and drift away surrounded by a pack of hungry Rock Lions with no visible barriers.

“I think I remember something like this on the way to Karzahni” announced Kyros eventually, a couple of hours after midnight. “There was a tunnel that I passed through that didn’t let anything with elemental Light energy pass through. I was travelling with an Av-Matoran who got stuck on the other side. Maybe this is the opposite of that, keeping out all the bad things.”

“They how come it let you in?” grunted Iolan, kicking the Ko-Matoran as he rolled over and tried to get to sleep.

Torlo ignored the Ko-Matoran’s scowls and returned his focus to guard duty. Fiancha was moaning, in a state between consciousnesses. He, Turas and the annoying Ko-Matoran were sitting up, waiting for dawn to approach and for their attackers to recede back into the shade. Not that he thought any of the others would be asleep.

Still, he wished they could learn more about the strange stones. They could build some stone rings around their village. If they made enough they could rid the entire continent of its invaders, driving them off into the ocean or up to the crater of Mount Valmai. But there was no chance they were going to unlock any forgotten secrets anytime soon. If they chipped anything off the barrier might break. Krennato often spoke of ancient wonders but she knew relatively little factual information about them, except for legends she’d heard in the days when the world was in its infancy.

A solution to the problem of the bones didn’t arise until early the next morning, when their attackers had calmed down and stepped into the shade, only withdrawing as far as the trees which encircled the ring. There under the cover of the rough shelter, they stopped and leered viciously, pounding the earth with terrible, steady, threatening rhythm.

“They were workers from the village” grunted Torlo in the end. “You saw their settlement, they had no defenses yet they’d survived long enough for the severed arm we saw to be fresh. They must’ve sought the protection of these stones every night, which made the Rahkshi and Visorak mad, so they blocked the sunlight in the trees with scraps of equipment from the village and stuck it in the trees, so they could sit around here and wait for the villagers to come out in the day. When they’d finished they must’ve let the Matoran get into the circle then stood guard the next day, protected from the light, trapping them.” He sighed as he looked down at the dusty, battered, grey Kanohi Rau that was half-buried in the ground. “There was no way out. They died here, slowly, of starvation and thirst.” “Most of the bodies don’t have weapons” muttered Goll with a heavy sigh. “They probably got so used to coming here, they grew lazy and didn’t bother with weapons, since they were safe within the ring. They couldn’t even fight their way to freedom.”

“And now we’re trapped too” snarled Kyros bitterly, shooting Torlo a dirty look.

“Hold your Rahi” shrugged the Le-Matoran. “You’d all be dead already if it weren’t for me. If you don’t like survival, maybe you should have lagged behind when you followed me here.”

“True” admitted the Ko-Matoran acridly. “But I’d rather have died fighting in the open than of hunger and thirst, trapped like a Desert Fox in its den.”

“You can die any time you like” snarled Goll, taking an unprecedented step closer to Torlo. “The Rahkshi are waiting. Go pick a fight with them if you’ve so eager to die quickly.”

“Maybe I’ll pick a fight with you instead” snarled Kyros, his knuckles whitening around his spear – the one he’d thrown down the Aquatic Rahi’s throat and that Goll had fished out again hours before.

“You Ko-Matoran can be so juvenile and selfish” snapped Sarnii before the insults could escalate further. “Instead of being grateful of an extra day, you’re bitter and scrap with each other like Rahi.”

“What do we have to be grateful for?” retorted the white and blue-armored Matoran. “We’re surrounded! We’ll die like the others who lie here and our bones will rot slowly, unburied, ignored by the world.”

“Not necessarily” snorted Goll. “The Rahkshi haven’t built up a wide shelter and we’re not weaponless. If we break through their ranks, they won’t be able to chase after us.”

“That won’t be easy” disagreed Torlo warningly, studying the land ahead. “There’s a lot of space between this ring and the trees. We can’t surprise them. They’ll see us coming and converge at that point.”

“So we separate. We pair off and dart at them from a few directions at once. I doubt everyone’ll make it through but some of us should.”

“The strongest” noted the Le-Matoran softly. “But what about the others?” He eyed Connla and Turas.

The Ga-Matoran stepped forwards. “We’ll take our chances!” she retorted stiffly. The Matoran of Air cringed on the inside, annoyed at himself for singling her out. Connla was no warrior but she knew how to fight and she wasn’t afraid to die. All she wanted was to be treated equally, not as the helpless, dependant spare part.

“What about Fiancha?”

A beat of silence passed. Goll shook his head. “If he can’t walk that means he can’t run. He’s as good as dead... but he’ll probably die soon anyway.” He smiled bleakly at the Matoran of Earth. “Sorry to put it so bluntly old friend.”

“Don’t worry about it” croaked the Onu-Matoran, grinning back. “''I didn’t want any of you guys to be there when I died anyway... just wish I didn’t have to be either... anyway... will it work?''”

“I’m not sure” grunted Goll, doing some quick calculations in his head. “We could maybe make the distance back to the village in a day if split, but we’d have to run, and there’s no way we’d outrun anything between here and the boats. Assuming we survive that… we’d have to walk by night as well.”

“But we’ve more hope this way, so we’ll have to chance it, right?” asked Iolan inquisitively.

“If you’re willing to make that sacrifice.”

“You’re all insane” sneered Kyros. “You’ll kill yourselves for nothing instead of doing the wise thing.”

“And what’s that?” enquired Goll with all the sweetness of an Ice Bat’s bite.

“Leave a decoy… probably Fiancha… after all, he isn’t going anywhere. Then we can get to the river, take the boats and sail to the coast. We can get out of here and head to Metru-Nui without all the slaughter!”

Silence.

Torlo shook his head. “I never had a high opinion of you before, Kyros, but I wouldn’t have expected this, not even from a lowly worm like you. Flee when Santis is in danger? Run when there’s a war going on? I don’t believe you’re of our people.”

The Ko-Matoran growled menacingly and began to advance on Torlo, but the Le-Matoran shot him his own scornful glare. He stopped, recognized the severity of the Matoran’s wrath, then thought twice about stabbing him. In the end he only scowled and spat at his feet before turning away in a sulk. With a fatigued sigh Torlo glanced at the sky. “Well, if we’re going to try anything we’ll need to do it soon. The earlier we split up, the better. We’ll only get more tired and hungry from this point onwards… Does everyone remember the way back to the boats? Because I’m not putting my life on the line to give directions. I hope – ”

“Wait!” snapped Connla, directing the tip of one of her whips in an easterly direction. All heads turned to follow her outstretched arm. There seemed to be some kind of disturbance. Rahkshi and Visorak were mobilizing, retreating back into the trees, starting off slow then charging away, leaving the Matoran behind. Others gazed on after them, confused.

Creeping closer, Torlo squinted and focused, dimly aware that the others followed his example and crowded round. There was a flare of crimson as a Visorak Suukorak was sent flying. It withered and squirmed, landing on its back, legs twitching before a deep stillness overcame it. ''There was a perfectly straight line of magma dripping from its underbelly. ''

Toa Santis tore through the trees, blazing like a God.

The Toa of Fire bellowed a mighty roar and lava bubbled from his palms. His sword dripped with Plasma. His eyes blazing with red-hot fury. The temperature seemed to shoot up as the savage hero’s sword sliced through the air, sending heads rolling. The head of one unfortunate Rahkshi of Illusion ended up being hit with such force that it landed in the stone circle… ''without the rest of its body. '' But it immediately became obvious that the Toa was in bad form. The sun seemed to darken for that moment of realization. He was bleeding all over. Torlo could only barely see his right eye – it looked like his mask had been taken off and he’d had his face clawed at it. Plus he was missing the tops of all four fingers on his left hand, plus two on his right.

But then his eyes locked on the Matoran and the murder seemed to disappear from his expression, gone in an instant, as if a passing gust of wind had cleared it from his head. In that moment he looked vulnerable. He was open to any kind of attack from the circle of monsters. He drew to a halt halfway between the trees and the stones. It was like he’d just strolled into some arena match.

The Rahkshi and Visorak didn’t hesitate. They bunched together, snarling and drooling, reaching out towards him, each wanting to be the first to snag him and feast on his flesh. But the Toa dodged the claws, pincers and teeth of the creatures then started to… to… No! Torlo couldn’t believe his eyes. He blinked in utter disbelief, wondering if he’d finally given in to insanity.

Toa Santis had started to dance.

It was crazy. Foolish. Ridiculous. But he danced anyway. It wasn’t a graceful dance, or a dance of tradition or power. He just threw his sword tip-first into the ground and hopped from one armored foot to another, clapping his hands, waving them around, grunting a few off-key tunes.

The demons in the dark went wild, infuriated by the display. Santis was taunting them, dancing around within their reach, mocking them. They fell over one another in their fury, clutching, grasping, desperate to drag him down and end his insolence. Some even stepped out of the shade of the trees and lunged at him, risking the burning rays of the morning.

The battered Danju-wearer dodged all of them, leaping here, darting there, dancing the whole time. He set off on a circuit, his attackers following him. He came within the range of those that’d been standing their ground, keeping an eye on the Matoran. As he passed they lost interest in everything but the dancing Toa and joined in with the rest of their monstrous allies, giving chase, lashing out, spitting poison.

Within minutes every Rahkshi and Visorak in the clearing was focused on Santis, stumbling after him, chasing each other, fighting amongst themselves. The Brotherhood’s foot-soldiers had never been the most logical of creatures. Now they’d lost their senses entirely and only cared about destroying this waltzing thorn in their sides. They’d completely forgotten about the trapped Matoran.

“I never would have believed it if I had not seen it” muttered Goll, stunned, watching the show with a wide, incredulous eye.

“He’s sliding through their fingers like smoke” chuckled Iolan, who wasn’t doing a particularly good job of disguising the fact his jaw was on the ground.

“There’s more to the fool than we thought” grunted Kyros dismissively, a hint of disapproval in his voice. He didn’t like surprises, even if they worked to his advantage.

“Come on” commanded Torlo. “He’s created a gap for us to slip through. Let’s not waste it by giving them a chance to regain their senses.”

“What about Santis?”

“He’ll be fine” laughed the Le-Matoran. “He’ll catch us up later, after he’s gotten tired and started massacring them. I think it would take all the Rahkshi in this land to snare that Toa!” Torlo marched forwards, secretly not liking the idea of leaving the Toa behind but knowing it was for the greater good.

But he came to a stop after a couple of steps, urging Goll to take the lead as he looked back at the Toa. He studied Santis as he continued to dance around the rim of the circle, teasing and tormenting the creatures. But, as he watched, he noticed that one of the monsters wasn’t chasing the hero. Strangely, it was neither a Rahkshi or a Visorak. An Onu-Matoran it seemed, almost completely hidden in the shade, masked by a dark veil.

The figure stood alone, ignoring the commotion, gaze fixed on the circle of rocks and the fleeing Matoran. He couldn’t see very well but Torlo was sure he could see the strange Matoran’s eyes blazing crimson. And his jet-black armor appeared pale and clumpy, as though made of wet clay. He wore a Kanohi Avsa, twisted and mis-shapen to have pincers and sharp spikes.

There was something especially disturbing about the Matoran amongst the Rahkshi. Why he hadn’t been torn to pieces by the monsters was another mystery, one that seemed to trouble the Matoran even as Iolan thumped him supportively on the back and pointed in the opposite direction, where the trees stood unguarded.

Then, before he could steal another glance at the strange Onu-Matoran, Torlo barked an order and the group broke into a run, surging forwards for freedom, heads down, knees kicking up clouds of dust behind them. In the heat of the moment all thoughts, except those of escape, slipped from the Matoran’s head and blew away on the cool morning breeze, though he still remained suspicious, and one certain fact would remain with him, right up till the day he died:

He had just seen Makuta Karabak.

Chapter 7
Written by Abc8920

One could say many things about the Southern Continent; for some it had once been a key commercial point between the northern landmasses and the unexplored south, for others a nice countryside. Some considered it to be the location in the Matoran Universe with the prettiest landscapes, while some pointed out at how it was a Makuta-made hell. But Fiancha felt something entirely different.

The Southern Continent was huge.

Even though the statement was simple and obvious, he didn’t think that any of the group had actually considered what it took to cross the continent with the starting point being their village. Even he, who normally gave some thought to things, had not imagined how slow and sluggish the tread through the land would be.

They probably should have taken some more food with them. Santis had argued that they could hunt on their way, but - in reality - that only made their trip even slower. But he had decided not to argue back. He only spoke when it was really necessary, and it hadn’t been such an occasion.

The thing was, overall he didn’t share the optimism with the rest of the group. He had decided to leave, but not for some idealistic dream, not for helping Santis, not even for getting himself a new, better life. Years had taught him that the world would be sick machine and his life bad, no matter where or when. Therefore, he had just agreed out of boredom.

And he was starting to get bored now. They were trekking along some woods as a dense fog crept through the undergrowth, advancing slowly but surely towards an undetermined point in the unknown.

Walking next to him was Turas, the Rode-wearing Po-Matoran. Fiancha couldn’t recall if he had decided to walk next to Turas or rather if it had been a result of fortune, but the Po-Matoran was probably the one who he got on the best with in the group.

Turas was a quiet guy; more or less like him. The Matoran of Stone almost never spoke, always looked calm, maybe even too calm. His eyes always seemed to be staring into an unspecified direction, and unless a Rahkshi appeared, he just couldn’t be disturbed by anything.

However, there was one trait that differentiated him from Turas; basically, he didn’t speak because he chose to not do so, whereas Turas didn’t speak most of the time because he lacked the self-confidenc. There was a very big difference between cynicism and shyness.

Fiancha was almost relieved when the forest ended, and what looked like a grassy landscape extended in front on them. However, as soon as they neared one of the cliffs they realized how unnatural it was. The walls were almost vertical, and at the bottom of the indent there was some water, making the “valley” look like a pool.

“This” – started Krennato, the wise and creepy Ga-Matoran – “is the place where the Great Spirit landed, in the time before time, coming from the heavens...” The old one continued with her usual babble about mythology. Fiancha didn’t even bother listening to her, for he already know what happened here, quite some time ago.

The truth was that this section of the forest had a complex series of tunnels – the Nui Caves- underneath. The Order of Mata Nui - back where they still gave a Burnak about what happened down in the south of the Universe - had decided that it would be fitting to use the Nui Caves as a place to plan out their advances on the regions under Brotherhood’s sphere of influence.

However, apparently something had gone absolutely wrong, and the Order blew up part of the caves, bringing down a gentle hill that became the ‘Great Spirit Valley’.

The crazy Ga-Matoran appeared to be the cleverest one in the group, but Fiancha knew that that was just a façade behind which an unstable mind hid. The fact that she was - or at least looked like - the oldest Matoran in the village didn’t make her the smartest. He himself hadn’t gotten any clever with time. Krennato firmly believed in the lies that her subconscious produced, and that was enough for everybody to consider her some kind of mystic shaman.

