Besieged

Besieged is a short story serial written by BobTheDoctor27. It depicts an alternate universe in which the Toa Metru contracted a mysterious, zombie-infection around the events of the Great Cataclysm.

Prologue
The crooked, gloomy sight of Destral was not a pleasant one, to say the least.

Hanging just off the very edge of most Matoran maps, the island resembled little more than a speck of dirt floating in a sinister, turbulent ocean. There was no wind to trouble the dust that had settled on the battered chunk of rock over the ages. In fact, there was very little noise at all. It appeared untouched by civilization to the naked eye: just another dark, frosty, clump of stone protruding from the dark waters of the Matoran Universe. It existed in perpetual dusk.

It truly was a forgotten land, one that had been neglected and ignored by passing vessels for thousands upon thousands of decades. If a particularly adventurous – or downright suicidal – traveler were to make for the shore, then they would feel the temperature drop. They would find that repulsive shades of sickening grey were the only natural feature of the warped landmass. The jagged rocks jutting out from the craggy, barren coastline would deter them from laying anchor. And if that wasn’t enough to keep travelers out, the air crackled with the stench of sulfur and unwashed Rahkshi.

But, to some of the Matoran Universe’s more hardy residents, this place was home.

Makuta Icarax glared at the night sky from the rugged, stony beach. He could feel the loose shingle crunching under his clawed feet as he grew closer to the center of the inland bay. Not for the first time in its history, the island was plunged into total darkness. Usually, the night was illuminated by the Twin Moons. But a thick mist had obscured the skyline of Destral and it was impossible to tell what had happened. The disappearance of the Twin Moons – and their accursed daytime counterparts – would be a sure sign that Makuta Teridax, his honorable and trusted commander, had succeeded in the first of many steps in his Grand Scheme.

For thousands of years he had been loyal to the Brotherhood. Many times had his faith been tested in the past. But tonight represented a new test entirely. The Makuta had united under Teridax’s direction and declared an open act of war upon Mata Nui. Things could have gone badly, and there was still time for things to get worse. They did not know for sure if Metru Nui had been successfully destabilized by their leader.

But, then again, had they failed in their mission then there would be no island left to stand upon. The ghastly stain upon the Matoran Universe that was Destral would be removed by a single electrical impulse in the Great Spirit’s head. The Makuta would be hunted down and tormented – burnt. There would be nothing left to mark their passing aside from dying screams, defective Rahi and a chilling sensation that lingered in the air.

But, seeing as their island had not been razed in the two days since the tremor that had shook the entire world, it was quite evident that Teridax had won his way.

Standing on the edge of the bay, gazing up hopefully into the night sky, stood a slender, female figure. Yes, the silhouette was unmistakably that of Gorast, his last remaining sister Makuta. The brutal, self-proclaimed Mistress of the Acid Falls was hard to make out in the darkness; but, then again, he supposed that was the point.

''You only see Makuta Gorast when it’s too late. ''

“I suppose sea monsters can wash up on any shore in this filthy universe,” grunted Icarax, the crooked lips on his Great Mask of Scavenging barely moving, his eyes fixed on Gorast his fellow Makuta.

The female warrior shot him a hateful glance. “You would be wise to address me with respect, Icarax,” she bristled. “If you manage that then you will go far when I become Teridax’s second-in-command – or at least until your shade of crimson becomes unfashionable and I have to remove your head from my wall.”

The red-armored Makuta cursed inwardly and turned his attention away. Starting an argument now would be a bad decision. Gorast was one of the most merciless warriors he knew and this was no time for conflicts within the Brotherhood. It was a shame she wasted herself worshiping such a dusty old schemer as Teridax. The way Icarax was saw things, the wearer of the Mask of Shadows was losing touch. This was a time for swift, tactical action. That was how wars were won. They needed a strong dictator in this time of desolation, someone who could band the Makuta together and give them actual direction. Perhaps if Teridax cared to share even a glimpse of his grand scheme with the others then Icarax could be swayed. But not so much as a whisper had left the jaw of the Makuta of Metru Nui, which made him trust his leader even less.

Several hostile minutes passed without a single utterance between the two rival Makuta. At first, there was nothing in the inky night sky. But then, from an impossible distance, Icarax caught sight of a silver speck amongst the dark, all-encompassing backdrop. That single atom of life was all that the scene contained. It was just a blur far off into the unknown, a moving spot.

As the dot drew closer, its features became more and more distinct. A magnificent pair of wings pierced the air. It appeared to be a Rahi of some kind. Perhaps it was a messenger. The creature was too large to be an Ice Bat. It could be Gukko Bird but the flight pattern was different. A Nivawk Hawk. As the creature drew closer, Icarax felt a deep, internal surge of pride. It was indeed Teridax’s pet, and it bore quite the message.

In so graceful a manner that Icarax had to stifle a laugh, the Rahi landed on the shore, fluttered its wings, then lowered itself so as to release its mount: a warped and twisted Turaga.

The shriveled, haggard figure was, of course, Makuta Teridax. He had shapeshifted himself into the form of Turaga Dume in order to infiltrate Metru Nui and put into effect the first stage of his plan. But, seeing as he was still in this decrepit shape and his brow was weighed down with rage that surpassed even that of a Toa of Fire, Icarax knew better than to speak out.

Instantly, Gorast was on her knees, bowing down to Teridax but, given his present state, the scene just looked awkward and undignified. A Makuta bowing to a Turaga. But, given the look on the figure’s Kanohi Kraahkan, Icarax knew there was no arguing. Teridax was in no mood for disobedience.

“Makuta Teridax?” he muttered, in all true seriousness.

“Indeed, Icarax,” muttered the crippled Makuta in a broken voice that carried none of his usual grandeur or poetic splendor. A voice soured by defeat. “It is I.”

“Well... did it work? Can a Makuta really topple giants and challenge the heavens?”

The short Makuta glared at him from behind his Kanohi Kraahkan.

“The Great Spirit... sleeps,” muttered Teridax, cryptic as ever.

“And the Matoran of Metru Nui?”

“They rest in peace.”

Icarax exchanged a concerned look with Gorast as their pint-sized leader began hobbling along at their ankles, weighed back and fatigued, with the same heavy bones as a real Turaga.

“You mean they’re dead?”

“I ran into an unforeseen anomaly,” grimaced the Kraahkan-wearing Makuta. It was practically impossible to take him seriously in this decrepit state.

“A local Toa team?” If Makuta were capable of having hairs on the back of their necks, Gorast’s would be standing on edge. Her clawed hands balled into sinister fists.

Teridax hesitated for a moment, then turned to address the female Makuta, his knuckles white on his makeshift Firestaff.

“Something more than that.”

It was in that moment that Icarax saw something that, for the first time in his entire life, chilled him right down to the core of his very being.

''There was fear in Teridax’s eyes. ''

That single sentence was a bizarre and outlandish notion to say the least, for it was simply not in Teridax’s nature to get caught up in the emotional brawl that he subjugated his minions to. He was simply above it all. His place was atop a golden throat, ever-present and all-seeing, but untouchable. He was simply beyond it. For every plan he revealed, he had at least twenty-seven others swirling around, ready to enter the playing field.

But something had quite clearly happened in Metru Nui, and if it had startled their leader then what hope did any of the Makuta have?

“Superior One,” grunted Icarax, clearing his throat and putting aside his critical stance in favor of a more serious one. “If you felled Mata Nui then surely we have succeeded, have we not?”

“The Great Spirit has been stalled,” murmured Teridax, his usual dramatic tone absent. “Re-awakening him will be an arduous task in years to come. But Metru Nui...”

He trailed off, an unfamiliar watery glimmer in their heartless leader’s eyes.

“What exactly did these Toa do, leader?” snarled Gorast. “I shall personally lead an army of Rahkshi and raze their island!”

“You will do no such thing!” snapped the Makuta in the body of a Turaga before recomposing himself. “Metru Nui is to be quarantined. See to it that the Sea Gates are closed.”

Now this was a strange demand. The instance it left the lips of Teridax’s Kanohi Kraahkan, it rung false in Icarax’s audio receptors. He was under the impression that invading Metru Nui was a top priority, and had been for centuries. It was their gold mine. What could possibly possess their leader to block it off and further impede their seizure of power?

“My liege,” murmured the Makuta of Karzahni with uncharacteristic concern. “Exactly what did the Toa do to you?”

“It’s not what they did to me...” Makuta Teridax let out a deep, hearty sigh that came from the very core of his essence.

“It’s what they did to the Matoran.”

Chapter 1
A Kinloka was lying in the middle of the road. The Rahi had the familiar look of a vegetable, or a fruit left too long in the sunlight. The flesh had blackened, shrivelled and split, the overripe skin inside squeezing out from the edges of the creature’s metallic components. The unfortunate creature’s innards had turned to mush.

The Ta-Matoran known as Jala had seen this happen many times before since disaster had befallen Metru Nui. The Kinloka was, of course, infected with the same illness that befell the Toa. Only, it seemed to have a far more terminal effect on Rahi. This was what happened if the Rahi lived long enough to contract the disease. They literally burst.

Had he poked the corpse with his spear, the skin would pop and a nauseating, grey puss would ooze out, followed by the bright pink blossom of soft fat. Truly a gruesome sight, to say the least. It sickened the weary Ta-Matoran completely. Rahi were dropping off like this all over Metru Nui.