She didn’t know about the true history of the valley, just like the rest of the group. But he wasn’t going to tell them. He just was the fisherman. He didn’t consider himself the smartest one either, but he at least was capable of reading standard Matoran, something which most of the group members probably couldn’t boast about.

And that was about it, he had just been lucky enough to pick up some stone tablets in one of his nets one day, detailing the disastrous Order of Mata Nui mission.

The group walked closer to the cliffs, until they were on the edge, and contemplated it. There was something strange in the centre. It was a diminutive patch of emerged land, just big enough for one Matoran to stand on top of, with what looked like some kind of metallic material on it. Unfortunately, the valley was far too deep for any of them to clearly see what it was.

There were a few seconds of silence, in which the same question floated around the minds of all the questers, until Kyros was the one who decided to materialize it with his Kanoka-disk-sized mouth.

“Who’s going down there? That thing may be worth a check.”

Each of the members of the expedition looked at one another, searching for an approval sign, but all they found was the same expression over and over, the one that was able to say without pronouncing any words: ‘let someone else do it’.

Fiancha was already starting to grow sick of it all, but he controlled his emotions with the endless patience that every fisherman has.

For once in a long time he considered speaking up suggesting Santis as the one to descend to check the mysterious object, but he chose to oppress that though, deciding it would be better if the others decided for themselves. Life had also taught him that it was better to observe arguments than to take part on them.

By the expressions on their faces, Fiancha could tell much of what each Matoran wanted. Kyros felt like he had excluded himself when he had pointed out the problematic. Fiancha didn’t get around much with the Ko-Matoran but he knew that it was better to not do business with him.

Goll on the other hand was clearly convinced that Connla was the one to be chosen. Goll himself was one who he did respect a lot. Unlike Krennato, Goll was probably wise in the right meaning of the word, and not just old and senile.

His arguments weren’t exactly well-founded, but it made sense to think that Connla was the best swimmer out there. And Fiancha had to admit, with traces of embarrassment, that he couldn’t swim. A fisherman that couldn’t swim. That was an argument that he could use, but he really wasn’t going to enter the discussion anyway.

Connla argued back that she wouldn’t have the strength to climb the walls once she had examined whatever was down the hole. A valid argument, but from the look of her eyes he could tell that fear played an important part in that argument too. Fiancha didn’t see that as bad. All of the members of the expedition, including him, had been under constant stress since they had left. It was probably better to let it out like the Pakari-wearer did rather than let it corrode from the inside.

The Vo-Matoran called Sarnii was instead pointing at Turas, saying the Po-Matoran was one with the greatest physical strength. The Matoran of Stone didn’t even respond to that and just laid on the grassy ground looking at the clouds in the sky, having some kind of herb in his mouth while he did so.

But Fiancha wasn’t the only one who found himself out of place in the argument. He could tell that Santis’ patience was running thin, judging by his murderous looks at the Matoran. There was also Turas, absent as always, and Torlo, who was close to the discussing Matoran but saying nothing. The Le-Matoran was just staring at Sarnii and Connla, probably thinking about the past. So, in the end, he decided to lie on the ground and stare at the clouds just like his Po-Matoran companion was doing.

A few minutes later, he had to stop looking at the midday sky as Santis finally decided to intervene.

“Oh please, for Mata Nui’s sake, just stop!”

The Matoran, who had been arguing for a long while, but actually saying nothing, all shut up and looked at the Toa.

“Any one of you” – continued the Toa, still angered - “would be far better suited than I am for doing this. The stone that makes up the walls is fragile and it will be more likely to break under my weight. But, seeing as none of you have the maturity to suck up your squabbling and pick a suitable candidate for this trivial task, I will do it anyway.”

Everyone sat on the ground, silenced as the Toa started his descent. Santis was probably the most responsible member of the expedition. The other Matoran owed him a lot, and so he did.

Fiancha was still unsure of their protector. Granted, the Toa of Fire had been the one who had healed him with his Danju, and saved him from having to receive the treatments of Krennato, but there was something strange about him. Something alien and unlikable. It disburbed him though he would never admit it aloud.

He walked closer to the edge, and watched the Toa slowly climb down the wall of stone.

There are moments where time becomes subjective. Hours can fly like sand through a closed fist, and a few seconds can be enough to realise hidden truths, review one’s miserable life or even just become crazy. Santis was experiencing one of those moments.

He hadn’t actually descended far before he had fallen. Now, he didn’t actually remember if he had fallen because his Danju had showed him that he would fall in a brief spawn of time, or rather he had jumped off because he was already going to fall anyway.

It didn’t really matter. He was already in the air, and the ground was rushing to meet him.

Instead of playing the role of some pretentious hero, he should have kicked some Matoran down the hole and watched how they reacted to it. They were probably having fun watching him hopelessly kick the air. Sometimes the humour of Matoran could be a lot sicker than that of a Rahkshi.

Finally he met his fate. He crashed against the water, hard as a rock and cold as ice, and then hit a muddy floor. His whole body ached, and his mind was clouded as the instinct to swim to the surface overrode anything else in his head. The Toa opened his eyes, but the water was murky and he couldn’t differentiate up from down.

Don't panic he thought to himself. Stay calm, hold your breath. After a moment of calmness, he began to drift upwards, the forces of upthrust repelling his battered body from the riverbed. With a lot of effort he managed to force his head out of the water, and took a deep breath. The hardest part was done, apparently.

Santis looked up, to the cliff-top where, in turn, the Matoran were staring at him expectantly. Then, the Toa turned his head, and found the cross in the centre of the valley’s lake. He started swimming towards it. The stagnant pool wasn’t too deep, approximately just three bio deep, and it became shallower nearer the cross. The bottom of the lake was made of the same material as the plain above, and there were also metallic pieces scattered. The Toa started to doubt that that hole had anything to do with Mata Nui.

And there it was. The cross was made of equally long, metal bars. It didn't seem to be any religious symbol of any kind, but rather the axels of some broken vehicle. There was some sort of robot impaled in the central bar, no bigger than a Matoran.

The robot itself was barely recognisable; it was way too oxidized to tell its original colour, and the armour was battered. In fact, it actually looked like it had been under a stampede of wild Mahi, judging by the state of the metallic components.

Santis stared for a moment at the cold unlit eyes of the machine and realized that he had his hand on the robot’s head. And then a flash came.

The Danju activated, and he saw a scene of the robot’s past. It took place in a forest, similar to those that Santis and the others had just passed, and the android walked through the undergrowth. Unfortunately, the fact that the memories were recorded from the robot’s perspective made Santis unable to unveil its identity.

It proceeded down a path in the forest, when suddenly something made the world spin. The grinning face of a biomechanical being appeared just before it banged its head against the robot’s, ending the scene.

There was no doubt in Santis mind. It had been a Skakdi.

---

The Toa of Fire finally sat on the grass back at the overhanging plain. He was exhausted after having to climb his way back to the surface. He looked at the afternoon sky, with the clouds stained with red and orange light as the day started to fade.

When he had recovered from the effort, Santis raised and looked at the plateau around him. The Matoran weren’t in any of the cliffs of the hole, where they had been during his descent.

After further examination he saw them next to the edge where the plain ended and the forest started once again. He ran fast, after seeing a preoccupied look in their faces.

One of them was missing.

When the Toa arrived there, all the Matoran were listening to Iolan, who was in the centre, with wet eyes and mumbling something about Rahkshi.

“What happened?”

Goll comforted Iolan, assuming the role of the village leader once more.

“I decided it would be better if we split in groups of two to search for some food.”

The Ta-Matoran raised his head, and slowly made eye contact with the Toa.

“The Rahkshi threw him off a cliff. Fiancha is dead.”

Chapter 8
Toa Santis stared dumbly at the Calix-wearer before him, standing in utter disbelief. For a moment he was stunned, transfixed on the spot, unable to move. Then, after several awkward second of unwelcome silence, he moved towards the edge of the cliff and looked down. The rest of the Matoran hung their heads, the joy of the victory already forgotten.

Kyros could feel a lump in his throat. He didn’t like it. Breathing was becoming hard and he didn’t want to choke to death over an Onu-Matoran losing his footing.

Normally it wasn’t in his nature to care about others. Matoran died every day. The Ko-Matoran didn’t see how Fiancha’s passing was any different. But still he felt a flicker of guilt. Images of the fallen Matoran flooded into his mind. He saw the black-armored fisherman fighting, hunting, laughing. He was sure the Matoran would have wanted to die this way, fighting, which made the loss far easier for Kyros to bear.

The way he saw it, life came and went. It was a principal of the universe. The living weren’t around forever and he had accepted that many years ago. What precious little time any of them had in this universe shouldn’t be wasted mourning the dead... unless it was he who had died. When that happened Kyros wanted the sky to burn and Ga-Matoran to be crying in the street. But that wasn’t going to happen for a while. Life wasn’t something to gamble with. He wasn’t a fool. Not like Fiancha had been.

“He fought bravely” muttered Iolan. He probably meant to comfort the others but there was something strange about his tone. It was almost patronizing, as if he were talking to a deaf person.

“Did he fall before or after the Rahkshi fled?” asked Santis, gripping his sword tighter.

“Before, of course” frowned the Ta-Matoran. “They forced him over. He was close to the edge. He never stood a chance. I tried to help but –”

“Yet they left you alone?” snorted Kyros, stepping forward into the conversation. “They killed him then ran?” He couldn’t believe it. This miserable little Matoran of Fire could barely stand up, his puny legs struggling to support his weight, yet he had survived, by some miracle, where another had fallen. ''It was Rahkshi-bile! ''

“They saw I wasn’t such an easy touch” grunted Iolan, his features darkening. “They got lucky with Fiancha. He was hurt. But then they tangled with me and realized they were out of their depth. They ran for their miserable, demonic lives.” The crimson Matoran’s eyes hardened.

“It’s strange” muttered Goll uneasily. “Rahkshi don’t fight that way. To catch someone in the open… outnumbering him… in broad daylight.”

“Enough!” snapped Santis, turning from the edge of the cliff. “A Matoran, who I could have saved, who I was responsible for saving, is dead! That’s the end of it. I don’t care why the Rahkshi ran. There will be no arguments, not at a time like this.” Iolan and Goll looked down uncomfortably, ashamed. Kyros knew no such emotion.

“He didn’t die through any fault of his own” sighed the Calix-wearer. “They took him by surprise, is all. It was just bad luck that he was so close to the edge. I would have saved him if I could.”

Krennato nodded slowly, as if the words of comfort had been addressed to her. “Luck will always turn against a warrior in the end. You have nothing to answer for, Iolan.”

''Snide old hag. Like she knew what she was talking about.''

Santis only grunted and began walking again, leaving the Matoran to follow him. Something told Kyros that the Toa’s mood had not been improved by Krennato’s words.

He just hoped Goll was standing in front of him if the Toa decided to take his rage out on someone.

The atmosphere remained unsavoury for most of the day. Progress was slow too. Fiancha’s death had taken the drive out of the Matoran but Toa Santis remained anxious to cover as much ground as possible before nightfall. Often the Toa would outpace his fellow questers and wouldn’t realize until he was on the other side of a valley or on the wrong side of a hill.

Worse still, the weather took a turn for the worse. The murky morning turned into a showery afternoon, soaking the group. Fortunately, that was only a minor inconvenience for most of them. Connla would take any amount of soakings after her unexpected escape from the Rahkshi.

At first there had been little conversation. But, eventually, Toa Santis’ determination withered and he fell back, lingering around the rear of the group with the likes of Turas and Krennato instead of spearheading a military march. As the pace slowed to something manageable, the Matoran felt more energy returning to their aching muscles. Not much, but enough to talk at least.

By early afternoon, Connla found herself at the middle of the group, walking alongside Torlo. They’d been discussing the ring of stones, wondering how old it was, who built it, what the original purpose might have been.

“It’s a shame they didn’t have stone tablets back then” muttered the Le-Matoran. “They could’ve told us who they were and lived on through their writing.”

“Depends what language they spoke, I suppose. Can you read?”

“A little” shrugged the blacksmith. “I learnt from a Ko-Matoran who couldn’t pay me for fixing his axe. Can you?”

The healer shook her head. “No. I don’t believe in recording things. I think that history should be kept alive by word of mouth.”

“Perhaps, but many stories are lost forever that way. I think –” He stopped, eyes narrowing. “Kyros!” he exclaimed. The egocentric Matoran of Ice had been leading for the last couple of hours, desperate to establish himself as head of the team. When he looked back, Torlo pointed to a spot off to the right. “There’s a hut over there. Is it a sentry post?”

Everyone gathered around the Matoran of Air. Connla could see the tip of a lookout post now that the crafter had pointed it out. It was like any other she’d seen before. A dull, dark structure hidden behind shrubbery and flora with a high vantage point and cleverly-disguised windows.

Without a word the group advanced on the hut. Connla’s insides were tight. It was a feeling she always got when silence fell and people grew tense. The feeling only got worse as they drew closer. She sensed a power within. A dark, throbbing, painful power. It gave her a headache and disturbed her. It seemed to be affecting the others too.

Kyros stepped forward then stepped back again and turned to Goll. “What do you suggest? Go in together or send a scout first?”

“Together” answered the warrior after a moment of thought. “To separate is to weaken. But everybody draw your weapons and tread carefully.”

When they were all prepared the Matoran advanced cautiously, scanning the branches of trees overhead, eyes darting between charred, black trunks and crisp piles of burnt foliage.

After about a minute of slow, careful snooping, they arrived at a small island in the forest. There was a mound of earth in the middle, supporting a fenced fort, containing half a dozen huts. There was another sentry post built above the gate, and from the marks behind it and on the shore they were standing on, it looked like there had once been a bridge connecting the island to the mainland. But it had been demolished, probably to keep Rahkshi and Visorak out. There were several wooden rafts moored to the opposite side of the moat.

“Hello!” bellowed Torlo. Echoes then silence. “Anyone there?” When the silence held he added “'''We’ve come to help. We’re here to...'''” He trailed off into silence since it was obvious nobody was going to answer.

“It’s a ghost village” muttered Iolan.

“We’re too late” sniffed Kyros, insincerely.

“Not necessarily” muttered Sarnii, stepping forward. “There might be sheltering underground, in a tunnel system, where they can’t hear us. Look!” She extended one of her Shock Thumpers and pointed towards the rear of the village. “It’s wedged in next to that massive chunk of rock. Maybe it has a cave system.” Surely enough, as Connla squinted to see, she saw that the island was sheltered in a cove, where the water made a distinct U-shape against a rock plateau. The feature must have been formed through some erosional process, leaving the outcrop of hard rock thicker and more impermeable than the underlying soft rock that the land they were standing on.