The Noble Komau-wearer turned his attention away from the Kinloka and back to the task at hand. He was skulking around Onu Metru, looting homes and shops for supplies to bring back to his fellow refugees in the Archives. It was only a matter of time before the Toa thought to search underground, and when that happened, survival would be near-enough to impossible.

It was hard to believe that just two days had passed since the infection took place. Back then, Jala was little-knowing of any Toa being in Metru Nui at all. Turaga Dume had summoned every Matoran on the island to the Coliseum, possibly for an important announcement about his policy, or maybe even to announce some kind of special alliance with the Matoran of the Northern Continent or something. Jala had expected to sleep through it.

But, before he’d even been able to catch a Chute from his forge in Ta Metru, there were screams. He’d looked up at one of the Telescreens and unknowingly seen the end of Matoran civilization caught on film.

''Six Toa devouring Matoran, right in the very center of Metru Nui. ''

Of course, he’d turned and fled instantly. At first he’d holed up in an old, abandoned warehouse close to his home. But when the Toa worked their way through the various Metru in search of more Matoran to butcher, he’d run for it, only just escaping with his life.

The Matoran of Fire removed a crafter’s hammer from his pack. It had belonged to a fellow Ta-Matoran, named Takua, one of Jala’s many dearly-departed friends. Takua had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, which happened all too frequently for him.

With two powerful, rhythmic strikes, Jala was able to bust the lock off the door of the dwelling and slip inside. As if to mark the presence of chaos in Metru Nui, an earthquake had shook the island and destroyed many buildings. It was almost symbolic, like something out of legend. A hole had been breached in the Matoran Universe and, from it, had entered a plague. This hut was one of the few that hadn’t been damaged, which was both good and bad. That meant nobody else had looted it yet.

Probably because the owner was dead .

The dwelling was atypical of most residences in Onu-Metru in that it probably would’ve been immaculately tidy, with various metal ores and mineral deposits on shelves. However, the tremor that had violated the island had knocked them all to the ground, shattering every single one.

It was dangerous to spend more than a minute in a single place, so Jala didn’t waste time marveling at the destruction of an Onu-Matoran’s life. He added to the mess by tearing drawers out and emptying their contents. He tore sheets off the bed, spare armor from a cabinet, grabbed a spanner and a first aid kit from under the sink, and snatched up the three Kanoka Disks that hung ornamentally from the wall before slipping out into the night once more.

The scout stuck to the shadows once again. It was easy enough to move around at night. After all, Metru Nui had been drained of its power and there were no lights left to illuminate the way.

Under normal circumstances, he would rarely venture out of the shelter, and Matoran weren’t supposed to leave the safety of the Archives unless they were in groups of four. But Jala couldn’t stand being underground. He hadn’t slept since the infection took root. He needed fresh air. He needed to see what had become of the surface world instead of just relying on Orkahm’s Chutespeak reports. He needed to experience it for himself, the sensation of standing on the soil of a post-apocalyptic world – on a fallen Metru Nui.

There was a whole group of Matoran huddled together in the Archives, around twenty-five. As far as he knew, there were also a couple of other resistance groups dotted around the place. They were fortunate enough to still have Nuparu in the land of the living, and he theorized that the plague of the Toa Metru was a new stage in evolution. Just as the Skakdi had advanced so many centuries ago, the Onu-Matoran believed the Toa to have done the same. Whether or not this radical change affected all living Toa or if it was confined to Metru Nui was impossible to tell. Regardless, Jala had campaigned that the island should be blocked off, just in case. If this plague left the City of Legends then all was lost.

A gentle breeze picked up behind the Ta-Matoran, causing his audio receptors to prick up. The Ta-Matoran froze in his tracks, then crouched low, eyes narrowed. Without turning his head, he built a visual map of the street before deciding that the noise was not that of footfall. Instead, it sounded much weaker, like metal scraping across stone.

Shakily, the Matoran of Fire glanced over his shoulder for the source of the noise. In what little light penetrated the darkness of Metru Nui’s dome, he could make out the vague shape of a Kanohi Mask lying on the ground, discarded.

Torn between duty and survival, Jala turned and squinted. Kanohi were hard to come across these days, not to mention invaluable for life to thrive. It was a well-known fact. Matoran had always been dependent upon Kanohi. They couldn’t survive without them. While a Toa would be rendered dizzy or a Turaga would be weakened by the loss of a Kanohi, Matoran had a far more serious dependency on their masks. Should one of the refugees trip over and damage their Kanohi then they would immediately falter and tumble into a comatose state. They would even die if their masks weren’t 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 millennium since Jala had thought of his own Noble Kanohi Komau as a piece of metal magnetized to his face. A single Kanohi was worth more to his fellow refugees than a dozen first aid kits.

Cautiously, the Ta-Matoran edged closer to the mask. It was a powerless, ebony Kanohi. Its shape resembled that of a Zatth, the Mask of Summoning. However, upon closer inspection, it became clear that this was actually a Kanohi Rau. Some local vendor had obviously conned the wearer of this Kanohi, tricked him into paying extra for something that looked like a fancy, exotic mask. The silver markings on the upper half indicated that it had belonged to an Onu-Matoran resident of Metru Nui. What could possibly make a Matoran part with his Kanohi? Shuddering at the thought, Jala tucked the mask into his pack then turned to leave.

A dark shape flitted across the street behind him. The Matoran froze, wondering if it was just his imagination. The cold chill that ran up his spine told him it most definitely wasn’t.

Any normal Matoran would have made a run for it. If there was a chance, however slim, that they could get back to shelter, they would take it. But Jala was made of stronger stuff. He was a Matoran of Ta Metru. He had seen action before. He’d fought in the Matoran Civil War all those centuries ago. He didn’t scare easily. His bravery knew no ends.

A blinding flash of light struck the Matoran square in the face, stinging his eyes. He cried out in pain as he tried to adjust to the glare, but it was no use. He could feel his retinas burning. It had struck him like a solid blow. From his days as a Maskmaker, he knew exactly what he was dealing with. A Great Kanohi Ruru.

Then, to his horror, the Ta-Matoran found himself being plucked off the ground and dragged into the air, like a Ruki being hoisted out of the water. His body was pulsing with a cobalt layer of energy. A Great Kanohi Matatu.

In his final moment of life, Jala saw the six twisted heroes reveal themselves from the rooftops of the surrounding buildings. They regarded him warmly, with maddened, hungry eyes. Shadows seemed to coil down their bodies like vicious snakes. Their eyes were red. Their heartlights were switched off. And, most disturbingly of all, the mouthpieces of their Kanohi had been deformed and warped. Their jaws were jutting out and their lips had all but disappeared, affording him a full view of six yellow, decayed sets of organic teeth.

Bravery was by far the kindest word for stupidity.

The undead organism that had once been called Toa Nuju concentrated hard. Given his present, impure condition, using a Kanohi presented a chalenge. But, given the right kind of practice, he’d already amassed plenty of experience at ripping Matoran to pieces with his mind. Without so much as creasing his brow, the startled Matoran of Fire was torn into six chunks: four limbs, a head, and a torso. He let each piece float to a different Toa and watched with delight as they each grabbed for the fleshy chunks. Onewa was left with the head. Of course, he saved the chest for himself. That part contained the most meat.

Like the savages they were, the zombified Toa dug into their meal. Since they had become infected they had changed in many ways. At first, they had been horrified by their desire to harm the very Matoran who they had been sworn to protect. But then the hunger had gripped them, and the hunger consumed their other feelings. They had become puppets, driven only by their desire to feast.

Of course, they were no longer able to access their Elemental Powers. They were unworthy – which was quite possibly the understatement of the century. Kanohi usage was still possible, but it no longer came as freely. They were constantly hungry, and the only time that they were allowed a break from the starvation was in the few minutes that proceeded a meal. That was the only instant in which the voices would be silenced and some traces of their old selves would resurface.

“This – is hardly fair,” snapped Onewa, undead Toa of Stone, as he gnawed at the Matoran’s freshly-separated head. “This is – mostly metal!”

Nobody responded. They’d gone too long without a meal. All of the Matoran had scattered and were hiding out in small clusters. They didn’t want to complain.

For a full, grotesque minute, the once-heroes continued to devour their Matoran captive. They ate slowly so as to prolong the sensation. After all, they would be hungry again later, and Matoran were in finite supply.

Finally, Matau wobbled and sunk down to the ground, his injuries still affecting him.

“I don’t suppose any of you intellectuals could tell me whether or not my leg will quick-heal, would you? Anyone?” he asked sceptically.

Over the course of the past two days, the Toa Metru had seen much action. They had been forced to combat Krekka and Nidhiki almost immediately after returning to the Coliseum. Even without their Elemental Powers, the battle had not gone on for long. Onewa and Whenua had managed to overpower the startled Steltian Laborer while Vakama struck him down with an Enlarge Kanoka and the three Toa dug in. Nidhiki, however, had taken the opportunity to escape. He’d sliced off part of Matau’s lower leg then made a break for it, only to be subdued and devoured by Nuju and Nokama. The Toa of Air had been sour ever since as he hadn’t been left a single chunk to eat himself.

“I wouldn’t attempt a guess,” answered Nuju, former Toa of Ice, as he finished devouring the last of the fleshy strands of the Ta-Matoran’s torso. “We have no idea how this works.”