Torlo grunted and glared at Sarnii and Kyros. “Every village we’ve come to you’ve mentioned underground shelter. You two seem to think Matoran do nothing but cower in fear.”

Sarnii’s eyes narrowed. “Why don’t you just accept the simple truth that, when nobody answers, it means they’re all dead?”

“I prefer to hope for the best” grunted Torlo, a menacing tremble in his tone. “Even when I can see just as clearly as you that it’s unlikely.” He locked eyes with the Matoran of Lighting and shot her a fierce gaze. She looked away.

“Are we going in or not?” grunted Iolan, eying the village uncertainly.

“We haven’t come all this way to turn back” answered Torlo with a grunt. “If nothing else, this place offers a place to rest tonight, and it’s getting late.”

“Unless it’s been taken over by Rahkshi” muttered Sarnii, undermining him.

“Unless it has been taken over by Rahkshi” agreed Torlo. “But we have to check. Kyros, will you swim across and come back with a boat for the rest of us?”

Kyros may have been a pain in the backside but it was still a well-known fact that he had been the best swimmer in their village, a strange trait for a Ko-Matoran. He could beat most Ga-Matoran in races, including Connla herself. The contrived Matoran hesitated, reluctant to bow to Torlo’s leadership, but then shrugged to himself. He stepped forward and studied the water, looking for any giant worm-Rahi. He couldn’t see any but that didn’t mean it was safe. Rahi often hid deep in the murky depths in the daylight, to avoid the rays of the sun.

Without saying anything, the Ko-Matoran threw down his weapons, stripped off his armor – not wanting to get it wet when he put it back on later – until he was standing in only his Kanohi, then dove in. He stroked powerfully, tearing through the water with incredible speed. The others watched nervously, weapons at the ready. Some of them were itching to throw spears even if Kyros wasn’t attacked.

The swimmer made it to the closest wooden raft unhindered and pulled himself out of the water, pausing to heave a quick sigh of relief. He brushed the water from his body before untying the rope mooring the raft to the bank, then rowed across to where the rest of the group was waiting, hard strokes, one eye on the setting sun.

Krennato, Goll, Iolan and Sarnii crossed first while Kyros put his armor back on. Then Goll rode back to pick up the others. Once the group had reassembled on the opposite bank they began to formulate a plan.

“Will we try the gate or should we go over the fence?” asked Goll.

“The gate’s open” grunted Torlo, cutting through the air with one of his Mental Bolt Launchers.

Goll squinted then chuckled. “My eyesight is deserting me. I was never the sharpest in my better days.” The warrior looked around.

Toa Santis stepped forward, his sword in his hand. “We’ll go in fast. Any sign of trouble, we retreat to the gate. Based on what we’re facing, we’ll decide then whether to fight or flee.”

Deep breath. Weapons drawn. A signal from the Toa.

In.

No Rahkshi. No Matoran either. There were a few wondering Rahi and lots of blood. A recent attack.

“Do you think they’re all dead?” asked Iolan. The Ta-Matoran had advanced forwards to meet Torlo and Goll at the head of the group as they approached the courtyard. A clearing in the huts, a community space.

“Unless they’re hiding” answered the Po-Matoran, eyes narrowed, nose wrinkled against the stench of the carnage.

“We should split up to search the huts” suggested Torlo. He continued before Goll had a chance to pass a command. “There are nine of us and only six huts.”

“So we split into pairs?” grunted Goll.

“Sure” answered the crafter. “Well, pairs of two plus Santis. I’m guessing he won’t want to be pinned down to any of us and it’s best if he’s free if one of us is attacked.”

“Wise choice” grunted the Toa, drumming his remaining fingers on the hilt of his sword while it rested in its sheath.

The Matoran looked at each other then fractured apart, each pairing up with the person closest. Torlo and Connla, Goll and Krennato, Kyros and Sarnii, Turas and Iolan.

Torlo pointed at Iolan. “You lead Sarnii’s group and check the two foremost huts. Goll, you and Krennato check the rearmost huts, Connla and I will take the middle two. Santis, just wander between and stick a sword in anything that isn’t a part of this group. We’ll all meet in the middle if it’s all clear.”

The team simultaneously nodded then set off quickly, each of them aware of the rapidly setting sun.

It was almost the time of the nightmares in the dark.

The first hut that Sarnii checked with her team had holes torn in the walls, making it easy to peer in. The floor was caked in drying blood but otherwise empty. In the end Turas was the one forced into going inside. When he returned his eyes were wide with horror.

“Three bodies, no trapdoor or hiding places” he wheezed. His feet were stained scarlet.

The second hut was smaller than the first, a tiny entrance. No holes in the walls. Dark pools and shadows. The Matoran stuck their heads through the doorway, allowing their eyes to adjust to the gloom. Objects gradually swam into sight. Pots, a small table, a broken chair. Rugs on the floor – which could be hiding a hidden exit. Tempting. The four Matoran glanced at each other then slid inside, Iolan first, Kyros last, looking up for any Rahkshi clinging from the thatch. Turas and Iolan worked on the rugs – nothing. When they’d finished they placed themselves on either side of Sarnii and looked at Kyros as he exclaimed in joy.

The bloody corpse of a Su-Matoran lay on the floor, with half of a Ce-Matoran sprawled out behind him. Probably his wife. Kyros was prying at the spear in his hands. He tore it out of the warrior’s grip then held it up in the air, a broad smile on his mask.

“Have you no respect for the dead?” Sarnii felt like slapping him but saw no point. The gluttonous Matoran of Ice would probably claim her hand as his own.

“What’s to respect about a corpse?” snorted Kyros. “It’s a dead guy, and why’s he dead?” Nobody answered. “Because he wasn’t a good enough a fighter. It's survival of the fittest. He would've wanted me to have this.”

With that inconsiderate remark, the Matoran of Ice stepped through the door, leaving the others staring at the two broken bodies, wondering how any one person could care so much about himself that he wouldn’t bat an eyelid over the carnage before them.

Goll knelt down on his knees and lay his axes aside. He squinted as he leaned in closer to inspect the burnt-out campfire in the centre of the village. There was a small pot nearby. It was upside-down. He lifted it up to see a rotten fish, decaying from when it had been dropped. Grunting in disgust he placed the pan back over it.

He looked up to see Krennato wandering out of the right-hand hut with something in her hand. As she drew closer he realized it was a Kraata. The wretched worm-like creature was colored bright blue and red, indicating it was a Kraata of Electricity. Dead. It was obvious seeing as the Ga-Matoran didn’t have shocks of electricity surging through her body. As she drew nearer she turned it over to reveal a knife had been driven into the slug’s mouth and up into its tiny bug-brain. A victory token. Probably done after a battle to assert dominance.

“It’s been dead for a matter of days” muttered the female. “This village was only abandoned recently, within the week.”

The team’s Toa of Fire strolled past them and walked up to the rock wall at the rear of the village. It was completely vertical. There was a strange face-shaped notch carved into the rock. Santis tapped it with his remaining forefinger then turned to face the two Matoran, a dangerously eccentric glimmer in his eyes.

“Sand” he chuckled, as if it were the funniest thing in the world.

“Sand?” frowned Goll. He glanced at Krennato then they both looked at their feet. The centre of the village had been covered in sand. It drained rainwater far quicker than dirt and this area of the Southern Continent was known for particularly bad waterlogging. It was easier for the community members to walk around on and there was always the life-saving chance that it could be kicked in the face of a Rahkshi or Visorak to distract them in an attack. Goll had often considered using it in his own village but it would be too hard to carry sand up the hill from the banks of the river below and it could be brought into the dwelling, which was an inconvenience, plus it was harder to build on.

“What is sand?” muttered the Toa.

The two Matoran glanced at each other again uncertainly. “It’s broken up rocks” grunted Goll.

“Close” shrugged the Toa. “Sand is composed chiefly of granular rock particles and mineral deposits. It’s usually found in sediment of an aquatic nature, meaning it was dug up and carried from the river we crossed.”

“That’s a lot of hard work” remarked the Pakari Nuva-wearer, unsure where the Toa was steering the conversation.

“A lot” agreed the Toa. “In big clumps, and made heavier by the water, carrying the sand would be very hard for a couple of "fixed" Matoran. So, in normal circumstances, they’d carry the bare minimum, wouldn’t you agree?”

“They’d only carry enough to surround the village” agreed Goll.

Santis smiled and pointed at the cliff. “Then why does the sand lead up to the cliff?”

“Maybe they liked to climb it.”

“With sand on their feet? I think not.”

“What do you think?”

“I think that I see footprints in the sand” muttered the Toa. “Footprints that go into the cliff face.”

Goll’s eyes widened as Iolan and his group returned. “What are you saying? That the rock can be moved?”

“No, I’m saying the Matoran who lived here were ghosts” snorted Santis sarcastically. He rapped a finger against the face-shaped notch. “I think it’s an entrance into the rock.”

“Well, whatever it is, it’s not our biggest problem.” The heads turned to see Torlo stepping out from behind one of the middle huts, Connla closely behind. Both of them had put away their weapons and both held items in their hands. In Torlo’s was a brown Kanohi Kualsi, split down the middle then trampled on. In Connla’s hands was something Goll had never seen.

She was holding a green container, like a strangely shaped box with no lid, in which an intimidating, blotchy grey face rested. The eyes were empty but they still twisted into a hate-filled glower. It looked organic and fleshy, like somebody had torn the organic parts off of several Matoran then stitched them together to make a Kanohi. Only it looked like no mask Goll had laid eyes on.

Krennato gasped and waddled forwards, terror in her eyes as she snatched at the item. Connla stood where she was, startled as the strange fleshy mask was torn out of its container. Krennato stared at it, as if it was a body part. Then her face fell and the life seemed to drain from her wrinkled features.

“This is a Krana” she murmured, turning it over in her hands. “The driving force behind a species called the Bohrok. This particular Krana is dormant, a Krana Vu, capable of enabling a Bohrok to fly short distances.”

“What the hell are you nattering about, witch?” snorted Kyros in disgust.

The Ga-Matoran shot him a glare that silenced him. “Do not undercut me, Ko-Matoran” she snarled with venom. “The Bohrok are a force to be reckoned with. They have one sole, destructive purpose in this universe. They exist to cleanse the very world, to purge anything standing in the way of the swarm.”

“Swarm?” spluttered Torlo. “Exactly how many of these things are there?”

Krennato turned to face him, her eyes narrow. “Enough to serve their purpose.” There was unquestionable weight to her words. “If the Bohrok have been unleashed here…”

“So these Bohrok attacked the village?” asked Sarnii with a frown.

“There were Bohrok here” nodded the Ga-Matoran. “But the locals fought back. What you have found are the remains of a Lehvak Va, a messenger for the Lehvak swarm. It’s Krana is inactive.” She threw the Krana Vu on the ground then kicked sand on top of it and spat in its direction.

“What about the passageway you mentioned?” asked Kyros, slowly recovering from being silenced.

“It will lead to the Bohrok Hive” muttered the Ga-Matoran. “We will not go near it. This village is not safe. We will find no shelter here tonight. We must leave this cursed place as soon as – ”

“We’re not leaving, soothsayer” growled Santis. He spoke calmly. There was no menace in his eyes, but no warmth either. He regarded the shaman in the way any other person would regard a Visorak. “You are welcome to sleep on the other side of the moat if it brings you comfort but your spiritualist natter will not change anything. The sun is setting and we have shelter. We are not leaving and I am not putting innocent Matoran in jeopardy because you’re scared of absent creatures.”

Krennato shot the Toa a hateful glower then muttered something to herself. Before the Toa could humiliate her further, however, a skull-shattering scream emanated from one of the huts.

''There was somebody inside. ''

Torlo didn’t waste time flinching. The second he heard the cry he dropped the broken Kanohi in his hands and made a break for the hut, knowing a second’s delay could mean life or death.

It was a cry of agony, one of pain and fear. It wasn’t something to be scared of. It was an innocent, probably a villager stranded in one of the huts Goll and Krennato were supposed to have checked. When he drew closer however, he saw why the hut hadn’t been inspected. A thick table had been propped up against the door frame, blocking the entrance. Snarling at the obstacle, Torlo tensed, locked his eyes onto the furniture item, then charged forwards, ramming into it, shoulder-first. There was a shower of splinters as the wood snapped and he regained his balance.

“Heeeeeeeeelp” wheezed a broken voice.

The Matoran of Air looked around, eyes wide, heart light blinking fast. His shoulder hurt but he ignored the pain as the others crowded around outside. He raised a hand and signaled for them to stay outside. To his surprise, they obeyed.

The crafter stared into the shadows. He couldn’t see anything as the hut had no windows but he knew he wasn’t alone. Long, terrifying seconds passed where he feared there was still an attacker in the room. Then the swirling darkness stopped dancing and the cloud that obscured his vision faded away. He saw a heart light in the gloom. Feeling his way forward, Torlo stuck an arm out to find the Matoran pinned to the ground, buried beneath some kind of shelving unit. With two quick slashes of his blades, the rotten wood slid away and the villager was freed.

He heard painful coughs as he wrapped an arm around the survivor and pulled him to his feet. Slowly, they edged towards the doorway, at an agonizingly slow pace. He didn’t realize until they were outside that the Matoran was babbling. A fragile-looking Le-Matoran, clad in green and silver armor. Torlo wondered if a gust of wind would fell the villager.

“''Wh... wh... where is it? What have they done with it? I... I need to find it or I’m dead''” he spluttered, stumbling over his own words. The Matoran of Air lurched and burst out of Torlo’s arms. The Zatth-wearer tripped and steadied himself only to see the startled villager disappear off into another hut, running, arms flailing from side to side frantically.

“What the hell’s he playing at?” frowned Kyros as the others crowded around the entrance. The Le-Matoran was inside, rooting his way through a pile of Kanohi. Some were already broken. Masks went flying as he sifted through the mound.

“What are you looking for, friend?” asked Goll, adopting a friendlier tone. “Do you need medical attention? We have two healers travelling with us.”

“I don’t need help” implored the Matoran of Air as he hurled a scarlet Faxon over his shoulder. Then his face fell and he stopped digging. “Oh no” he gasped as his hands wrapped around two sides of a broken mask and he rose to his feet. Torlo had to fight his way past Turas and Sarnii to get a glimpse of the splintered Kanohi Rode.

The survivor stumbled towards the doorway, his eyes fixed on the Kanohi in his hands, his wrist blades hanging uselessly across his arms.

“What is your name?” grunted Iolan, stepping forwards to put a supportive hand on the Matoran’s shoulder.