“Same here,” grunted Whenua, the once-Toa of Earth. He too had sustained damage in the battle with the Dark Hunters and was missing a large chunk of his chest. “Just look at me. I’m certainly not digesting any of this.”

“Clearly, we are incapable of feeling pain – that’s for sure,” mused Nuju, wiping dried blood from his Kanohi. “Your stomach certainly doesn’t hurt you. And Matau’s practically missing a leg.”

“So it seems pretty clear,” interjected Nokama, reanimated Toa of Water. “Our bodies aren’t working the way that they used to – or even at all in some cases.”

“We’re dead, but we’re not dying,” grunted Onewa, zombified Toa of Stone. “Simple as that, and I ain’t no wiseguy.”

Nuju frowned, and paced forwards. “From the evidence that we have here, I’m going to assume that as long as our brains are still intact, we will continue to function. Although we do appear to be decomposing.”

There was a metallic scrape as Vakama, late Toa of Fire, scooped up the Kanohi Komau that the Matoran had worn. The infection had hit him worse than the others and he was quite clearly in emotional distress. For that reason, Nokama was taking over leadership of the group.

“Will you not listen to yourselves!?” pleaded the crimson-armored Toa in disgust, cradling the empty, blood-stained Kanohi in his arms. "Can’t you see what we’ve become?!”

“Here we go again...” groaned Onewa, heartlessly rolling his eyes.

“We devoured the Matoran!” exclaimed Vakama, violently wiping a trail of blood from his cheek. “What kind of heroes are we?”

“Vakama, please,” sighed the Toa of Stone. “There isn’t a Toa present who hasn’t eaten someone they knew already.”

“We all ate a piece of Turaga Lhikan,” added Nokama, disheartened. “He almost didn’t resist. It was… horrific. But we only have so much time after we eat before the hunger sets in, and we’ve eaten all of the Matoran in Metru Nui. We should use this time to figure out what to do when we run out of food.”

“I don’t want to figure anything out,” snapped Vakama, sitting himself down on pavement. “I think – I just want to die.”

“Well you can’t right now,” snapped Nuju. “So stop interrupting our thought process.”

His red-armored brother looked up in shock, hurt. It was impossible to feel sympathy for the Toa of Fire with such a nightmarish maw of yellow teeth and gums stained black with dried blood.

“Wait,” grunted Whenua. “What’s that in the sky?”

All six Toa looked first at Whenua, who had drifted out of the conversation. He was staring straight up at the night sky, a finger pointing into the distance. Suspended in mid-air, and far out of reach, was an emerald-armored stranger. He was distinctly male in outline, and short – about the size of a Matoran but with the frail body of a Turaga. At first they thought he too had the same disease as them, for his face was a ghastly, alien shape. However, as they focused their eyes, they realised that the stranger had the head of a Rahkshi.

Then, to their surprise, he sighed inwardly. It was a heavy, deflated heave, the kind that was so often found in defeat. With a single swing of his legs, the frail stranger about-turned in the air and flew away, disappearing off into the darkness.

“Should I wind-fly up and see if I can find him?” asked Matau. “I can sweep the city.”

“Right,” snorted Onewa. “So when you find him you can keep the little guy all to yourself? That’s a brilliant idea. If you so much as flap a wing, I’ll use my Proto Pitons on your face. Then we’ll see if you survive that.”

Nokama cocked an eyebrow then glanced at the white-armored Toa. “Nuju, any ideas? If we have food travelling the skies then I want my piece.”

“What can we do?” shrugged the undead Toa of Ice. “With the speed that thing was flying, not even Matau could catch it. Maybe next time I could use my Matatu to grab him, but otherwise, it’s a waste of an effort. There have to be pockets of Matoran hiding somewhere. We’d be better off finding them.”

“When this started, there were enough Matoran to go around,” griped Whenua in his gruff voice. “We swarmed around like Metru Mantis. Now though… our food supply is slim to none.”

“We shall return to the Coliseum,” nodded Nokama, searching the skyline for the building in question. “Who knows. Maybe we can broadcast a threat to the Matoran over the Telescreens and get them to come out.”

“Or we could just leave Metru Nui already,” argued Onewa.

“We’re not ready to take on the likes of the Makuta yet,” sighed Nuju, eying Matau’s faulty leg. “We’re better off picking Metru Nui clean first and getting used to these new bodies. Otherwise the survivors could get word out and send a warning.”

The former Toa of Stone grunted and turned his back. “What do you think, fire-spitter?” he yelled, trying to intimidate Vakama. But he was met with no response.

Vakama was gone, along with the Matoran’s Kanohi.

Chapter 2
From amidst the strewn rocks and debris of Ga Metru, a single head popped up. Innocent yet equally daring and adventurous eyes narrowed as a small figure slipped through the nighttime wreckage. Keeping to the shadows and advancing in quick bursts of silent, furtive movements, the stranger drew closer to her destination.

Hahli regarded what remained of the Great Temple with awe. The sight still chilled her. Ever since the Toa had become infected, Metru Nui had been plunged into darkness and there was an unsettling, cold tang riding in the air. The Ga-Matoran shivered at the thought. Whatever those once-Toa had done, they had taken the Great Spirit away.

The scout shot forwards in a fleeting dash, then ducked behind the final piece of rubble. The Great Temple’s long, narrow walkway was just bio away from her, but she would find no safety if she travelled that way. She’d be a sitting target for the whole quarter of an hour that it would take to reach the building. The Toa could fly, and she was no use dead.

The Ga-Matoran crept over to the edge of the walkway, then climbed over the edge and dropped down into the marshland beneath. There was sand beneath her feet. It crunched under her weight. She tried to ignore it as she waded out until water lapped at her feet, then at her knees, then her waist.

The water was dark and murky. She didn’t know why. The canals of Ga Metru were usually bright and clear. Perhaps the earthquake had disturbed some sediment further upstream. Hahli tried not to think about the horrors that the great tremor might have created.

After a short few minutes of gentle wading through the darkened depths of the gunky bogwater, the Ga-Matoran finally found the service hatch that she was looking for. It bulged out of the slimy water on a small earthy mound, almost completely hidden by a small outcrop of wild vegetation. The blue-armored Matoran crept forward, then circled round to the other side, where the plants had been cut back. There was a thick, circular handle, which opened up into the tunnel system.

Hahli grabbed at the rusty handles eagerly, twisted it in a clockwise motion, then wrenched it open. A sharp, cutting shriek rang out, startling her. She looked up in horror, feeling the metallic grind of unoiled hinges echo into the silent city. There was no movement. Hurriedly, the Ga-Matoran clambered down into the shaft, then slammed the hatch shut behind herself.

Inside the pipe was unquestionably dark, but she was fortunate enough to have a ladder. From memory she knew that it led down approximately twenty bio. As swiftly as she dared, Hahli descended the ladder then continued her journey through the next tunnel. These ancient tunnels would’ve been dark until a few days ago. But she had been quick-thinking in the minutes she had before the fall of Mata Nui. She’d discovered this place some time ago. She’d hidden here while the Matoran Civil War raged up above. A handful of Ga-Matoran had taken up residence here, along with a few other Matoran refugees. Now the corridor was fitted with lightstones.

It was a long distance to walk but, ultimately, it was a straight line all the way to the resistance headquarters. Two Ga-Matoran – neither of whom she recognised – stood on guard duty. They had a clear line of sight down the entire length of the tunnel and both were armed with long-ranged Le-Metru Kanoka Launchers. One of them – a Zatth-wearer – stepped forward and, wordlessly, instructed for her to stand to one side for a search. The scout nodded and did as she was told. After a brief frisk, the guard nodded then let her pass.

There were seven Matoran living in the make-shift settlement, four of which were Ga-Matoran. Everything appeared to be exactly as she had left it, but Hahli had learnt not to trust the evidence of her own eyes lately. When Toa became undead cannibals and Dark Hunters became murder victims there was definitely unbalance in the universe.

Ducking into the nearest of the four tents, the Ga-Matoran found the settlement’s strategists, deep in thought. Of course, she knew both of them: Kopeke and Tamaru.

“Water-maiden,” remarked the Le-Matoran coldly. His Cutespeak was ill-fitting his seriousness tone. “What hard-luck do you bring from the surface?”

Hahli swallowed and dropped her pack down on the ground, then undid the strap and emptied out its contents. A short length of rope, a torn sheet of sailcloth, an empty water canteen, a single air bladder, and a Kanohi fell out.

A battered blue Huna.

“Macku...” grimaced Kopeke. They all knew what the recovery of an abandoned Kanohi meant in this day and age.

“I found it sticking out under a rock,” murmured Hahli quietly. “It’s in pretty bad shape.”

Kopeke and Tamaru exchanged downhearted glanced.

“We’ll put it in our Kanohi stock,” muttered the Ko-Matoran. “It’s hardly the respect that Macku deserves in death, but we don’t have any masks at the moment.”

“She’d understand,” nodded the Ga-Matoran.

Tamaru seemed to be taking the hit worse than Kopeke. His eyes drifted down to the floor and all life seemed to train from his face. Shadows crept up the ridges of his Noble Rau. They’d obviously been friends.

“Any chance Toa Lhikan will make a miraculous reappearance?” asked Hahli with a heavy sigh.

Kopeke shrugged. “I thought he died a week ago. I was wondering why nobody was making any kind of big deal over it.”

“Any luck contacting the Northern Continent?”

“In an ancient tunnel system beneath a millennia-old temple without a radio?” snapped the Matoran of Ice. “I’m good at crafting, but I’m not that good.”

“Don’t we have any kind of communication with the outside world?”

“Metru Nui has always been a lonely-island,” muttered Tamaru. “And we Matoran aren’t exactly happy-smiling at the Vortixx.”

“So what else has changed since I went out looking for supplies?” asked the Ga-Matoran inquisitively. “We must have formed some kind of plan.”

“Nuhrii’s... found something,” responded Kopeke skeptically. “Tamaru went out exploring the temple above us and found a Toa Suva.”

“A Toa Suva with five ever-forgotten Toa Disks,” corrected the Le-Matoran.

“Toa Disks?” Hahli tilted her head in confusion. “Can we use them as weapons?”

Again, the two male Matoran exchanged glances, as if they were unsure how much information to give her.

“Not exactly,” answered the Noble Komau-wearer. “Toa Disks are ceremonial Kanoka that are formed when a Toa is created. But, unlike regular Disks, their effects pertain to a specific Toa’s elemental powers. We think the Disks we found belonged to the Toa Metru, but one of them is missing.”

“So Nuhrii has taken it unto himself to craft-make five Great-masks out of them.”

“You can do that?” Hahli had never heard of this peculiar combination of Toa Power and Disks. She’d never understood the craze behind the Kanoka. She was content to just play Kohlii. It was a lot safer, and getting struck by any kind of Disk, no matter how powerful, was an entirely new kind of adventure.

“In theory, yes,” nodded Kopeke, picking up and folding the sailcloth. “But Nuhrii's practicing his technique as we speak. He doesn't want to be let anywhere near the Disks until he knows how he's going to carve them.”

“We gave him all of our weakest Kanoka to practice and crash-wreck first,” added Tamaru. “When he say’s ready, we’ll give him the real ones.”

“And what of our leader?” asked the Ga-Matoran innocently.

“He spends his time reading the ancient runes of this place,” sighed Kopeke. “These tunnels stretch down deep beneath the city, and there’s writing on every single wall.”

“Has he read anything that could help us?”

“Indeed, I have read much.” All three Matoran flinched and about-turned to see the silhouette of the individual in question. He had just entered through the back of the tent.

“Impeccable timing, Turaga,” muttered Kopeke, in surprise, secretly heaving an inward sigh of relief that he hadn’t said anything unflattering about the newcomer.

“You needn’t dignify me with the title of Turaga,” murmured the figure. “I lost the right to be called Turaga when I let Metru Nui fall whilst under my watchful eye.”

One foot at a time, the dignitary bystander edged into the glimmer of the single lightstone. His crooked, scarlet form looked dusty and beaten. He carried no staff or tools of any kind. In his unshaking hand was a Noble Rau. It matched Tamaru’s Kanohi in everything but color. This one was tinted black.

“Just call me Dume, Matoran,” he chuckled with an uncharacteristically warm smile, “else I shall change your name to something regrettable come Naming Day.”

“It is a shame that Vakama could not be here,” murmured Nokama as the five Toa Metru entered the chamber that had once served as the throne room of the Coliseum. “It’s not very democratic to have a vote without him. But, then again, what need have we of politics?”

Instantly, all eyes rested upon the throne, which adorned the center of the chamber. It stood there, high and mighty. The craftsmanship was exquisite and the conceptual idea to mold it into the shape of a face was particularly striking. The previous occupant clearly had a sense of style. Whoever sat in that glorified chair would achieve ultimate power in Metru Nui.

But the Toa Metru were not so far gone that they all lusted over the power that the throne entailed. None of them were warlords. They had been good, honest Toa at one point. They most definitely weren't conquerors. They just wanted to survive from day-to-day. Their eyes were not green with gluttonous desire. Rather, they were soft and unfocused with sorrow. In a few years, dust and dirt would build up in the streets of Metru Nui and, with no Matoran to walk the streets and no life to disturb the forces of nature, the corpses would be buried. Their island would become layered with the litter of broken bodies.

“We agreed that we would stick together as a group,” announced Whenua boldly, his sad eyes resting on the cold throne. “But we've become divided.”

“We are faced with two options,” stated Nuju in his usual unfeeling tone. “We can pick Metru Nui clean of Matoran survivors, of which we know there to be many, or we can leave this place behind and go out into the rest of the Universe. Obviously, our departure from this island will be inevitable, but it’s time we reached an agreement on exactly when to leave.”

“We’re starving here,” moaned Onewa.

“I agree with the stone-carver,” snapped Matau, leaning on Whenua’s shoulder to support himself. His foot was barely clinging to his leg. “I've never been in the bald-land outside of Metru Nui before, but surely it can’t be that dark-bad? We’re still Toa!”

“And if we plan it right, some desperate Matoran might even welcome us!” added Onewa. “A whole bunch of Toa, just arriving on their island? They’d come running out of their huts to greet us.”

“Unlikely,” stated the white-armored undead Toa of Ice.

“There are enough Matoran in hiding to last us another few days,” added Whenua, curtly. “Our point is, if we were to leave now, those Matoran could send word out.”

“Imagine if the settlements of Toa-worshipping Matoran managed to get in contact with one of the Matoran in Metru Nui,” nodded Nokama. “We’d arrive on their island and be greeted by a mob. They would burn us.”

“I think we can take on a couple of Matoran,” snorted Onewa confidently. “We ate Krekka and Nidhiki!”

“No,” snapped Nuju. “We won that battle because we were in the middle of a feeding frenzy. We devoured half of Metru Nui that day. If we do that to the first settlement we hit then we’ll either be hunted to extinction within a week, or we’ll be out of food again in a month. We need to think this through differently.”

The decaying Toa of Stone glared at his ally then looked away. “I guess you’re right,” he grunted.

“So it is decided then?” asked Nokama. She had wandered over to the window and was admiring the view of the city’s skyline while her fellow Toa argued out their differences. “Shall we put it to a vote?”

“No need,” muttered Matau with an unusually dark, begrudging tone. “We need to stick in the dark-shadows if we want to survive… I hate it when Nuju’s right.”

“Well then, we have a great deal of work ahead of us,” chuckled Nokama with a sinister smile. The Toa of Water turned around fluidly then strode towards the throne. Her undead teammates parted aside for her as she swept past them then perched herself comfortably on the highest chair in Metru Nui.

There was something wicked yet seductive about her posture. If not for her repulsive, crooked yellow teeth, her expression would undoubtedly have been one of pleasure. She had ascended to a position of ultimate domination over the island that, for so long, had alienated its citizens. The previous occupant of this throne had brought hardship and suffering upon his subjects with his militaristic Vahki legions and sour attitude. Leadership was not a place for bitter Turaga. And all it had taken to overthrow the crooked, backward regime of the old system were the lives of over 500 Matoran, and the souls of six debased Toa.

In a very different place entirely, the former leader of the Toa Metru came to a halt, as if Nokama’s sudden ascension to the throne of Metru Nui had struck him even here, in Ko-Metru. Of course, he was little knowing of what events transpired in the Coliseum. After all, what need had he of a team that would not listen to him?

Just a few days ago, he’d been a relatively wealthy and well-known Maskmaker, one of the best in all of Ta-Metru. He’d had respect. He’d had honor. He’d had thousands of Matoran aspiring to be like him. He couldn’t bring himself to go back to his home territory. There would be too much damage. Too many horrific scenes of animalistic brutality. Homes destroyed. Lives ended. Kanohi scattered. The moral of this story: never meet your heroes.

Ko-Metru was silent. Not a single Ice Bat stirred in the all-encompassing darkness. This was, after all, The Quiet Metru. Even now the icy, eerie, hushed gusts of wind were muted. Being undead, Vakama no longer felt the difference between hot and cold. This was the perfect place for him to mourn his dead conscience.

“You understand, don’t you?” whispered Vakama. The noiseless district ignored him.

But that was acceptable, for he was addressing the Noble Komau, which was still in his hands. He thumbed it around, nervously. Talking to empty Kanohi was a sign of madness. But, considering the circumstances, he doubted it was the most scandalous event Metru Nui had seen in the past few days, and it afforded him some comfort. He’d known the wearer of this hollow mask for many thousands of years. Jala. They’d become friends at one point and Vakama had shown him how to craft the asymmetrical Kanohi, like the Suletu. But centuries of kinship and warmth had evaporated into the night air. The hunger had possessed him and a dark temptation had entered his weak mind.

“I don’t enjoy this, you know,” snapped the former Toa of Fire, glaring at the vacant eyeholes of the Komau, as if a pair of eyes were looking back and judging him. “If anything, it’s your fault. You couldn’t have stayed away, could you, Jala? You just had to get yourself captured.” He snarled and threw the Kanohi aside in disgust.

There was a tremendous BOOM as one of the cracked Knowledge Towers groaned. Vakama looked up in horror, wondering if one of the great buildings was about to collapse. But, in the end, his eyes only revealed a few chunks of crystal debris tumbling down one of the towers in the distance. Feeling guilty, he lumbered over to where he had thrown Jala’s Kanohi then picked it up gently.

“You want to hear something really scary?” he asked, nurturing the Komau with the same affection that a Protodrake mother would give to her hatchlings.