The Matoran of Air stared at him then shook his head and swallowed. “It’s… it’s Romak” he frowned. “But that’s not important.” He raised the broken Kanohi Rode. “It’s been broken! They’re going to kill me for that! Oh… Mata Nui.” He collapsed to his knees, his arms slumping to either side of him with the two Kanohi splinters in his hands still.

“I should’ve known” exclaimed Kyros. “He’s insane!”

Torlo ignored him and pushed past the Ko-Matoran to support his fellow Le-Matoran. “What happened here, brother?” he asked in as friendly a tone as he could manage.

“Bohrok” shrugged the villager. “We were expecting a Rahkshi attack. We were exhausted – close to collapse, at the very jaws of surrender. It was only a matter of days but we had our duty.”

“Your duty being?” enquired Sarnii bluntly.

The Matoran hesitated. “To guard the entrance to the nest.” He pointed to the cliff face. “The Order of Mata Nui put us here. Our original village was overrun long ago but the Order helped us, saved most of us from the slaughter. They needed guards, we were in their dept. So they placed us in this place and told us to guard it.”

“But something went wrong and the Bohrok got out?”

Romak nodded. “One of us, Jekkai, an Onu-Matoran, he betrayed us. He opened the entrance we’d vowed with our lives to keep shut and unleashed the Bohrok. They ravaged our village.”

“And you are the sole survivor?” snorted Kyros, clearly a challenge. He phrased it harshly but he still had a point. It was unlikely for all the villagers to perish except this one stranger. Perhaps this Jekkai hadn’t been the traitor.

“They didn’t see me” answered the Matoran. “I hid.”

“Sounds like a coward” continued Kyros, a malicious sneer on his Kanohi.

The Le-Matoran paused then shrugged. “Call me what you will friend. I’ve heard it all before. And being bullied by you isn’t my biggest problem right now.”

Romak scuttled towards the rest of the group. The Matoran parted to let him pass as he waddled onwards, towards the face-shaped notch, the two pieces of the Kanohi in either hand. He slotted them together and tried to press them against the carving.

''Nothing happened. ''

“What are these Bohrok?” asked Torlo, stepping forwards. “Why do they come to our lands? Why now?”

“I do not know” whimpered Romak as he dropped the fractured Kanohi into the sand and bowed his head in resignation. “Until last week, I had never seen them. We were told only to guard the entrance and to grant passage to any Order of Mata Nui agents who passed through the area and were required to inspect the nest.”

“Are they allied with the Rahkshi?” frowned Goll. Judging by the wreckage of the settlement, such a partnership could prove to be catastrophic.

“They are servants of the Order” answered the Le-Matoran. “But they are a force of destruction, and if awakened early or in the wrong place… they could level the Southern Continent.”

“Can they be defeated?”

“Not by Matoran means – obviously. But you’re missing the point. If the Bohrok have been awakened then it is not of the Order of Mata Nui’s doing. I fear the Brotherhood has some involvement. And if the Makuta have control of the Bohrok…” The life drained from the Matoran’s Kanohi. “...Then Axonn’s going to kill me.”

Torlo glanced at Goll. His features were tightening, much like he imagined his own features were. They’d guessed that more intelligent, stronger soldiers were coming, but not that they’d be organized. The Rahkshi and Visorak were formidable foes but they were scattered, relying on tribal attacks. Most were just scavengers. These Bohrok, however, were an army. They could wipe out all life on the continent if commanded to. If Romak was correct then his words could herald the end to all they’d ever known and cared about.

“Well the Bohrok Va fell pretty easily” snorted Kyros, gesturing to the remains Connla had dragged out of the hut. “We can fight these creatures ourselves when they come, Brotherhood or not.”

Romak turned to fix him with an irate stare then smiled and chuckled madly. His laughter offended them all, but before any of them could react he spoke quickly. “The Bohrok Va are nothing. They are Stone Rats before a great plague. They are robotic servants, made solely to aid the Bohrok. They carry replacement Krana to and fro.”

“Then we must destroy them” grunted Santis, stepping forward.

Again, Romak smothered a snort then cowered as Santis growled and threw his sword at his feet. The great weapon sliced through the sand and buried itself in the soil beneath, causing the Le-Matoran to fall over in shock. After recomposing himself he returned to his feet and addressed the red-armored warrior.

“I mean you no disrespect, hero” he implored. “But I know the might of the Bohrok. I have seen the threat that they pose to this world. You are one Toa against an army. I know you not but even your strength and power must know limits.”

“Wanna bet?” snarled Santis. He took a sudden step forwards, creating a cloud of dust around his armored foot. Romak quivered in fear and recoiled.

“Santis is right” grunted Torlo, stepping between the Toa and Le-Matoran. “These Bohrok are a menace to our lands, and pose a greater threat that any wandering Rahkshi. They will bring chaos and destruction greater than anything we have seen before. In the war, our forests were burnt. If the Bohrok invade they won’t leave ashes.”

“You propose we fight the Bohrok?” frowned Iolan.

“It’s our duty” nodded Torlo. “These are our lands and our brothers and sisters who will suffer if we do not.”

“And what of our mission?” grunted Goll. “What of Metru-Nui and this Tollubo we are searching for?”

“We will deal with that afterwards” muttered Santis. “This is my quest and you Matoran will obey my direction if you wish to continue travelling.” He glared at Goll then shifted his gaze to Kyros and Krennato. “I don’t give a bucket of Rahkshi-bile about your local politics and your ambitions. I did not ask for you contrived, irrational simpletons to follow me. You volunteered, all of you.”

The Toa snatched up his weapon in the blink of an eye and gripped it tightly in his hand as he continued challenging his followers. “I am a Toa and I am bound by duty to protect innocents. You are all liabilities. You burden my quest.”

''Silence. ''

The Toa’s gaze dug into the very souls of every single one of the questers. Nobody argued with his authority. “Now Torlo and I are going to confront these Bohrok. You Matoran have a choice whether or not you follow us. I will not make any of your follow me, it is your decision and I respect that. But if you do follow me, this juvenile bickering stops. Is that understood?”

“You want us to fight the Bohrok?” snorted Kyros.

“If you have any sense” countered the Toa of Fire, his eyes narrow and his features dark. “The Bohrok are your problem. I am leaving this continent. The Bohrok, however, are not. They cannot cross the ocean to Metru-Nui. You and your people will suffer.”

“And how do you propose to defeat the swarms?” challenged Krennato grudgily.

The Danju-wearer cracked a smile then drew his sword and gestured towards the cliff. “At the moment there’s only one entrance and, right now, if it can be opened, it is vulnerable. One warrior in the right place, who knows what he is going, is all it will take. I am one such warrior.”

Santis looked questioningly at Goll. The old fighter was unhappy. His unease around the Toa was plain to see and was mirrored on the Kanohi of the other Matoran. But he was a noble and caring person at heart, and if what he’d just heard was true...

“We’ve made it this far” shrugged Iolan neutrally. “We can go further.”

It was clear that the Calix-wearer liked the idea of continuing journeying with the Toa and facing extra dangers and enemies. He was young and bloodthirsty, much like Torlo had once been. But what set the pair apart was that he’d realized the Ta-Matoran probably cared more about notching up killings than the welfare of the Matoran.

“Perhaps, if we succeed, we can form an alliance with the Bohrok” added Turas, his voice unsteady. Not used to speaking up. “They could help us defeat the Rahkshi. Maybe they could be used for good, to rebuild rather than destroy.”

“I’m in two minds” muttered Goll. “Our people will think the worst if we are gone too long. Perhaps one or two of us should go back. Connla, for instance – ”

“I’m staying!” interrupted the Ga-Matoran, with unexpected force. “This is my home as much as it is to any of you. I have every right to fight for it.”

Goll grunted. “Kyros?”

The Ko-Matoran glowered hatefully at the Toa of Fire, then spat at his feet. “I say damn him! Damn him and all his wretched Toa-kind! Where were they when the war started? When the Rahkshi first attacked, when so many of us died? We can hold our own without helping him, as we have since the start!”

“And if swarms of Bohrok attack by day?” asked Torlo softly, before Santis could decapitate the unruly Matoran. “More powerful than any we’ve ever faced before? Organized, brutal, harder to kill?”

The Ko-Matoran just snorted.

“It would be a great honor” suggested Sarnii wryly. Kyros’ audio receptors pricked and he became hooked. “If Santis succeeds and we play a part in that success, we’ll be hailed as heroes, throughout the Matoran Universe.”

That was the clincher for Kyros. If he could help save the entire land then his role as a leader would be guaranteed. He could have any high-ranking position he wanted. And maybe not just the ruler of the fortress. If Goll was to perish he could claim all of Voya-Nui as his own. Maybe more – the first king of the entire Southern Continent. Many had tried to gain complete control. All had failed. But still the greedier warriors dreamed...

“Very well” grunted the Ko-Matoran. “I say we go with him.”

Goll turned to face Krennato. The uncanny sorcerer snarled but nodded anyway. “The Bohrok are an infestation. They must be eradicated.”

“Then it is decided.” Goll nodded reluctantly.

“I thought so” grunted Santis sinisterly. Torlo would have expected a self-satisfied smirk on his Mask but the Toa let slip no such emotion from behind his rock-like expression.

“There’s still the question of how we actually open the entrance” contradicted Sarnii, her hands on her hips. Her tone was snide and pestering as usual. “We need a Kanohi Rode to open the entrance. And as our deranged friend told us, it got split in two.”

Santis grinned then glanced at the group. “We have a Kanohi Rode of our own.” There was a moment of awkward silence before the others caught on and followed his gaze.

''All eyes rested on Turas. ''

The Po-Matoran stepped back and let his eyes widen in fear. It was possible that there was only one thing he feared more than Rahkshi or Visorak: ''being put on the spot. ''

Romak gasped then scuttled closer.

“Your Kanohi!” he gawped. “We need your mask to open the gate.”

“But...” The Po-Matoran looked around helplessly, searching for support but finding none.

“It’ll only be for a second” added Torlo supportively.

“But, without a Kanohi... you know what happens!” pleaded the Po-Matoran.

It was a well-known fact. Matoran had always had need of Kanohi. They couldn’t survive without them. While a Toa would be rendered dizzy or a Turaga would be left weakened by the loss of a Kanohi, Matoran had a far more serious dependency on their masks. If Turas’ Kanohi was to be removed from his face then he would falter immediately and tumble into a comatose state if his mask was not replaced within an extended period of time.

But there was also the sentimental nature behind a Kanohi. A mask could retain the bearer’s consciousness within it. It became as much a part of a wearer as their arms or legs. It had been millennia since Torlo had thought of his own Kanohi Zatth as a piece of metal magnetized to his face.

“But there are other Kanohi here” suggested Iolan. “In that hut Romak came from. I’m sure there’ll be a replacement you can wear.” Without being told to, the Matoran of Fire waddled off in the direction of the hut and emerged a moment later with a brown Kanohi Hau. He offered it to the Po-Matoran.

Turas looked from one of his companions to the next then sighed and accepted it. “It doesn’t matter what I say. Even if you have to tear it off my face I know you guys are going to use it.”

“I’d take your head off with it” muttered Kyros darkly, only to be silenced when Torlo shot him an equally dark glare.

Romak leaned forward and carefully tugged on the mask until it came off. Instantly, Turas’ legs buckled and he fell to his knees groaning. Fortunately Sarnii and Goll grabbed him by either arm while Iolan attached the new Kanohi to his face. He shuddered then steadied himself, returning to his feet a moment later. The transition was all over in a matter of seconds.

“What about you, gate keeper?” asked Santis, his voice a low rumble. “Will you join us on our quest?”

Romak paused then shook his head. “Oh, no, no, no, no. It is my duty to guard the entrance. I cannot risk anyone else entering.” He continued talking as he slotted the Kanohi into the notch. There was an immediate grinding sound and the cliff face began to split. “I shouldn’t even be allowing you in, but if you are honor-bound to stopping the threat of the Bohrok and returning them to sleep then I suppose Axonn wouldn’t mind if I –”

Romak never got to finish his sentence. A jet of green sludge erupted from the entrance of the nest as it opened, blasting the Le-Matoran full-on. He screamed as he was thrown backwards. The viscous slime corroded away at his armor, sizzling and burning him. He seemed to wither and melt, slowly crumpling in on himself and blackening darker than night. Within seconds the acidic stream had engulfed him and his body dissolved away into nothingness.

''He was liquefied before he even had the chance to hit the ground. ''

Torlo’s eyes widened in horror at the abrupt nature of the gate guardian’s passing then glanced at Goll and drew his weapons to face what horrors the nest held.

There was an explosion as the cliff face broke apart, burying Santis in rubble before it could open. The Toa crumpled to the ground as a rock slab struck his head and he slipped into unconsciousness, a red mist trailing behind him as the back of his head was cut open. He slumped to the ground, where he lay inert, legs ensnared in debris. His sword fell out of his reach.

There were figures in the darkness of the tunnel but they didn’t become clear until the dust settled. There were four large, bulky, insect-like robotic creatures. Two were colored green, one blue, and another black. Around them were five Matoran, each standing with Krana plastered over their faces and empty eyes.

They could see the mess through the open entrance. Blood everywhere. Bits of Matoran bodies. A Matoran’s head – maybe their leader’s – stuck on the tip of a spear set in the centre of the tunnel. Its mask had been ripped off, its eyes gouged out and a blue Krana pressed onto its face.

“I’ve never seen anything do this” gasped Krennato. “Not even Rahkshi. Bohrok usually strike and kill obstacles. They usually leave bodies scattered around or destroy them. This is unnatural.”

“It’s like what we do to our enemies after battle” grunted Kyros, readying his spear.

The Matoran stood at the gateway a moment longer, studying the Matoran’s head on the pike. Then their gazes flickered back to the advancing Bohrok. The ground seemed to shake as they stepped forwards.

Torlo stepped closer and charged his Mental Bolt Launchers with energy then narrowed his eyes, ready to fight to the death. He would battle these creatures till the end and he would cut down any of their possessed Matoran slaves that were unfortunate enough to get in his way.

Then, in a blur, the blue Bohrok stepped forwards and fired at them.

Chapter 9
Written by Abc8920.

Torlo knew for sure that the situation had spun out of control. After the Bohrok and the seemingly Krana-possessed Matoran had broken through the cliff wall, one of those monstrosities had shot a jet of water at the group. He had been lucky enough to evade the sudden burst of moisture and was now cowering behind a fallen tree, but the rest of the group was rather dislodged.

Kyros was lying in the ground next to him, his Kanohi knocked aside. Iolan had run to the huts to hide like the cowardly Lava Rat he was. Santis and Sarnii were buried under the rubble of the village wall. Trying to free the Toa first would be productive, tactically necessary even; the Su-Matoran, however, was better off under the rocks. Turas was nowhere to be seen. Goll had been thrown onto the sand, where he lay only half conscious with Connla and Krennato trying to wake him up.