He was met with no answer.

“I like the way flesh tastes,” he murmured. “Really, I do. Even if Whenua or Nuju somehow managed to find a cure and things changed back to the way they were... I think I’d still enjoy eating Matoran. And that terrifies me… more than the fact I just ate a friend because I was hungry.”

The red-armored stranger turned his gaze towards the street beneath him. He was standing atop the remains of a fractured Knowledge Tower. Giant chunks of crystal wreckage littered the ground beneath him. His own private empire of shattered glass.

''What would happen if he jumped from this height? ''

The once-Toa knew that a fall from this height onto a cascade of broken crystal fragments would be fatal. He would tumble through the bracing night air. The jagged, shining ground would rush up to meet him and it would be over in a second, leaving nothing of Toa Vakama in this world but an ugly crimson smear of a corpse impaled on the rough, edgy quartz rubble. Never before in his life had he felt this low. A week ago he would never have considered the notion of suicide, but a great deal of psychological damage had been dealt to the young Toa, to the point where he no longer felt a sensation of certainty about anything.

Heaving a deep sigh, Vakama felt the guilt of an entire lifetime press down on his shoulders. There was no guarantee that he would die, of course. Chances were, in this undead state, he would be reanimated with a particularly sharp fragment impaling him. He would reawaken to a world of agony. His screams would ring out off and pollute the air of the silent Metru. His screams would bounce off the cracked Knowledge Towers for an eternity before the other Toa found him. If he jumped now then there would be no getting back up again afterwards. This was as much an act of nobility as it was an act of cowardice.

But before Vakama could make the fatal decision, he felt a devastating impact in the back of his neck. The world spun out of focus and he cried out in agony. Disorientated, he threw himself forward only to find himself being torn off the ground and dragged in the opposite direction by some invisible force. In his shock, he released his grip on the Komau. Instantly, he snatched at the Kanohi but his hand closed around empty air and the flash of crimson was the last he would ever see of his fallen friend.

Crashing to the ground some distance back from the ledge, the Huna-wearer swore and cried out. He had been snared with some intangible rope and was being tugged at wildly. He kicked and bucked about, like a Rahi fighting for freedom. But the more he kicked, the further away he seemed to be yanked.

After much resistance, the sensation of being captured lifted and he was thrown aside with tremendous force. His armor scraped across the shining, clear surface of the stunted Knowledge Tower. Battered, winded and distressed, the Toa of Fire looked up to see his attackers.

There were two of them standing on the far side of the structure. Small, blurred and swift, they were just undefined shapes for a long moment before Vakama’s senses caught up with him. Then, finally, his eyes fell into focus and his sight returned.

The mysterious aggressors appeared almost identical to the strange, flying green Turaga he’d seen back in Onu-Metru. Only, these ones were adorned in different armor. The nearest one was sporting a dusty shade of white armor. He was staggering back, as if he too was recovering from a struggle. The former Toa decided that the white-Turaga must have been the one who attacked him.

The other newcomer wore an aged set of black armor. He looked a sleek and shady. His narrow eyes fixed on Vakama and his Rahkshi-like face twisted into a snarl.

His lips moved to throw some sort of remark but whatever words he challenged the Toa with fell upon deaf audio receptors. Adrenaline built up within the crimson-armored monster and his mouth watered.

Food...

Eagerly, Vakama dragged himself to his feet and removed the Disk Launcher from his pack, intent on firing a burst of Freeze Kanoka at his new targets.

But a flash of blue whipped past his Mask and his weapon was torn out of his hands. Cursing once again, the Toa adopted a combat stance and turned to face his unknown assailants. There were three of them now. A blue one had joined the ranks of the others, a female. His Disk Launcher now rested in her hands.

It did not take the undead Toa of Fire to realize that he was dealing with something he had never seen before. His enemies were far swifter than the aching, aged bodies of Turaga. Perhaps they were Matoran mutations; some new kind of Dark Hunter threat.

Wordlessly, the black-armored mutant bowed his head and, instantly, a spinning wheel of blue energy lit up the Knowledge Tower. It took Vakama a second longer than it should have to realize that it was a Rhotuku Launcher and, when standing at near point blank range, every second counted.

The projectile struck him square in the chest. The Toa of Fire tumbled backwards. He’d expected to feel pain with that amount of force, but the feeling never hit him. Instead, a deep numbness saturated him and a shadow consumed him.

He hit the deck instantly and, fighting for consciousness, managed to peel his head off the ground to look up at his three attackers.

“You probably have many questions, Toa,” croaked the black-armored assaulter in a ridiculously light, groggy tone. “We intend to keep you guessing their answers. You can consider that to be the start of your punishment for what you did to this city.”

“Go… rot in… Karzahni,” croaked Vakama.

Then a foot stamped down over his eyes and the deceased Toa of Fire blacked out completely.

Makuta Antroz glared at the coastline of Odina looming in the distance. Although not a volcanic island, the realm’s heat could be felt even this far out at sea. It was dry and dusty. No doubt he would be walking straight into a sandstorm, but some things just weren’t worth complaining over.

He had been sent to the region to discuss the prospects of an alliance with The Shadowed One, the leader of the Dark Hunters, on behalf of Makuta Teridax. Oral legends had a way of passing swiftly from Matoran to Matoran in this universe, and so too had news passed from Makuta to Makuta of the situation in Metru Nui, and of the nightmarish crimes that the local Toa had committed. Even Antroz had shuddered when Icarax repeated the chilling tale to him.

Although he undoubtedly trusted Makuta Teridax’s word, he could not help but question the plausibility of the ordeal. Had he heard the same story being told of Bitil or Chirox, he would have guessed that they had made a mistake and were trying to cover it up with some fantastical excuse. But Teridax? The whole thing seemed too exaggerated for his taste.

The small wooden boat scraped against a rock and jerked. The Makuta of Xia snarled as he swayed about in his seat. Although the Toa Hagah had rebelled against the Makuta some centuries ago, Antroz still had three members of his old Toa servants lingering about Destral: a Toa of Air, a Toa of Water, and a Toa of Plantlife. All were unwaveringly loyal, a trait rarely found in the lethargic species these days. Currently, the Toa of Water was rowing him across the ocean to Odina. This was the single chance she would have to enjoy the watery environment that her kind was so accustomed to for some time now. It was like taking a pet Dermis Turtle for a walk.

The Toa of Water raised an eyebrow from beneath a low-hanging straw hat. This one was particularly unruly though, when it boiled down to it, she had fought against her more rebellious colleagues. Whether it was out of ignorance or stupidity was beyond Antroz’s understanding, but it hardly concerned him.

Odina was not his favorite region of the Matoran Universe. The realm of the Dark Hunters had gone unchecked for millennium. Such was Miserix’s lack of concern for island he’d assigned Vamprah – the mute Makuta – with the task of watching over the island. Of course, having a Makuta who didn’t speak made for quite the communication barrier. That was mainly why Antroz was here. A diplomatic solution was needed and he had a way with words. Now, more than ever, the Brotherhood needed allies. Although he was a warrior at heart, even the Makuta of Xia knew that some fights simply could not be won.

As the boat drew near to the shore, Antroz got to his clawed feet, flapped his bat-like wings, and glided the rest of the way. The Toa of Water didn’t look up as he’d expected her to. In fact, her vessel drifted to the bank at the same gentle speed as him. Without so much as a word, the Makuta started walking away. He was shaky on his feet. The rocking of the boat unhinged him. He would correct the issue with a brisk walk. After all, stumbling into The Shadowed One’s fortress in a drunken manner wouldn’t grant him much hope of an alliance.

“He’ll say no.”

Antroz stopped in his tracks, hesitated, then turned to face the Toa of Water. She was still hanging back lazily in her boat, straw hat tipped down, arms crossed.

“Explain yourself, Toa,” he snapped. This unruly behavior was not something that he tolerated. He was taking enough of a chance keeping any Toa Hagah at all.

“Krekka and Nidhiki are dead,” retorted the blue-armored bodyguard. “They were two of The Shadowed One’s finest operatives. You have to find some way to convince the ruler of the Dark Hunters that he wouldn’t be sending more of his thugs to their doom.”

His interest peaked, Antroz turned to face the free-thinking Toa Hagah. She was, of course right. That was exactly why he’d been selected for this task. As well as being Teridax’s preferred lieutenant, he was also a diplomat, and a warrior at heart. He had enough in common with The Shadowed One to perhaps ease the Makuta into his good books. But this was also information that the Toa of Water should not have access to. Antroz never discussed matters of importance with his Toa Hagah and he doubted any of his fellow Makuta had taken the time to brief his bodyguards on the current affairs of the Matoran Universe. So where had she gotten this idea from?

“The Shadowed One may have considered an alliance in the past,” shrugged the Toa of Water. “The Dark Hunters uniting with the Brotherhood of Makuta? I can imagine the Matoran stirring in their sleep then waking up to huddle around the campfire, scared. But, fortunately enough, I can promise you that will never happen.”

Antroz’s eyes narrowed. This most definitely was not the Toa of Water he kept in his security unit. She was far more feisty and opinionated, not to mention confident – a trait that few Toa shared in the presence of a Makuta as intimidating as himself.

The Toa of Water cracked a smile. “I can promise you, Makuta of Xia, your people will not benefit from any alliance with the Dark Hunters, for they have no interest in Metru Nui, and it would take all the sculptures in Po-Metru to coerce them into servitude.”