Basically, he was going to have to face four Bohrok and five Krana slaves alone.

For some reason, he had no confidence in the two Ga-Matoran, or at least not in the shaman. Connla would not be able to help him even if she wanted, having to protect both the unconscious Goll and the unfortunately-conscious Krennato.

He cursed under his breath at the impossibly unfair situation, but then started to slowly realize that it was his day. It may not have been Mata Nui, but someone had given him a chance. It was his opportunity to demonstrate his worth. He was surely outnumbered, facing devastatingly crushing odds. He was overpowered, surrounded and looking his own doom in the eyes. But he still had one factor in his favour:

''He was Torlo. They weren't.''

The Zatth-wearer looked at the nine opponents under a new shade. He needed to formulate a quick plan, just like Santis would do, and find some weakness in the enemy and use them to his advantage and exploit, like Kyros would do.

He aimed a Mental Bolt Launcher at the metallic forehead of the green-armored Bohrok. That breed had just reduced Romak to slime. Those two were clearly the most dangerous of the group, and the ones which needed to be eliminated first, even at the cost of his own life.

Something nobody else but Torlo would do.

“That’s not going to work, Le-Matoran.”

The green-armored crafter flinched in surprise. It was more of a reflex than a jolt of terror but he was still shocked to see Krennato standing next to him.

“And you would know? I’m the weaponsmith of the village, you're the potion dealer. I carve weapons to defend us; you base your religion on hollow lies and narcotic mushrooms.”

“The Bohrok are connected to the Krana” replied the Ga-Matoran, with a snide flick of her staff. “And the Krana are connected to a hive-mind. A single Krana cannot be incapacitated by your puny little blades no more than a Protodite can set fire to a – ”

The discussion was cut as the black-armored Bohrok sunk its shields on the ground, sending a tremor that made both the arguing Matoran fall face-first into the sand. The Krana-possessed villagers began to advance on them. Torlo only just managed to throw himself at Krennato, knocking them both behind one of the huts, before the corrupted Matorans' spears sliced through the ground.

Krennato glanced at the mask-less Kyros, then at Torlo. She didn't even utter a simple thank you to the Le-Matoran who had just saved her life.

“If you were not such a non-believer, you would know what to do.”

The Ga-Matoran pointed at Kyros. Torlo was starting to see the outlines of a crazy plan, but he preferred not to think about it.

“What are you nattering about Krennato?” He fixed her with a stare that was a mix of both distrust and disgust, but he wasn’t ready for what he saw next.

With surprising strength, the elderly Ga-Matoran picked up the mask-less Ko-Matoran and carried him back out into the village square, where she propped him up against a stack of crates, so that Kyros' exposed face was in plain sight of the Bohrok.

“I know what you’re looking for, emissaries of the Great Spirit! I offer you this present. Off with their heads!”

Immediately, and as if the machines had actually listened to the old one’s prayers, the two Lehvak took a step further than the rest of the Bohrok and Krana-Slaves. And to Torlo’s surprise, they started rotating their eyes, opening their brain-cases as they did so, launching their Krana.

Next thing Torlo knew, Kyros was running away, a Krana Xa attached to his face. Krennato held another Krana high in the air with new-found admiration, a mad glimmer in her eyes.

Things certainly weren’t going well, not at all.

The Matoran of Air turned his back on the witch and found Connla hiding behind him. Goll was still unconscious but he had been moved. The coy healer had dragged him to safety. The markings in the sand proved it.

“Can you take care of Krennato as well as Goll while I look for Kyros?” he grunted, raising his Mental Bolt Launchers.

“Yeah sure," shrugged the female. "Just make sure to distract the villagers for a while so I can look for a better place to shelter us three.”

The Le-Matoran nodded, and slowly raised his head from behind the layer of crates, and saw that while Krennato, willingly or not, had managed to disable the two Lehvak, there was still a the black-armored Bohrok and a blue one which had fired the jet of water to care about, in addition to the possessed villagers.

He jumped out of the cover, running quickly to a dirt path that went back to the entrance of the abandoned village, the black-armored Bohrok and three Krana-Slaves chasing him in a hot pursuit.

Being a questor involved a lot more running than he'd originally thought it would have.

Things did not make sense. Stuff was messed up. Turas was lying on his back in the mud, looking at the sky like he usually did. Only that, this time it had a strange greenish-grey colour, and it looked like it was rippling.

No, rather, it was really rippling in an unnatural way. Then the freezing cold around him brought him back to realisation of his surroundings.

He was underwater, below the murky surface of the lake, drowning. The lack of strength in all his limbs, as well as the sensation of freedom running through his face, made him realise that his Kanohi was long gone.

But he was calm and relaxed. Nothing had ever altered his spirit, nothing ever would.

In fact, he would probably slip into coma before drowning, something that would make his death much more pleasant, if not quicker than the slow advance of his demise.

There was nothing to worry about.

The Po-Matoran returned to his observation of the waves-sky, admiring the concentric circles that formed each time a leave fell to the lake.

But then, abruptly, something happened and broke the beauty of the moment. A red Matoran, Kanohi in hand, had plunged into the lake, to save him.

If Turas disliked anything, that would have to be Ta-Matoran interrupting his thoughts.

Connla took a brief look at the unconscious Goll, then at Krennato, and decided that this was the last time she did something like this.

Okay, she thought. There was no point in denying that she was terrified by the Bohrok. There was no doubt either that she was the most inexperienced fighter on the expedition team. But that didn’t mean that she had to undertake the role of nanny looking after these two old Matoran.

Krennato, even though Connla recognised her wisdom, might not react well in a situation of danger like the one they were experiencing now. And Goll, the very honourable village leader, had demonstrated that day that he was too old for his responsibilities. If he wasn’t there to take the lead when he was really needed, then there was no point in him being around as the village leader in any other situation.

And now there she was, having to take care of the two Matoran, like if they were young Mahi. She had never thought of herself as a warrior, and in fact she was very nervous at the moment. She felt uneasy for the threat that the Bohrok represented, even though they had apparently lost interest in them to chase Torlo, and worried for herself too. If some of the possessed Matoran attacked them now, she wouldn’t be able to defend both herself, Krennato and Goll.

The unnerved Ga-Matoran decided to put away those thoughts, and just stare at the surface of the lake, hoping to calm down. She did not want the situation to overwhelm her. She needed some self-confidence – where she would draw it from was indeed unknown.

But her thoughts did not stay peaceful for long. All of a sudden, she was pulled straight away from her meditation as a scarlet figure jumped over a fallen tree on the riverbank and into the water of the lake.

Her eyes barely had time to register it, the sight filled her eyes long enough that a question burned in her mind.

''What in the name of sanity was Iolan doing? ''

Even though the stench of rotting flesh had provoked him nausea the first time he had arrived to the village, Torlo had to admit that he did not smell anything anymore. Only one thought was in his mind, overriding everything else.

Survival.

The Le-Matoran was hiding in one of the huts, all windows closed, lying in almost absolute darkness. All he heard was the sound of wood being splintered and rock shattered as the bulky black-armored Bohrok destroyed hut after hut, hoping to kill him in the process.

The thought of the Bohrok doing the same to his village made him sick. But what was really starting to grind his gears was the fact that the Bohrok seemed to be enjoying it. Enjoying every second of his fear, every wall smashed, every moment of ever-growing desperation. There was hesitation, as if the mechanical death-machine was savouring the experience of an easy hunt. Taking his time to breathe it all in through senseless nostrils.

And in the few seconds which seemed to tick away as hours, Torlo finally heard the footsteps of the Bohrok right in front of his door. The Matoran felt his heartlight beat faster than it had ever flashed, his body paralysed while all he could do was try to contain his breath.

The footsteps continued getting louder and closer. The Le-Matoran was sure that if the Bohrok was capable of expressing emotions, it would be laughing at his pathetic cowardy. He didn't exactly know what was going to happen next, or how his plan was going to play out, but there was one definite fact on his mind.

He would not go down like this.

In the blink of a heartlight, he was back up to his feet, no longer caring about the noise he might make. Torlo kicked the poorly-built door of the hut aside, and rolled on the floor. Looking up, he saw the Bohrok and its Krana Slaves.

"Good evening" he grunted sardonically.

Immediately, one of the possessed Matoran lunged at him, like a Rahi, wrestling with him to snatch the Kanohi off his face. The Le-Matoran kicked the possessed Ta-Matoran, sending him flying straight back in the direction of the group of other five Krana Slaves. Desperate to get their hands on him, they stampeded fowards, only to trip over the unfortunate Matoran of Fire.

The Black-armored Bohrok sank its shields in the sand. The Earth beneath shuddered with thunderous force, causing the Le-Matoran to almost losing his new-found footing and sending an energy wave that shattered the hut he had been hiding in. A miscalculation. Or, just as easily, a taunt. The Bohrok could have reduced him to dust but instead it had destroyed a hut directly behind him.

And something told Torlo his enemy wasn't going to be so merciful with its next attempt.

He ran, as fast as his ‘fixed’ legs would allow, to the Kanohi cache close to the shattered cliff-face. Perhaps he could redirect the Bohrok's fire towards Santis, maybe even make it dig him out of the debris.

But as he dived over the extinguished campfire, something unexpected happened.

“What the – !”

The door was blasted away and Iolan shot lightning fast out of the hut, Kanohi in hand, headed to the beach at on the banks of the stagnant moat.

Even though the image puzzled him for a second, Torlo decided to focus on more pressing matters, more concretely the Bohrok and possessed Matoran chasing him. Iolan's exit from the hut did not seem to have bothered them, which was strange but not exactly beyond explaining. But, better still, it didn't threaten his plan.

The Le-Matoran slipped into the hut, and took cover behind a fallen Kanohi shelf. He directed his attention towards the entrance, allowing him a view of the entire hut. It was all a matter of events unfolding the way he had planned.

The possessed Matoran and their black-armored Bohrok master stormed into the hut like Nui-Rama, ready to crush his precious Kanohi Zatth and slap a sickly organic second face on his head. A truely disturbing concept.

The Le-Matoran stepped forwards and let his Mental Bolt Launchers drop to the floor of the hut. A wickedly slick smile slipped across his Kanohi. He didn't need the tools anymore.

He was standing in a room full of swords and a giant magnet had just walked in.

The Bohrok sunk its shields in the ground, ready to send another energy wave. A seismic surge shook the dwelling. A locatized earthquake. The world seemed to spin and shudder, as if trying to dislodge Torlo from its grip yet still he clinged on.

Wood shattered, stone smashed.

Kanohi shattered.

Razor-sharp splinters flew in all directions, not making any discrimination between cutting the Le-Matoran, possessed Matoran or theBohrok.

If someone had told Connla that she would be seeing the scene she was witnessing now, the Ga-Matoran wouldn’t have believed it. Perhaps her head had been too close to one two many of the ingrediantes in Krennato's healing mixtures. But this was no trick. Her eyes saw both Turas and Iolan had both emerged from the greenish waters of the lake. The Po-Matoran wasn’t wearing his brand-new Hau anymore, but rather a black Akaku.

And they were both fighting.

But that wasn’t what didn’t make sense to Connla. After all, she knew that Ta-Matoran like Iolan could get quite temperamental, especially when it came to cooperating with Po-Matoran.

However, it seemed that tables had turned. It was Turas that was actively attacking Iolan, who was barely holding his ground against the maddened Po-Matoran.

Then she realised.

Turas had been infected by the Madness.

She wasn’t absolutely sure, but she recalled that the Madness was spread through Comet Balls, and there weren’t any in the Southern Continent as far as she knew. Anyways, it was time to step into the fight before Iolan could take any serious damage.

So she started swimming to the opposite shore of the lake. She had always felt comfortable in her element, which was not the case at the moment. The water was dirty and smelly. But what was worse, the lake remembered her of the fisherman Fiancha.

She really hadn’t had much relation with him at all –actually, it wasn’t like Fiancha had socialised at all during his time in the village- but she missed him anyways. He wasn’t like Kyros, Torlo, Santis or Goll, fighting all day over a position in power. More like Turas, though not the Turas she was going to face now.

When she arrived to the shore, both Iolan and Turas were on the sand, kicking, punching, trying to snatch each other’s Kanohi. Needlessly to say, Turas was having much more success in that than the Ta-Matoran.

Connla quickly drew her whips, and slashed them both at the Po-Matoran. Upon contact, Turas was immediately numbed, and stopped moving. However, Iolan still looked afraid and alarmed.

“Quickly smash his Kanohi!”

Connla first thought that the Ta-Matoran was crazy, but then realized that it made sense – probably the Madness could spread through Kanohi too.

She slashed her whips again, this time striking the black Hau, which broke in three pieces, then looked at Iolan with an interrogating look.

“I swear I didn’t provoke him.”

“Yeah, just like last time you told me so.”

“This time I mean it.”

“Now seriously, you gave him an infected Kanohi.”

The Ta-Matoran didn’t answer, and instead stared right into Connla’s eyes. The Ga-Matoran examined them for any trace of hate, lies or even guilt, but found nothing. Not even the usual sadness.

“Next time you try to save the world, at least make sure the Kanohi you pick up are not infected.”

“I didn’t notice it! There must have been a Kraata lurking between the Kanohi shelves – others in the group have seen Kraata in the huts too!”

“It’s alright. Let’s get back to the island; we’ve got no time to spare.”

And as both Matoran started swimming back to the cliff village, Connla felt that, for once in a long time, she would not share her emotions. For, right now, she felt deeply disturbed by what she had seen in the eyes of the Ta-Matoran.

His stare had been the same that of the dead Matoran statues in Karzahni.

When Torlo woke up, his whole body was aching. He inspected his arms and torso, then at his legs. Having being covered by the fallen shelf, he had avoided the Kanohi shards. Not bad, considering that the rest of the hut had been blasted all to hell.

The Krana-possesed Matoran were sprawled all across the floor. Alive, but with a whole collection of shards of all sizes and colours stabbed into their skin. The Bohrok, on the other say, was standing still, its arms limp, with what looked like the forehead of a Hau slicing through the Krana.

He got to his feet and contemplated what to do next. He couldn’t leave the Krana-slaves alone to die from bleeding, but he needed to look for Kyros too.

In the end, he decided to just tie the Matoran with a rope and then worry about the Ko-Matoran – there would be time later on for Connla to come and heal them. However, before heading down to the shore, the Le-Matoran approached one of the Krana slaves, the Ta-Matoran, and stared at the Krana.

Out of curiosity, he touched it and tried to wrench it off of the Matoran’s face. Failing to do so, he tried harder, but it was all a hopeless effort.

''Someone had fused the Krana to the Matoran’s face. ''

That thought unnerved Torlo, who then decided to just head out to look for Kyros. Even though the Ko-Matoran had the ability to appear only when you didn’t want him to, this time Torlo was fortunate.

He needn’t have worried about searching for the Ko-Matoran, since he found it in the same dirt path he had used before to get to the village. Kyros was lying unconscious on the floor, a crushed Krana Za and a life-less Gahlok next to him.

The sight astonished the Le-Matoran. It was almost unbelievable. He had always thought that all the attributes that Kyros assigned to himself in his stories were false. But there seemed to have been some truth behind that too – the willpower needed to both tear the Krana off of his face and defeat the Bohrok was something that most of the Matoran couldn’t muster.

Perhaps, after all, Kyros was a rival to be taken into account. But it wasn’t time to think about breaking unity – there would be time for that later on.

So he just slung Kyros unconscious body over his shoulder, and began walking down the dirt path.

Santis seemed to be having a really rough day. Apparently, he had lost his sense of vision, for he could not see anything but pitch-black darkness.

His limbs were limp, his face numb. He felt some pain in the back of his head, ticking in and off like a clock marking seconds. His mouth was dry, and he felt like he had his mouth full of rocks.

Then he realised, he actually had his mouth full of rocks.

Enraged, the Toa gathered all the strength that remained in his spirit to blast the rocks away with bolts of fire.

He spat out the debris, and then tried to open his eyes. Sunlight welcomed him once more, stinging his sight. When his vision had adapted to the level of illumination, he checked the only thing that mattered at that very moment – the state of his armour.

He examined every bit of it, looking for any scratch that could have appeared on the crimson protometal. Satisfied with his good-looks, he then checked the back of his head – there was an actual gash there, and he was bleeding. Not a problem, he could handle that.

But he was deeply disappointed when he looked around.

The battle was over. No more Bohrok to slice, burn down, melt to slabs. In fact, he had a strong desire to burn something. His pyromania was starting to kick in and get stronger, but it didn’t worry him at all. Everyone had its flaws, and he was glad that his flaw didn’t mess with his pretty face.

Torlo approached him. The rest of the Matoran were helping Krennato and Connla heal some Matoran with Krana in their faces and Sarnii, while Kryos and Goll where doing their usual shared activity - arguing.

“Too late for the party, Toa?”

Santis smiled at the Matoran.

“You think that the party has ended? It hasn’t even started. In fact, it would probably start if you put some more clothing on you... over your face preferably... you’re scaring the chicks away.”

Both chuckled, and began walking to the group.



Night had already fallen and the expedition group was already far from the place of death that the Matoran village had become. But their minds, and their arguments, were still anchored back to the Bohrok Nest entrance.

They were all sitting in a circle around a bonfire in a clearing of the forest, except for Santis, who was interrogating the Krana Slaves.

Turas was, as always, a mere expectation. He wouldn’t say a word. He didn’t feel like doing that most of the time, and now more than ever he decided to stay away. He was only glad that he had been able to retrieve his new Hau from the lake.

It wasn’t like he was the only one out of the discussion. Kyros was, per usual, boasting and explaining how he had defeated the Gahlok to Sarnii and Connla.

But other than those, two clear sides had been formed over an argument. In one hand, there were Goll and Krennato, supporting not entering the Bohrok Nest and instead proceeding with their voyage to Metru Nui. On the other, there were Iolan and Torlo, saying that they couldn’t just leave the Bohrok free to destroy everything in sight.

Turas tried to return from his thoughts to reality, and concentrated on what the Matoran were saying.

Krennato was talking now, in her usual apocalyptic tone.

“The Nest is a sacred place! Who are we to profane a creation to Mata Nui? Who are we to disagree with his will?”

Torlo, as always, was the one to react harder to this kind of religious babbling.

“And who are you to determine the doom of this land? Who the Burnak are you to impose your believes to the security of the Matoran?”

Then Iolan cut in, to back up Torlo. Even though the two shared the same view, they acted differently – to make an analogy, Torlo was the bad Vahki and Iolan the good one.

“Nobody is saying that we are going to profane anything! If what you say is right, Krennato, the Bohrok shouldn’t be awake now. We can just go down the nest and lock them up, until Mata Nui sees fit to awake them!”

Goll, who had been feeling that both the leadership of the group and his edge of the argument were slipping form his hands, decided to intervene.

“We do not have the military strength necessary to carry out such operation, and you all know it. We would need the Order of Mata Nui to help. I say we go to Metru Nui, then organise troops from there. And besides... Bohrok just want to clear out the forest and level the hills. They purpose is not killing Matoran.”

Torlo just couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“How can you say that? Of course, since you were sleeping while the rest were fighting for our lives, you didn’t see what happened. I swear that Nuhvok was trying to assassinate me!”

Santis came out of some bushes, and decided to step into the conversation to.

“Assassination wouldn’t be the correct term. That verb is used for important-people-murders... and no offence, but you aren’t important, at least not in the right meaning of the word.”

Torlo gave a look full of rage at the Toa.

“Hey, I said no offense! But come with me, we have something important to talk about... privately.”

Ten minutes later, Santis had decided that they were far enough that nobody would hear them.

“Torlo, you’re the only Matoran I trust in this universe.”

“Should I take it as a compliment or are you asking for me to rent you money?”

Santis ignored the Le-Matoran’s response. Unlike most of the time, Santis was really serious when he talked.

“Torlo, I believe there is a traitor amongst the expedition.”

“What?”

“There are just too many coincidences. I think that the Rahkshi attacks lately have been placed in the right spot to deviate us from our route north. We have ended up finding that Bohrok Nest. Nobody mentioned a village in the middle of the lake when I planned the trip – we have deviated either east or west.

Nobody except for the people in the expedition know which path we’re taking – not even the Matoran we left in your village. It must be one of the Matoran in the expedition... so watch your back. And when the time comes, be prepared to act quickly, to leave behind friendship and morality.”

Torlo just lay silent, trying to make something out of the puzzle that the situation now was.

“Don’t leave yet, Torlo. There’s something else I want to tell you... or rather show.”

They walked a few more meters, until they came to the clearing where Santis had interrogated the Krana-Slaves.

They were all impaled in wooden sticks in a bonfire. Torlo looked at Santis face, and saw a dark expression that he had never seen.

“They didn’t want to talk, so they will talk no more.”

The Le-Matoran continued staring at the atrocity trying to fight the mix of friendship and repulsion that the Toa of Fire transmitted him at that moment.

“Be careful, Torlo, because when you fight monsters, you risk becoming one of them.”

Chapter 10
Written by BobTheDoctor27

None of the questers won a wink of sleep for the remainder of the terrible night. Every single one of them stood tense around the campfire, even Kyros. The tantalizing flames leapt up and flickered across the cracks in the rock, casting flitting shadows that haunted the edgy Matoran till the early hours of the next day. Then didn’t dare venture back into the huts.

Sarnii didn’t sleep. She just couldn’t. She knew that this was probably her last night alive. It was horrible, just lying there, shivering with cold and fear, knowing what was to come, thinking about her death at the hands of an entire Bohrok swarm. She had often dreamed of dying in battle, being killed quickly, with no time to worry about what lay beyond, but now her doom was creeping up on her she found she wasn’t enjoying the experience so much.

At one point Iolan worked up the courage to ask Santis what had become of the Krana possessed villagers, though his inquiry afforded him no response. The Toa of Fire ignored him and pulled on his tattered cloak, as if he were cold next to the flames.

In the end the silent hostility became too much for Sarnii to cope with. Several hours before the first traces of daylight flooded the night sky, she slipped away. She told the others that she needed some time on her own. She was met with fierce disagreement from Goll but she managed to silence the tatty old warrior easily enough by walking off. No doubt he would send someone after her... if anyone still cared enough to obey him.

The Vo-Matoran marched along to the outer edges of the village, past the gate and down to the river that Turas had nearly drowned in. She followed it round East till she was shielded from the night’s chilling breeze by a small rock outcrop. It jutted out, just above the sand. Perhaps some Matoran had carved it out of the cliff and carried it down to this secluded spot to contemplate his thoughts. It was the perfect perch for a Lava Hawk, but she sat on the sand in front of it. Settling down, Sarnii used one of her Shock Thumpers to create a few sparks, which set a small bundle of dry twigs ablaze.

She had moments of doubt throughout the night, where the world was a lonely place. She considered deserting, running away and escaping with her cowardly life. It was tempting, but the Matoran of Lightning knew her duty and hoped she would find peace in the afterlife. Yet in her heart she knew she was still so young and juvenile, afraid of the darkness of death, wanting to grow old and see more of the world, taste more of life.

She cried quietly to herself inwardly, thinking of the terrible sacrifice they were making, the joys they would never know, the love she’d now almost certainly never find. Part of her wanted to slither back to Kyros and offer to run away with him. The Ko-Matoran had said he wasn’t one to flee a challenge but maybe it was just that he feared running by himself, with nobody to watch his back. If she said she’d go with him, she was sure he would jump at the chance.

But she didn’t. Duty won out fear in the end. She couldn’t stop the shivers or the fast pulse in the back of her mind, but she could still wipe away the fears and hold her ground. And so she did. She hated the prospect of dying and she was more afraid than she ever thought she could be. But if this was her destiny, then so be it. It was better to die for her people in her own land than cower in another and suffer a lifetime of spineless guilt.

For a while she just sat staring into the heart of the blaze, saying nothing. Then, finally, she heard footsteps. A smile slipped across her Kaukau Nuva as the form of a Matoran stepped out from behind her.

“You came for me, Torlo” she remarked passionately. “Just like you used to appear in the night for me.”

The Le-Matoran behind her didn’t respond for a moment. He just leaned against the rock before finally strolling forwards and sitting on the opposite side of the fire.

“I have nothing to say to you” he snarled in the end, his voice riddled with hate.

“Then why are you here?”

“Because I like seeing you around fire... reminds me there’s still a chance you could slip and fall in.”

Sarnii swallowed at lump in her throat. “If you came here to reproach me then I suggest you leave, but I don’t think that’s the reason you’re here.”

The crafter glared at her. “Care to explain?” he grunted bluntly.

“You love me yet, do you not?”

“About as much as I love Tren Krom.”

The Vo-Matoran snorted. “I’ve heard Krennato tell more convincing stories about Toa collecting Kanohi.” She raised an accusing finger and pointed it straight at the Le-Matoran. “You think that you’re someone. You think that, just because you’re so moral and righteous, you’re going to be Goll’s replacement or something. You undermine anyone who’s bigger and better than you till you get what you want. You’ve built your reputation up from lies.”

The Zatth-wearer said nothing in response. He just stared at her with empty eyes.

“And you hate me because you’re deluded. You’ve spent so long trying to convince yourself that you’re a good person that you’ve actually fooled yourself.”

“I’m a sinner” grunted Torlo. “I never denied that. As far as I’m concerned, we all are, you no more than me.”

Sarnii whimpered. After a long look at her former lover she continued with her old quiescent love. “Must I go on weakly confessing to you things that I ought to conceal? Words cannot express how gloomy I have been because of the dreadful belief that I have had – that you despise me.”

“I am sorry I caused you that pain.”

“I don’t thank you for that” she snarled, turning away while an inner indignation spread through her like subterranean heat. “I never knew what pretence our society was, I never knew the lying lessons taught by those tricksters and traitors.”

The Le-Matoran looked absently towards the village for a long moment, as if he did not much mind her outbursts.

“Sarnii,” he murmured indifferently, “I may reach for you softly from time to time, but I would rather cut off my own hand before I reach for you again.”

“Likewise!”

“I no longer care for you like I did before, when I was a fool, and I swear on my damned, blackened soul that I never will again. I’ll not have your suspicion anymore. But that’s not why I’m here.”

Sarnii raised a snide eyebrow. “Then why are you here, lover?”

“To make peace, I suppose” shrugged Torlo. “You chose to follow me before, and you chose to again now. I guess if you’re willing to believe in me, in spite of all that I’ve done to you... I guess it gives me hope.”

“Well thank Mata Nui for that!” she snarled with icy sarcasm.

“You don’t have to follow me. You could run off in the night and leave this accursed place. You don’t have to put your life on the line. Nobody ever made you stay to die.”

Sarnii glared at her former lover through spiteful eyes, but it didn’t take long before his gaze softened her. The anger that had pumped through her began to dwindle and seep away, leaving her blank and vacant.

“I have my reasons. They’re not the same as yours. These aren’t my people, so I don’t really care if they live or die. And I never planned to perish on this quest. I knew the risks would be high but I hoped – still hope – to get out alive.” She glanced at her feet for a moment. “How about you?”

“Simple answer” responded the Matoran of Air. “The tunnel will remain open, and the Bohrok are awake. The swarms will awaken. They’d kill everyone, and make any survivors walk around as undead slaves. I can’t let that happen.”

“Even if it means your death?”

“Of course” he sighed.

Sarnii shifted in the sand. “We’d be going on towards certain death, one way or another. How can you find the strength to do that?”

“How can I not?” replied Torlo simply. “One life is nothing when measured up against thousands. I’d give my life a dozen times to save the lives of those I care about.”

“And those you don’t, who mean nothing to you? The ones who aren't important?”

“I've lived in this Universe for 100,000 years, and that would be something I've ever seen before: somebody who isn't important.”

The Kaukau Nuva-wearer stared at the Matoran across the fire from her.

“You doubt me yet?”

“Yes, actually.”

The weapon-crafter bowed his head, the flames flickering in his lifeless eyes, then they exploded in a blazing inferno of rage. “Look to your own problems before you go to judge me” he snarled frostily. “Every moment I’m with you I feel judged for lies, as though I have entered a courtroom whenever you draw near.”

The Matoran of Lightning narrowed her eyes. “I don’t judge you. The magistrate who sits in your heart, atop his golden throne of lies, is the one who judges you.”

“And still an everlasting funeral marches round your heart” bristled the Matoran of Air guardedly as he rose to his feet again. “Take it harshly, I hold no love for you anymore.”

Sarnii snorted. “And yet here you are, appearing for me in the night, like you used to all those years ago. You have forsaken your dead wife, and for me, someone not even worth one of your fingers. That must burn you inside. You must feel like one sick –”

She never got to finish her threat. Torlo’s fist slammed into her chest, smashing her heartlight. The small bulb fizzed and shattered. The Vo-Matoran fell backwards, then tried to crawl away half-heartedly on the sand, stunned. The Le-Matoran followed after her then clubbed the back of her neck. She slumped, where he grabbed her wrists and pinned them to her sides. Then he turned her over. He’d been expecting a torrent of abuse but his former lover seemed to be giggling.

“Manipulative witch!” he snarled, slapping her mask. He grabbed the back of her Kanohi Kaukau and yanked it, forcing her head forwards.

“Get a grip” she grated. “You’ll topple over from a heartlight attack if you carry on like this. Deep breaths, lover.”