“An agreement can be reached,” snapped Antroz, taken aback by this strange Toa of Water. “Besides boatswain, what concerns have you for the fate of the Dark Hunters?”

The smile beneath the straw hat broadened.

“I offer you another option,” she murmured. “There are more than two factions on this wild and chaotic playing table that we call a universe. An alliance with The Shadowed One will not balance the shambolic aftermath of recent events. But I know a group that can aid your people onto the road of redemption.”

Antroz’s eyes widened in shock. “Are you suggesting my people were responsible for that cataclysm?” he snapped.

“No.” The Toa of Water rolled her head back to look directly into the Jutlin-wearer’s eyes. “I’m stating a fact.”

There was silence for a long moment, where the only sound to be heard was that of the waves crashing against the shore. The Toa of Water wore a strange and unfamiliar Kanohi with sharp features yet timeless, youthful wit and intelligence.

“What is this other option?” snarled the Makuta of Xia.

“An alliance with my people, instead of the Dark Hunters,” responded the Toa of Water idly, her head tilting back down again. “After all, we wouldn’t want your allies in Stelt and Xia to learn they’ve been trading with an organization that wants to wipe the entire Matoran Universe out of the sky.”

“You presume to know Makuta Teridax’s scheme,” chuckled the scarlet Makuta arrogantly. “But not even I know the true workings of the Grand Plan. If you seek to unravel the cumulative workings of everything my people stand for, then you will sorely regret it.”

“Mata Nui will reawaken someday,” retorted the female Toa. “That’s inevitable. I’m just here to give you a friendly warning, Makuta Antroz: be on the right side when he does return.”

And with that final, chilling message, the Toa of Water tipped her hat at him, then created a current, drawing her boat away into a cloud of mist. All the while, her eyes were locked directly on his and a resolute facial expression plastered across her Kanohi. In just a few short minutes her ghostly form had disappearing altogether from the visual plain, leaving the Jutlin-wearer unsure whether or not he had imagined the entire encounter.

Chapter 3
Vakama had been lying awake, eyes open, for several minutes before he even realized. Ever since the infection had taken root he’d lost all natural need for sleep. Even so, the darkness of the cell he was so absolute that he’d mistaken it for the darkness of his dreams. Bells seemed to be ringing in his head, but it was only a minimum discomfort. What he wouldn’t give for Nokama to appear and spray him with a jet of water.

Groaning, he tried to massage the swollen flesh around his forehead, where a dent in his Kanohi had cut him. But his arm didn’t move. Babbling incoherently gibberish, the Toa of Fire looked down and realized that he wasn’t actually touching the ground. A large metal frame had been built in the center of the chamber. Chains were knotted around his wrists and ankles, suspending him some distance off the ground. A single lightstone hung from the ceiling. Beyond the small circle of light he was confined to, he saw nothing.

There were a series of hushed whispers coming from the shadowy alcoves of the chamber. Multiple voices, all high-pitched. Casting his memory back, Vakama tried to recall her captors, but the battle atop the shattered Knowledge Tower had happened too quickly for him to make much out.

“Show yourselves!” challenged the powerless Toa of Fire.

There was a pause, and the outline of a single heartlight flickered in the darkness for a fraction of a second. Then a single silent sentence was uttered, followed by footsteps, several pairs.

Three figures hobbled into the light, all twisted and haggard yet far more fluid than any Turaga he’d laid eyes on. The white one who had ambushed him was there, but the other two he didn’t recognize.

“Toa Vakama,” murmured the brown-armored mutant. The word “Toa” was soured in his mouth.

Instantly, the hunger kicked in and the Huna-wearer roared, struggling wildly in his chains, desperate to break free and sink his rotting teeth into the six, succulent jailers.

“Does it not bother you that you’re a scientific anomaly, Vakama?” asked the white-armored creature. He looked down onto a clipboard that he was carrying, his little eyes adjusting to the tiny writing. “Your entire nervous system is in shutdown yet you remain conscious. Your heartlight is switched off yet you still continue to function. You have become incapable of using Elemental Powers, healing and, most fascinating of all, you’ve sprouted a digestive system.”

“When we brought you in we feared this to be the work of Hordika Venom,” murmured the crimson-armored stranger in the middle. “But, to our horror, it would appear that the Brotherhood has developed a contagion far worse.”

“A bio-weapon that could drive a Toa to decimate an entire island of Matoran,” added the brown-armored figure. His arms were crossed and his glare was eternal.

“That’s easy for you to say when you’re all the way down there, and I’m chained up over here,” chuckled the Toa of Fire, his stomach churning for another meal. “But the truth is this has nothing to do with the Brotherhood. This is evolution.”

“Evolution that kills you then drags you back from beyond the point of death?” the white-armored mutant raised a critical eyebrow, looking up from his clipboard. “I don’t think so, Toa of Fire. This is not the work of nature.”

“We will be… containing you in this chamber for the foreseeable future,” muttered the crimson-armored dwarf. “Both for our scientific enquiries into your condition, for your own safety, and for the sake of every living thing in the Matoran Universe.”

“A most noble cause,” snarled Vakama with the cool eyes of a killer.

“You lecture us on nobility?” snapped the brown-armored stranger, making his contempt blatantly obvious. “In a couple of hundred years, when Onu-Matoran look back on this day, how will they remember you? Vakama the Bloodspiller? Vakama the Devourer?”

“History has a tendency of being kind to its victors,” countered the undead Toa with a sly grin. “And, at the end of the day, success is the only real judge of right and wrong.”

“Powerful words,” retorted the crimson stranger bluntly. “But, there is hope for you yet. We may be able to synthesize a cure for your infection.”

Vakama’s wicked smile disappeared. His features darkened as he arched his back and leaned forward, his chains rattling and clanking.

“Who said I even want to be cured?”

“You did,” shrugged the white-armored Turaga hybrid. “We found you on a ledge, looking down into an abyss of jagged crystals. That is not the place one would expect to find a wholesome Toa who is content with the choices he has made in life.”

Silence reigned in the chamber.

For a fraction of a second, Vakama felt the sting of those words. His eyes softened and his mouth opened, as if ready to shrug the horrible experience off, but no words came to his mouth. Instead his head sank low and he felt an all too familiar pang of shame in his gut.

Then, as quickly has it had appeared, the guilt was replaced with hunger.

“We will leave you to your thoughts, however despicable and ignoble they may be,” muttered the crimson mutant. “After all, a monstrous act requires a monster, and I’m sure the terrified faces of all those Matoran whom you butchered are calling for attention.”

With that single, icy statement, the three mutants receded back into the shadows, leaving Vakama to watch in horror and weep inwardly over his fractured integrity.

Toa Matau tried to let a long whistle slither from his crooked teeth as he gazed at the bewildering scene before him. Of course, the infection had robbed him of lips so whistling at the sign of danger was no longer possible for him. A shame. He liked to whistle when he was in shock.

It was no small wonder why Vakama had chosen to stay away from Ta-Metru in recent days. The entire city had been devastated. There were discarded Kanohi littering the streets, scraps of armor shifting like tumbleweed in the wind, and weapons rolling about lazily in the warm breeze. Just forty eight hours ago, the place would’ve been teeming with life.

But then the Toa Metru had descended on it.

Ta-Matoran had fled for survival. Forges had been left on. Vat Controllers had abandoned their positions. When the Great Earthquake shook the island, Ta-Metru had gone into shutdown. There were no complex systems to electronically regulate the cable systems. There were no Matoran left to prevent the inevitable.

All of the major Molten Protodermis Vats had spilled out. The streets were bubbling with magma, like trenches altering the direction of a lava flow into an intricate grid pattern. The buildings had blackened and warped from the heat in particularly bad areas. All hell had broken loose. The ground was untouchable in many places, and great clouds of smoke billowed from where the molten slag spilled out into the Silver Sea. It polluted the air with toxic fumes.

Matau exchanged a glance with Onewa. Some remnant of their former selves would have cringed at the sight, at the thought of how many hundreds of Ta-Matoran had escaped them only to be killed by Molten Protodermis. But the two hungry, undead Toa were little-caring of how a couple of Matoran met their ends. They just didn’t want their meat to be too grilled.

This was not, of course, a social visit. After another minute of staring in awe at the burning city, the two Toa turned and continued with their objective. They were scouting Ta-Metru for Kanohi; specifically a Kanohi Elda that they could use to locate any survivors. Vakama probably would’ve been a better fit for this mission, but nobody knew where he’d stormed off to since they saw him last. Nobody seemed to care either. It was just one fewer mouths to feed.

The two Toa had taken to jumping from building to building. The streets were quite clearly not safe. And they were hunters now. They had to look down on their prey from a proper vantage point. They’d learnt that lesson early.

After a couple of big leaps, Matau landed at an odd angle and crashed on his injured leg. Instead of feeling the burning flare of pain that he’d expected, however, there was no feeling at all. He hadn’t expected pain to be a familiar sensation but, when landing funny essentially separates your foot from your leg, he realized just how much he missed it.

“You should cut that thing off,” grunted Onewa, staring at the Toa of Air’s foot. “It’s dangling off.”

“Well, it was making me kinda bog-foot,” mused the Mahiki-wearer. With a single swipe of his Aero Slicer, he cut through the remaining veins and arteries that held his foot in place. It fell to the ground with a heavy, armored clunk.