The broken crafter regarded her contemptuously. Then he grinned in spite of himself, the grin of a Rock Lion with its keeper trapped in its cage. In that moment all he wanted to focus on was payback. His conscience twisted around the single error he had made in his life. He thought about all the tools he’d seen in the abandoned village that he could use. The hacksaw. Pliers. Several hammers. A drill. And lots of knives.

''The time of weakness was over. ''

But torturing a Vo-Matoran wasn’t going to fix anything. What she had done was unforgivable; it was a tragedy. His rage was earned. But destruction and vengeance weren’t going to change what had happened to his past. Sarnii’s dying screams weren’t going to soothe his restless soul.

He let his fist drop. A second later, he dropped to his knees as well. He couldn’t do it. He had every reason to, but something held him back and wouldn’t let him take the last, damning step which would separate him from all that had once defined his morality. Torlo returned to his feet and walked away.

“Coward!” she spat.

“Yes,” he agreed sadly. “I am.”

“I thought you meant business. I should have known better. You’re a waste of a Matoran. What kind of husband are you, that you can’t take it upon yourself to avenge the murdered love of your life?”

“Don’t flatter yourself” grunted the damned Le-Matoran. “She didn’t die by your hand, though you’re as much the villain in this piece as I am.”

His new enemy narrowed her eyes but said nothing.

“We will meet again” he grunted. “Be it in the fiery depths of hell or later in this life, we shall finish this, and I will make you pay for what you’ve done to my life.”

The Kaukau Nuva-wearer returned no answer, and with the mockingly graceful bow of a dancing-master Torlo vanished into the darkness. When she was sure he had gone the Vo-Matoran sighed. It was no fragile maiden’s sigh, but one which shook her like a shiver. Whenever a flash of reason darted like an electric light upon her former lover – as it sometimes would – and showed her imperfections, she shivered thus. But it was over in a second, and she regretfully loved on.

She knew that he trifled with her, ''but still she loved him. ''

Day. The order of the world restored. Everybody knew that they were looking at their final sunrise. Fittingly, it was obscured by grey clouds. According to Krennato, clouds were rare in some lands, where the sun shone all day in a clear blue sky. But surely those were fanciful tales, told by Turaga for the amusement of lesser Matoran around a campfire, safe inside their village walls. The world was made to be clouded in grey. It wouldn’t feel natural if the sun shone brightly all the time.

Toa Santis addressed the group early in the morning, the vacant shell of the Bohrok Nuhvok in his hands. He lived up to his reputation of being a warrior of few words by propping the empty Bohrok casing up against the mouth of the cave. He took two consecutive swipes of his sword. The first swing struck the bulky casing of the black-armored Bohrok, bouncing right off. The second sliced through the feeble legs like sailcloth, causing the broken armor to slump to the sand. The open casing flapped against the ground.

“I spent all night hitting the Gahlok. The legs were the only weakness I could find” explained the Toa with a flick of his cape, which had gotten caught over his leg. “Hit them once, hit them right. Because if you don’t act fast you’re all as useful to me as –” He stopped, brow furrowing as he stared at the group. The assembled Matoran mirrored his expression as they turned to see his gaze fixed on Kyros.

The Ko-Matoran had cut both the palms of his hands and was daubing his cheeks and forehead in blood, quietly muttering words which could either be a spell or a prayer.

“What in the name of sanity are you doing?” demanded Goll, unnerved by the spectacle.

Kyros finished his chant, then smiled. “A bit of added protection.”

“That won’t help” stated Krennato doubtfully. Even she was thrown by the peculiar sight.

“We’ll see” chucked the conceited Matoran of Ice, although there was nothing funny about it. He casually glanced up over the rows of heads at the cave’s darkened entrance. “Well I’m ready. Make up your minds, tell me what you want to do and on we’ll go.”

Santis regarded Kyros with uneasy surprise. Some warriors were never afraid of going into battle, but the scrappy, selfish Matoran in front of him hadn’t struck him as one; he lacked the willpower. Yet here he squatted, more at peace than any of them, looking like someone with nothing to lose and no notion of defeat.

“You understand what we’re discussing?” asked Torlo. “The Bohrok’s weak spots?”

“You worry about fighting below the waist with your dirty tricks, crafter” laughed Kyros. “I’ll worry about doing the actual fighting.”

“A warrior at last” remarked Goll wryly.

Santis grunted then checked that everyone had a weapon in hand. When he was content he turned and raised his own sword. Calling upon his Elemental Powers, he willed his weapon to glow a fiery crimson color. Flames emanated from the blade and illuminated the passage ahead.

The cave looked like an unnatural rip in the cliff, like a mine shaft. Perhaps Matoran had dug here in the past and discovered the nest beneath. It certainly looked like a mine from where the Toa was standing. He ventured further inwards, without making sure the Matoran had followed him into the tunnel’s gaping maw of an entrance. Torlo swiftly appeared beside him, faithful till the end, and the two looked down at the shaft angling immediately down, deep into the ground. Unnatural heat bellowed from it.

Feeling troubled by whatever horrors lay beneath, the Toa lowered himself to a sitting position, so his feet dangled off the edge, then lowered himself down into the hole, searching for handholds, descending into the darkness of the pit. Torlo followed next, then Goll, Iolan, Sarnii, Turas, Connla and Krennato, with Kyros finally bringing up the rear.

The rock was hot to touch, even for Santis, but it was bearable. There were lots of holds and it was easy to climb if Bohrok had managed to haul their way up. Immediately after touching the ground, the shaft turned to the left. There was pure darkness around the bend, broken only by the light of the Toa’s sword. The protector of the Matoran looked up at the brightness at the top of the ledge. He took one last look at the overcast but beautiful Matoran world one last time, then blundered on into the eternal, demonic night.

The gradient of the tunnel went down sharply for five minutes, slowly making the questers stumble forwards. They all expected the descent to last for ages, but a few minutes later they hit level ground and were soon standing in a huddle, unsure what to do next, afraid they were standing on a platform overhanging a deadly drop.

Holstering his sword, Santis allowed the cave to plunge into darkness. A moment later flames flared dimly in his left hand. Slowly, he let them grow and expand, filling his palm and then rising to hang in the hot air above them. The fire lit up the entire cave, revealing beautiful wonders and a wretched terror.

The wonders were V-shaped, glistening formations of calcite: stalactites and stalagmites. Some reached from the floor, others hung from the ceiling majestically. All sorts of sizes. Water dripped from the tips of some of the overhanging shapes, to splash over the floor of the cave or on a stalacmite. In some places pillars had formed where the two formations met.

There were other formations in the cavern, however, the most noticeable being an underground waterfall to the right. The crystal-clear liquid appeared as if by magic from high up the wall, vanishing through a crack in the rock underneath, flowing on to who knows where. It didn’t feel like the place belonged to the world of Matoran. It was so quiet – except for the cascading, tumbling water – and peaceful. Time didn’t touch the cave, or if it did, it touched it softly, slowly, subtly.

But then there was the wretched terror – three different passageways. There was one miniature tunnel carved into the far wall of the cave. Each was about the size of a Toa, each one with a metal plaque above it – like a ceremonial keystone on an arch. Krennato stepped forwards to examine them.

“Unity. Duty. Destiny” she announced, apprehensively. She reeled back a step then turned to address the others. “What now?”

“Splitting up would be foolish” grunted Goll. “But it doesn’t seem like we have much of a choice. We’ll just have to guess lucky.”

“None of the passageways look worn” remarked Torlo.

“And this place it too old for me to use my Mask of Psychometry on” added the Toa. “Besides, only four Bohrok have passed through here and this place is centuries old. It’d be like spending an hour trying to spot an invisible lightning bolt.”

“Then we have no choice” shrugged Sarnii. “We must split up.”

“How will we see where we’re going?”

“I have a couple of Lightstones” announced Turas quickly. He lay down his blades then fumbled around clumsily in his pack. After a minute of rummaging, he produced a pair of the almost heavenly stones in question.

“Three passageways, three teams” nodded Goll. “I’ll lead one. Santis should lead another, he has the glowing sword. So we’ll need one other team.”

Torlo’s hand rose into the air.

Kyros’ hand stayed down, which took even Santis by surprise. Instead, the Ko-Matoran gravitated towards Goll, which made the seasoned warrior bristle uncomfortably.

Turas handed the two Lightstones out as the others wandered towards their closest leaders. Turas latched onto Goll and Kyros’ team, while Iolan, Sarnii and Connla shuffled towards Torlo. That left Krennato to hobble towards Santis.

“We’ll take the right-hand tunnel” muttered Torlo, pointing towards the tunnel saying Destiny. “I think that one’s the least likely to lead anywhere.”

Santis nodded and shuffled towards the cave which read Duty, leaving Goll and his team to tackle the tunnel which read Unity.

“Hang onto your Lightstones” warned Krennato, whilst Santis once again willing his sword to illuminate. “If you lose them you might become a permanent resident down here.”

Torlo snorted then handed his Lightstone back to Iolan and stepped into the darkness of the tunnel. The shadow seemed to engulf him, swallowing him whole, yet his voice bounced back after him.

“That’s what I love about Ga-Matoran, always so positive.”

Chapter 11
Written by Abc8920 and BobTheDoctor27.

There were many things that could make Torlo feel disturbed. Rahkshi, Visorak, Bohrok and even the horrific sight that was Krennato in the morning. But right now it was quite a different thing.

''Silence. ''

There was a very tense atmosphere as the group that Torlo lead through the tunnel advanced, the only light coming from the lightstone that the Le-Matoran held in his left hand. The yellow light formed a semi-sphere around them, giving the impression that a golden shield was sheltering them form evil. It felt warm in his palm, filling him with the closest thing to sunlight he'd felt in hours, almost sensual and seductive.

But that was nothing short of a fallacy. For, once again, appearances were deceiving, and it would be probably easier to find evil inside them than outside the light.

Torlo and Sarnii hadn’t exchanged a word since the past day. It wasn’t like the Matoran of Air was intentionally avoiding it – rather, there just was nothing left to say.

Both had unintentionally engaged in a strange choreography to avoid their eyes meeting. When one looked up, the other looked down. If Torlo looked to the right, Sarnii would also do so, like if there was actual magnetic repulsion between their bodies.

One could say they were practicing the dance of isolation. But at that very moment, Torlo was having enough problems inside to care about what others might say.

Bitter rage was starting to burn inside him. Had it been another time, another place, perhaps another life, he wouldn’t have forgiven himself for breaking another Matoran’s heartlight.

But things were not as he would wish. The Matoran of Lightning was as guilty as him for his wife’s suicide. Torlo, back in the day, had decided to take the right path – the road of acceptance.

He had never denied his sins. He had taken them; lived with them, let them die away while they slowly consumed him from the inside. But Sarnii, in the other hand, had always blamed him for what had happened. She had called him hypocrite many times, saying that he had become what he had sworn to fight.

Sarnii had made fun of him. She had made his darkest side appear. She had made him hit the bottom.

And yet, she still had the courage to come up to him, tell him she still loved him. Just another web of lies to fool him.

He could only be grateful for one thing – the moment her wife cut her own throat open, the old Torlo died, opening the path for the new, darker Torlo. The old Torlo was overambitious; wanting to end with the world’s evil, wanting to unearth the truth, while in reality his heart was as corrupted as Makuta’s. The new Torlo didn’t live to fulfil a specific role or appearance. He was no longer fighting hypocrisy – he had decided that for starters he should stop being one. Even if that meant breaking heartlights, limbs or necks.

In the end, Torlo decided to stop thinking about the past. He knew that while exploring the corners of his mind, he could get lost in them.

And for the first time in an eternity, the Le-Matoran surrendered to the urge of looking at the Matoran of Lightning.

There she was. The same beautiful and sleek figure from the times when both furtively met. The irradiating anger from her Kanohi only enhanced her beauty. Torlo stopped that line of thought dead in its tracks. The old Torlo was screaming in the back of his head, but the new Torlo was stronger. And when the Le-Matoran looked at Sarnii again, the only thing he felt was the urge to practice torture, dismemberment, beheading, to make a home out of her bones.

No, that wouldn’t be right. Torlo remembered Santis' warning quite clearly. He could not let his hatred dominate him. So he instead decided to focus on something else and turned to see the two Matoran walking behind him.

Iolan was, for once, exceptionally calm and quiet. The oppressing influence of the place seemed to have taken the skill of speech out of him. Perhaps the fact that he had been accepted into the group after committing such mistakes had given him hope for a better life someday.

Connla in the other hand looked very nervous. The fear was strong inside her, only a façade of self-control preventing it from breaking out.

Torlo stared at the Ga-Matoran for a moment, then at Sarnii, then back at Connla, and made up his mind.

''This time he would not make the same mistakes again. ''

Hours and hours had passed, and Santis and Krennato had finally reached their destination in the tunnel.

''A dead end. ''

The tunnel abruptly stopped as a stone wall prevented them from going on further. And in front of it, there was a perfectly circular hole, half the width of the wall.

Santis wasn’t actually certain what he should do at this point. Over the days, he had been gaining more and more memory about his past. Unfortunately, those flashes of memory only showed part of his dimensional travels.

None of them gave any information on Tollubo, or the reason for which he had to kill the De-Matoran.

But he had seen many things... and some of them were solid illusions. Created by the Bahrag themselves as a means of blocking entrances to the Bohrok nests, only those who didn’t believe in the existence of the wall could bypass it.

There was only one way of knowing.

The Toa backtracked thirteen steps, then ran and charged onto the wall.

An unbearable amount of pain answered Santis’ question as he fell to the floor, his face buried in his hands.

Krennato ran to the fallen Toa, a confused look in her face.

“What in Mata Nui’s name where you doing Toa?”

“Just testing they were Santis-proof. Do I have anything broken? I mean, aside from my faith and dignity like you usually say?”

“Nothing. What do we do now?”

“Wait until one of your damn myths comes to the rescue?”

The Ga-Matorn gave an angry look at Santis.

“Why do you have to keep criticizing my faith? I have my religion. Don’t you care about your mortal soul?”

“Are you trying to sell me a life-insurance contract? Thanks but no thanks.”

Krennato then started pointing at the walls surrounding them, trying to point out unseen evidence.

“You are so blind. You close your eyes to Mata Nui, while his proofs are everywhere! Look at the floor you have been walking on for the past hours. It’s completely flat and immaculate! Have you noticed a single scratch, a single bump, any imperfection at all?

Furthermore, look around, at the floor, at the walls, at the roof, look as far as your sight reaches. There is no tiling at all – the whole cavity is just one massive block!”

Santis looked around, impressed, and touched the wall next to him with his hand. It was perfectly smooth.

But the Toa of Fire had seen enough to know that this construction had not been carved by Mata Nui, for it was part of Mata Nui himself. No divine intervention or whatsoever, if anything, quite the contrary. Of course he didn’t know for sure, but it was likely made by the Great Beings themselves, just like the rest of the Matoran Universe.