Attaching his Aero Slicers to his back, Matau then launched himself into the air and circled the rooftops like a Lava Hawk. Onewa followed behind in close pursuit. He didn’t trust his fellow Toa, even if he left a trail of inky-blue blood wherever he went.

Before too long, the pair of reanimated Toa arrived at their destination: Vakama’s Forge. One of the nearby Protodermis Foundries had ruptured and the entire block was slowly sinking into a molten inferno. The forge in question was becoming lopsided. Fortunately, it was some distance above the ground. Without hesitation, Matau and Onewa closed in on the building’s rooftop, where they found a staircase.

The heat in the building should have been unbearable. A tangible wave of molten air hit Matau as his teammate kicked the door down but, strangely, he didn’t feel any warmer. When he came into contact with actual lava, or when he spontaneously burst into flames, he would worry. Until then, he had only one concern.

“How’re we even going to use a Kanohi Elda with these ever-ugly teeth?” snapped the Toa of Air.

True enough their transformation had changed a great deal many parts of what couple be considered within the boundaries of normal in a Toa’s anatomy. Most noticeably was, of course, the sudden sprouting of yellow, organic teeth. The mouthguards on their Kanohi had split and their jaws had been pushed forward during the transformation. The experience had been, as Matau recalled, quite a gruesome one. But, while his Kanohi still functioned – albeit the only part of his body that did work – there was a large, jagged hole in place of a mouth. Any Mask he wore from now on would need a hole dripped in it, and he doubted Vakama had made Kanohi with their condition in mind.

“Again with the jokes,” snapped Onewa, clearly not in the mood for humor as he took Matau’s weight and the pair of Toa entered the central shaft and began limping down the central shaft. “After all this time. You know how it grates on everyone. What’s with that?”

“That’s my thing, brother,” sighed the Toa of Air frigidly, taking one step at a time, completely dependent on his ally. “When I started out as a Toa-hero, the jokes were my way of hide-burying my insecurities. If any of our enemies ever knew that I was secretly afraid they would’ve stomp-trampled all over me.”

They reached the end of the staircase and found themselves on a warm gridded platform. Three feet clanged irregularly on the metal.

“It was a useful tool… kinda my way of saying ‘I’m so good I can quick-talk with slang while you have to concentrate on slow-fighting me.’ You follow?”

“I guess,” grunted Onewa in his usual blunt tone whilst half-carrying, half-dragging his fellow undead Toa. “But there aren’t any bad guys left. So why do the jokes keep on coming?”

“Well, for whatever reason, it feels different now,” shrugged the impaired Toa of Air. “Now I joke-cheer to keep my mind off all the horrible things I’ve done. I’m trick-fooling my mind into thinking that I’m okay. If I dwell on the ever-bad things we’ve done, the lives we’ve taken… where did we wrong-turn?”

“Things aren’t all that bad,” retorted the Toa of Stone coldly as they neared the end of the corridor. Vakama’s forge was just two floors down from them.

“Look how far we’ve hard-fallen,” sighed Matau. “We’re searching for a Kanohi mask that’ll allow us to seek-find Matoran so we can eat them.”

The Komau-wearer made no reply. He just began descending the next flight of stairs with Matau in tow.

After several minutes of aimless wondering, it became obvious that they would never find Vakama’s forge in this labyrinth of workstations. The place was a sweatshop in every sense of the word. It was clear that there was some sort of hierarchy system in place, with miniature forges smaller than any worktop Onewa had worked at as a Crafter and other workplaces larger than most vehicles Matau had tested.

In the end, the Toa of Stone snarled in frustration and delivered a solid punch to the largest door that he could find. With a metal screech, it tore off its hinges and clattered to the floor. The furnace in the center of the chamber was still bubbling. It was probably beyond dangerous at this point but, fortunately, none of the molten metal was spilling out onto the floor.

Dull, lifeless Kanohi sat neatly atop shelves. They were crafted with such exact detail. Sketches and blueprints for particular masks were resting tidily on a separate workbench. This was the workspace of a Ta-Matoran whose love for his job bordered on obsessive. A total of ninety Kanohi were in the chamber, most of which were Noble Kanohi. There were several Powerless masks, which inhabited the bottom levels of the shelf. At the top, which was at chest-height for the undead heroes, there were a total of eight Great Kanohi; none of which were even vaguely like a Kanohi Elda.

“I recognize a Great Mask of Fusion at the top,” muttered Onewa. “But that’s not gonna be much use.”

“And there’s a Great Mask of Wind-Flying!” exclaimed Matau, pointing at a Kadin.

“How about this?” he asked, reaching over to snatch up the silver Kanohi on the far right of the shelf.

Matau stared at the strange mask blankly.

“It’s a Kanohi Arthron,” explained his companion. “One of the Toa Mangai wore one. It’s not as powerful as an Elda, granted, but it should give us a kind of radar-sense.”

The Toa of Stone reached for a nearby Firestaff, took a step back, then – in one fluid flick of his hand – focused the heat of the weapon on the mouthpiece, burning the entire mouthpiece off.

“Maskmaking,” he snorted. “It’s just a mollified version of carving. I don’t know why Vakama ever took it so seriously.”

The thickly-armored Toa of Stone removed his Kanohi Komau and replaced it with the Arthron. Instantly the color morphed to a deep brown as the metal magnetized to his face. A wicked, toothy grin poked its way through the circular hole in the mask. Matau crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, waiting for a result.

Almost instantly, Onewa’s eyes narrowed, then closed. Making sense of radar didn’t sound easy. The Mahiki-wearer imagined that it would take up a significant chunk of his fellow Toa’s concentration just to make sense of the mental map that was forming in his head.

“It’s not very visual,” griped the former Carver. “It’s just sounds and shapes.”

“We could always try searching for an Akaku,” suggested the Toa of Air idly.

“No, that won’t be necessary,” chuckled Onewa, his black gums showing, his eyes still closed. “I think I’m getting the hang of this. In fact, I can see you about as clearly as could normally from this distance.”

“Oh really, you see me proud-standing?”

“Don’t worry, Matau,” smiled the Arthron-wearing Toa of Stone. “We’ll get you a splint or something to replace your foot. Just as soon as we get back to the Coliseum, we’ll ask Nuju and Whenua what they --”

The Toa of Stone trailed off. The brow of his newly-adopted Kanohi furrowed and his attention was drawn away. He seemed to be staring at Matau’s shoulder.

“We’re not alone here, Matau,” he stated quietly. “I’m sensing three figures outside. Two of them are Toa-sized. And the other is –”

Before he could so much as finish his sentence, the Firestaff that he’d used to carve the mouth hole into the Arthron seemed to develop a life of its own. The crafting tool started levitating into the air, twirling slowly, like a leaf caught in the wind. For a few precious seconds, the two Toa watched in puzzlement.

But then, quicker than the snapping jaws of a Doom Viper, the utensil hurtled towards Onewa with thunderous force. The Toa of Stone couldn’t even thrust his arms down to protect himself. The Firestaff cut clean through his waist, cleaving the top half of his body off from the bottom. Inky blood splattered against Matau’s armor as his teammate’s torso slumped backwards and his legs toppled over.

“Well, I guess that settles it,” bristled the guillotined Toa from the floor, completely taken aback. “Vakama is no longer the most screwed-over person in the world.”

“Indeed, little Toa.”

The voice seemed to echo and boom from the circular walls of the forge, from all angles. Matau’s eyes searched frantically for the source. But, as soon as he turned, the brightness of the chamber plummeted. The Molten Protodermis in the hearth dimmed as shadows engulfed it, until only a flicker of orange light illuminated the foundry.

Then, a shadowy, brutish female figure drifted out of the darkness, stepping into what little glimmer remained of the chamber. Tall, barbaric, hulking, and clad in a venomous combination of green and black armor. Shadow energy swirled at the clawed fingertips of their attacker. She was darker than mortal sin.

“I am Makuta Gorast,” announced the stranger as two Rahkshi entered into the chamber after her. Their serpentine screeches dominated the gentle hiss of the pipes. A Rahkshi of Shadow and a Rahkshi of Gravity. There was dark, bloody murder in their crimson eyes.

“And what brings you to Metru Nui, Kavinika?” spat the Toa of Stone, wriggling around, trying to sit up and regain some stance in the whole ordeal.

“Revenge,” retorted the female Makuta. “You are little-knowing of my identity, of course, but I assure you, this is a deeply personal matter. For you have humiliated my leader, the great Makuta of Metru Nui and disrupted the workings of his Grand Plan.”

The Makuta drew a wickedly-sharp looking saber from a sheaf mounted on her back.

“I will not stand for such indignity.”

With a single wild swipe of her sword, every Kanohi on the shelf sprang to life, dancing to the tune of her Magnetic orchestration. Their sharp, metal edges dug deep into the two unfortunate Toa Metru, scraping chunks of armor and grey, rotting flesh.

A devilish smile manifested itself on Gorast’s Kanohi Felnas. It was not every day that she was presented with a pair of Toa who couldn’t die, no matter how much she tormented them.

So many possibilities…

“I doubt it’s such a bright-idea to be having a guided tour around the Great Temple in dark-time like this,” grumbled Tamaru, keeping a watchful eye over the long shadows cast by the eerie architecture of the monument.