What had impressed him though were Krennato’s observation capabilities. He had seen that there was something more than myths and lies in the old one’s head – she was actually smart.

He imagined that Krennato must have shown her true, wise profile at one point. Maybe she'd made an effort all those years ago when she first arrived at the village. But slowly she sheltered behind her false hope to relieve the pain caused by her blood colt, becoming eventually abducted by those ideas. Still, he had to find a way to use that covered intelligence to his advantage.

“If you know your cave-paradise so well, then how do we go further?”

“We go down, Toa.”

“Down the hole?”

“Got any better ideas?”

The Toa looked thoughtful for a moment, and then raised his finger in approval.

“We backtrack the way we came, out of the nest, out of the Southern Continent, and spend our holidays in an Artidax beach. That sounds just about right.”

The Toa didn’t wait for the Ga-Matoran’s reply, and proceeded to examine the hole, trying to figure out what might be under the layer of darkness. He threw a bolt of fire, illuminating the walls and uncovering some shallow water below.

“I would say ‘ladies go first’, but courtesy is overrated. I will scout ahead first.”

Santis jumped down the hole, slowing his fall by heating the air below him. When the Toa landed, he noticed that there was much more water than he had expected, reaching up to his knees. He looked around in the unforgiving shadows, noticing a faint glow to his left.

A piece of metal was reflecting the light emitted by some kind of bioluminescent red coral. He reached to touch it, and then the Psychometry power of the Danju kicked in.

He saw a ship sailing across the silver sea, busy crewman working frenetically on the top deck. A very heterogeneous group, but they all shared one trait: an armband with the Order of Mata Nui insignia. Suddenly, a sphere of purple light enveloped the ship, and then the world outside the sphere changed into pitch black cavern.

As the vision ended, Krennato jumped down and splashed loudly on the water.

“What’s up? Has Mata Nui spoken to you again, Toa?”

“I’ve seen a ship, and some kind of teleportation device, very similar to the one used by the Brotherhood in Destral.”

“Were they using it as means of transport, or was it an attack by the Makuta?”

“Who knows? They could have reverse engineered the teleportation system, or they could have been attacked by the Brotherhood of Makuta. Either way, that means we’ve got free take and go navigation charts.”

“We? How do you know where the ship is?”

“I saw this red coral in the vision. It must be a pretty rare kind of coral, to grow in complete darkness. ”

“Let’s take the plunge then.”

“Now you’re the one precipitating yourself. Unless you are a siren – and you look far from being that- you would need some kind of water-breathing apparatus to reach the flooded section of the caves.”

“Well, I happen to have air bladders.”

“That is really convenient.”

“I never go outside my hut without those. I still believe that someday Mata Nui will punish us for our sins and flood our world.”

Santis decided to ignore the elder’s ramblings and just took the weird organic device.



The Toa could feel the oxygen and nitrogen mix rushing into the back of his throat. It had a slightly stale taste but he could tell using the Air Bladder wasn't going to be overly complicated. Satisfied with his breathing supply, he pressed one hand to his Kanohi Danju, holding the strange organic oddity in place, extended his sword in the other, then hopped into the water.

It was cold and stagnant after centuries of lying untouched. He felt his elbow make contact with the ledge behind him and his whole world seemed to spin upside down. The pool rushed up to meet him and his vision was pulled apart like a curtain opening as he found himself plunging into the water.

The Toa kept his head below the surface for a moment. Partly to wait for Krennato, partly to map out his bearings in the dark liquid surroundings. But, as he feared would be more likely, to plan how to get back.

It was a narrow cave and it was cold, which was a dangerous enemy of any scuba diving Toa of Fire, sapping his strength and concentration. The deeper they went, the colder it got. Hence, he couldn't afford to hang around.

Santis willed his Elemental Fire power through his sword once again, creating the first light that the sunken cave had seen in centuries, then let his weight drag him down, like an anchor. The water rose up and devoured him.

Down and down he sank, blowing hard, equalizing, to stop the pain in his audio receptors. Krennato was lagging above him, perhaps marvelling at the astonishing beauty of the underwater world. There were a few different species of watery plants dotted around the cave, their shapes and colors as alien to him as anything it was possible to find in the Matoran Universe.

For a single moment, he felt completely at peace, an unusual trait for him. The sound of his own breathing echoed and each breath released a cascade of silver bubbles. He was approximately fifteen bio down below the surface, about two bio from the ground. A school of brightly colored fish swam past him, a species he was unfamiliar with; fat lips, bulging eyes, and strange, misshapen bodies. Hideous and beautiful at the same time. Harmonious. The Toa hadn't ventured underwater in centuries. He only vaguely recalled how to swim. Still, he wished that he had time to enjoy it.

But he didn't. So he kicked forward. The fish darted away, alarmed.

The walls were of course much more than just a seething mass of rock; coral, vegetation and marine-life. It was a living thing, in a sense. Huge fans of seaweed waved slowly from side to side. Clumps of corals exploded brilliantly around him. There was a slither of movement as a Venom Eel disappeared behind a rock.

Unfortunately, Santis didn't have the time to waste admiring the colors and sights of the underwater kingdom. He had to concentrate. They had to keep swimming.

The cave itself was like a gaping mouth, an expression which the Toa soon began to almost believe as he led the unsuspecting Ga-Matoran further inside. This tunnel hadn't always been flooded and over a period of time – millions of years – stalactites and stalagmites had grown. The needle-sharp spears hung from the ceiling and protruded up from the floor. As always, Santis was unable to remember which was which. But even from a distance there was something menacing about the place. It was like looking into the open mouth of a giant, undersea monster. He could almost imagine the pointy formations biting down, the whole thing swallowing him up.

He was about to swim forward when there was a movement just outside his field of vision. Something was there. Puzzled, he looked up. He froze instantly. He actually felt the air stop somewhere at the back of his throat. The last of the bubbles chased each other up to the roof of the cave. Santis just hung there, fighting for control. He wanted to scream. But underwater, it wasn't possible to scream.

He was looking at a Takea Shark, at least three meters long, circling slowly above him. The sight was so unreal, so utterly shocking, that at first he didn't quite believe his eyes. It had to be an illusion, some sort of trick. The very fact it was so close to him an Krennato seemed impossible. He stared at its grey underbelly, the two sets of fins, the down-turned crescent mouth with its jagged, razor-sharp teeth. And there were the deadly, round eyes, as black and evil as anything in the Matoran Universe. Had they seen him yet?

Swallowing his surprise, the Toa refused to let himself get scared. Panicking while underwater was the last thing he wanted to do. So he thought about what he knew about the species, which wasn't a considerably great deal of knowledge. Was it going to attack him first? He didn't know. Could its teeth penetrate his armor? He didn't know. Was there any chance it was a vegetarian?

''He seriously doubted it. ''

He knew that there were a number of different shark-like species inhabiting this world, courtesy of the Brotherhood of Makuta, of course, and that only a few of them had ever attacked another living creature. The Takea shark was definitely one of them. Not so good. But attacks were rare. Only about a hundred Ga-Matoran were killed a year. More people died in Moto Sled accidents. But these were dangerous waters, and this was a single shark...

''...Still circling yet, as if choosing its moment... ''

Perhaps it hadn't seem them yet. No. That wasn't possible. Any kind of Rahi's eyes had to be at least ten times more sensitive than a Toa's. Even in pitch darkness it could see at least fifty bio away. And anyway, it probably didn't need eyes. It had receptors built into its snout that allowed it to detect even the tiniest electrical current. A blinking heartlight, for example.

The Toa forced himself to think harder. Both their lives could depend on it. A shark would be attracted to shiny metal objects, bright colors, and to fresh blood. He slowly turned his head. His sword was dazzling with light and his armor was bright red and yellow. But there was no blood. ''Was there? ''

Most of his wounds from the night before had been healed by the group's two Ga-Matoran medics. There were no open wounds that he knew of. He turned his hands over, examining himself. And then he saw it. Just below the elbow of his left arm was a small gash. He hadn't even noticed it, though he remembered knocking it against the ledge when he dove in. A tiny amount of blood, brown in the murky water rather than red. Tiny, but enough. The Takea could smell one drop of blood in fifty gallons of water. Who had taught him that? He had forgotten, but he knew it to be true. The shark had smelled him...

''...and was still smelling him, closing in... ''

The circles were getting smaller. The Takea's fins were down, its back arched. And it was moving in a strange jerky pattern. The three textbook signs of an immediate attack. Santis knew there were only going to be a few seconds between life and death. Slowly, trying not to make any disturbance in the water, he reached down.

His knife was still there, strapped to the armor of his leg. He carefully unfastened it, using his right shoulder to keep the Air Bladder pressed against his Kanohi. The weapon would be tiny against the bulk of the Rahi and the blade would seem pathetic against those vicious teeth. But at least it was something to defend himself with.

The Toa tried to edge backwards. Slowly, keeping the creature in sight, he resumed his swim, Krennato just ahead of him. For a moment he thought the shark had lost interest in him, but then he saw that he had been tricked. The monster turned and, as if fired from a Cordak Blaster, rushed through the water, heading straight at him. Toa dived down, his Air Bladder dislodging from his Mask, bubbles exploding from his mouth. There was a boulder to one side of the cave, which he tried to wedge himself and his Matoran accomplice between it, shielding them from their attacker.

The Takea hesitated and curved away. At that moment, the Toa of Fire lunged forwards with his blade. He felt his arm shudder as the knife cut into the thick hide of just under the two front fins. As the Rahi flickered past, he saw it was leaving a trail of what looked like brown smoke. Blood. But he knew it had barely been wounded. He had managed to pinprick it, nothing more. And he had probably angered it too, making it all the more determined.

Worse, he was bleeding more himself. In his attempt to get out of the way, he had backed into the coral, which had cut what little flesh peaked out from behind his armor. He felt no pain, though he was sure that would come later. But now he really had done it. He had advertised himself: dinner, fresh and bleeding. It was a miracle that the shark hadn't been joined by a dozen of its friends.

The Toa kicked, propelling himself forwards, with all his mighty strength. At the same time he was thrashing with his arms and cursed noisily inside his head when he accidentally dropped the knife. He decided it would have done him no good anyway. He needed his Sword as a light source. He couldn't use it in this skirmish, and he couldn't use his Elemental Powers, Plasma capabilities, or Heat Vision in this watery graveyard.

Yet the Takea still came hurtling towards him. The devilish eyes seemed to have grown larger. The mouth was stretched open in a snarl that contained all the hatred in the world. Its jaw gaped, the dreadful teeth slicing through the water. The Toa jerked backwards, twisting his spine. The Rahi missed him by centimeters. He felt the surge of water pushing him away.

''But then the battle was over. ''

Santis watched as the Takea rammed right into one of the stalagmites. Teeth that skewered the creature. Blood exploded into the water. He saw the dreadful eyes as the creature's head whipped from side to side. He could almost imagine it howling in pure agony. It was stuck, completely trapped, as it in the jaws of a monster even more dreadful than itself.

The Toa of Fire hung in the water, shocked and uncomprehending. Slowly the blood cleared and Krennato joined him as the Takea gave its last spasm and died.



When the Toa of Fire and his Ga-Matoran companion had swam onwards, a shadowy female figure drifted out of the blackness, stepping into what little light remained of the distant pair. She ascended to her position atop a large rock, where her armored heel cut through the overlying moss. There she stood still, around her stretched the murky rocks of the flooded cave, darker than mortal sin.

The fact that she was tall and straight in build and that she was feminine in her movements were all that could be learnt from her. It was as if her form was wrapped up in a close-fitting shawl of darkness.

Her reason for standing so dead still, watching the disappearing questers was just as obscure. Her extraordinary fixity, her conspicuous loneliness, her heedlessness of the darkness, betokened among other things an utter absence of fear. This was her home. ''Her domain.  The only world that she had known for thousands upon thousands of years, and these burglars'' were not welcome here.

The watery warrior narrowed her eyes and focused on the intruders. The light coming from the red-one's blade had awoken her from a trance of unbroken tenseness. It did not belong here, in this desolate, grey world.

What the female uttered was a lengthened sighing, apparently at something on her mind. Millenia in this craggy, dingy hellhole had eaten away at her mind. Fractured images cascaded into the foreground of her vision. She had pledged herself to this place, given herself to that cause of defending the Kanohi Ignika from thieves foolish enough to try their luck. She had lived a life before that, but it did not matter. It did not aid her in her century-old task. Protecting this cave was her responsibility, for the passageway splintered off further down the line, leading straight to the Chamber of Life where the Mask was held.

The blue and white-armored female glanced down at the broken corpse that had caused the Toa to hesitate. It had belonged to a lone bounty hunter, who had been hired to steal the Mask for his employer. He had tried his luck only to be met by this watery guardian.

''And his luck hadn't lasted long enough. ''

But the female sentry had killed him before this point while the Toa had managed to go further on. '' Why was that? '' Was she getting sloppy? Had a lifetime spent in this forgotten, watery cavern rendered her lazy?

In the space of a second she decided that could not have been the reason. She had sensed the presence of the Toa long before she had seen him and his accomplice. Her waters had been disturbed. Although the reason why she had stayed lurking in the shadows allowed the intruders to pass were a mystery to her. She knew it was unacceptable. She would follow the Toa and the Ga-Matoran. It was obvious that they were using primitive Air Bladders to hold their chances. Not the best effort she had seen, but still one she would enjoy exploiting. Tactically, the best move would be to simply wait for their lungs to fill with the water she now breathed. But the tunnel didn't go on forever, which afforded them a chance of reaching air again at the end, however slim, and succeeding. She could not allow that. Life in this cave was dark and cruel if lived alone. Perhaps a hunt would rectify her gloomy mood.

Calling upon her Mask of Conjuring, the female paddled forwards. She spoke aloud as she moved and the nebulous shaped Kanohi began to glimmer. Even as she began to describe the powers she was programming into her Mask, she knew she wasn't going to need the full fifteen minutes.

''She wasn't getting slow... she was just toying with her prey.

Playing with her food. ''

Chapter 12
To be written by BobTheDoctor27.

Characters

 * Toa Santis
 * Torlo
 * Connla
 * Sarnii
 * Goll
 * Kyros
 * Iolan
 * Krennato
 * Turas
 * Fiancha
 * Rakui - Deceased
 * Kentran - Injured

Trivia

 * A brief introduction to the story serial was released at the end of Whispers in the Dark as a promotional text. The epilogue was centered around the events of Chapter 3 of Falling in the Black but from an alternate perspective.
 * The significance of the Avsa-wearing Onu-Matoran at the end of Chapter 6 was a hidden reference to the 2012 film Woman in Black, which BobTheDoctor27 recently saw.