Ignoring the Le-Matoran, Turaga Dume continued in his stride towards the Suva in the center of the cavernous chamber. Just over a week ago, it had been activated, unleashing the six Toa Metru into the world. It was hard to believe that a place as rich with spiritual integrity as the Great Temple had birthed the end of Metru Nui.

Hahli had seen the inside of the structure many times. It was a popular tourist attraction and served as a point of untold archaeological interest, even to this day. She had passed many a lazy afternoon marveling at the timeless, all-encompassing beauty of the place. Unfortunately, the Vahki Bordakh had declared the entire temple off limits since the Toa Metru had used it to become Toa. Now she knew why.

The Suva had risen from the ground, revealing hidden compartments beneath it. Activating his Kanohi Kiril, Turaga Dume lowered the ancient device back into its original position, using his free hand to direct it in a gentle downwards motion. The heavy stone shifted then settled into place.

“Sit,” murmured the Turaga of Fire, staring at the Suva. Hahli, Kopeke and Tamaru exchanged unsure glances but did as they were told anyway.

“We all know the legends of the Suva,” began Dume, who remained on his feet. “They are shrines dedicated to commemorating Toa. They can store Kanohi, or tools, and can even be used to transform Matoran into Toa.”

Kopeke’s eyelids fluttered. “I actually did not know that,” he stammered.

Tamaru rolled his eyes.

“Indeed, there are a select few Suvas dotted around the Matoran Universe, that can accept Toa Stones,” continued the Turaga. “When a Toa wishes to endow a new generation of Matoran with his responsibilities, he places his Toa Power into a stone, which acts as a vessel, storing his power until he passes said stone onto a Matoran.” As he spoke, he glanced around at the three confused Matoran admiringly, his eyes cloudy.

“There is no easy way to explain this,” he muttered. “But, before my imprisonment so very many years ago, I was contacted by one such Toa, who had become tired of the taxing lifestyle that our protectors live.”

Hahli’s eyebrows began to creep up, her interest peaked.

“That Toa’s name was Naho,” sighed Dume. As he spoke, he pulled his right hand out from behind his back.

Three glistening Toa Stones were nestled in his thick palm.

“She entrusted me with these Toa Stones from fear that she would pick three weak Matoran who could not handle the responsibility of becoming Toa,” sighed Dume, cradling the treasures affectionately in his arms, reliving a distant memory.

“But… Toa Naho never far-shared her Toa Stones,” stated Tamaru with a frown.

“She would have, had I not been replaced by that imposter, Makuta,” grimaced Dume. “She probably asked him what became of her Toa Stones at one point. After all, I had promised her to distribute them myself, but Makuta was ignorant to that. I like to think that she figured it out for herself. She must have known he was an imposter the whole time.”

“She was a brave Toa,” murmured Kopeke, nodding his head solemnly.

“Indeed, she was,” agreed the Turaga with a sad smile. “And I would like to fulfill her final request: to deliver her Toa Stones to three Matoran, who I find worthy.”

Silence.

“I picked a bad day to wear a Rau,” grumbled Tamaru, extending his hand out to take the priceless artifact from the Kiril-wearer.

Kopeke eyed his stone guardedly, unsure what to make of it. Nevertheless, he thanked Turaga Dume then thumbed the stone around in his fingers.

But when the Turaga reached Hahli, he was shocked to find that the Ga-Matoran refused.

“This can’t be right,” insisted the youthful Kaukau-wearer. “We don’t know for a fact that we are destined to become Toa.”

“I am a good judge of character,” smiled the Turaga.

“But you are no messenger of Destiny!” responded the Ga-Matoran frantically. “Choosing us to become Toa is your decision. It isn’t the will of Mata Nui.”

“Maybe not,” snapped the Turaga, in perhaps too harsh a tone. “But it was the will of Toa Naho, and remains our only hope of countering the Toa. Would you deny Naho her dying wish?”

“Throwing more Toa in the path of this disease won’t solve anything,” insisted the Ga-Matoran, searching desperately for support. “What if this plague really is the next stage of Toa evolution?”

“It is a likely possibility,” agreed Kopeke, lowering his own Toa Stone.

Dume glared at Hahli, his pupils tiny and his eyes wide. But then he looked deeper. This was not a rebellious Ga-Matoran who was simply too afraid to grow up and take on the extra obligation, as he had expected. The same expression was reflected on both the Ko-Matoran and the Le-Matoran’s masks. Of course, like every other Matoran in their position, the prospect of becoming Toa was an attractive one, and turning down such an offer could be seen as madness. But the Ga-Matoran was right. He hadn’t known any of them until a couple of hours ago.

“Very well,” he muttered, recollecting his precious Toa Stones. “No more Toa. You have a legitimate point, but we are still lacking in way of a strategy.”

“There must be something we can use for this kind of situation,” pondered Kopeke. “Maybe some kind of weapon we can use against the Toa. Missiles? Airships? Vahki? A stockpile of fully-loaded Cordak Blasters?”

“Oh yes,” sighed Dume. “Metru Nui is fitted with thousands of fail-safe protocols and contingency plans for most forms of hostile attack. The trouble is, they all need power to actually work, which is something our little island city is severely lacking in at the moment.”

“Maybe the Dark Hunters will come to spirit-lift us?” shrugged Tamaru. “I say we do that and let them have Po-Metru in return.”

“I have several foreign contacts,” muttered the Turaga, now looking a lot frailer than he had minutes before. “There has to be someone out there who can help us in our dire situation.”

An overarching sense of dread engulfed the scene. Even the gentle, emerald glow of the Suva seemed to lose its enchanting glimmer, casting ordinary blue light over the grey, melancholy walls. Tamaru kept his eyes down. Kopeke looked hopelessly at his mud-splattered feet. Turaga Dume heaved a deep, spiritually-drained sigh. The chamber was the epitome of gloom and failure.

But the silent drear of helplessness was disrupted by a thunderous grinding. Four pairs of eyes widened and four heads turned in frantic search of the source. At first, the group of refugees feared for their lives and swiftly scrambled to their feet. If a Toa had entered the Great Temple then they may as well be overturned Dagger Spiders.

Yet the footsteps that echoed after the grinding were soft and padded. Slow pacing, as if the newcomer were out on a morning stroll – sightseeing. Then the whistling began. It was a leisurely, laid back jingle. The type of tune that was not uncommon in the Crafters Villages of Po-Metru.

At his own pace, the figure of a Po-Matoran came into view. He was unlike any Matoran Hahli had ever seen. His body was mangled and twisted and his brown armor was dusty and foreign. When he saw them his Kanohi Komau lit up with joy. He stopped whistling altogether and flashed a great beam at his fellow Matoran.

“When a Crystal Climber hears an Ice Bat scream it comes running – but not for help,” he announced, the grin on his Kanohi broadening.

Chapter 4
To be written.

Chapter 5
To be written.

Characters

 * Toa Metru
 * Vakama - Infected
 * Nokama - Infected
 * Whenua - Infected
 * Onewa - Infected; Bisected
 * Matau - Infected
 * Nuju - Infected
 * Makuta Teridax
 * Makuta Icarax
 * Makuta Gorast
 * Makuta Antroz
 * Toa Helryx - Unnamed
 * Rahaga
 * Norik
 * Iruini
 * Kualus
 * Bomonga
 * Gaaki
 * Pouks
 * Hahli
 * Kopeke
 * Tamaru
 * Turaga Dume
 * Velika - Unnamed
 * Nuhrii - Mentioned
 * Orkahm - Mentioned
 * Nuparu - Mentioned
 * Krekka - Deceased
 * Nidhiki - Mutated; Deceased
 * Jala - Deceased
 * Takua - Mentioned; Deceased
 * Rahkshi of Shadows
 * Rahkshi of Gravity

Story Notes

 * Initially, it was planned for Ahkmou or Matoro to be ambushed by the Toa Metru in Chapter 1. However, so as to evoke a more striking sensation in the reader and to push Vakama in a particular direction, both characters were put aside and replaced by Jala.
 * In Chapter 2, the fractured sequence of Hahli's actions, step by step, was largely based off of the style in the Mata Nui Online Game, where the player moved from one zone to the next. For this reason, the various different environments that she encountered were largely visual so as to stimulate a nostalgic sensation through various snapshots of the game.

Trivia

 * Besieged is BobTheDoctor27's first story to focus on an entirely-canon cast and was his entry to the Custom BIONICLE Wiki: Halloween Writing Contest, which it won first place in.
 * The story was titled as such in virtue of both the component characters being invaded by an infection, and due to the distinct themes of domination and struggling for power.
 * The zombie-like plague that gripped the Toa Metru in the story was inspired both by the Forgotten Warriors of Vorred's story and by the Marvel Zombies comic series. Moreover, although it has yet to be depicted in the story, BobTheDoctor27 has devised a possible canon cause of the zombie-infection that the Toa Metru have fallen victim to. However, depending on the story's reception, he may not reveal it at this stage.
 * Many of the surviving Matoran are characters whom BobTheDoctor27 has cast in his upcoming The Powers That Should Be story serial.
 * In spite of the Maori Language Lawsuit, Jaller was intentionally referred to as Jala in Besieged as he was not renamed until the arrival of the Toa Mata on Mata Nui, 1000 years later.

Feedback Polls
Do you sympathize with the Toa Metru? Yes; they are not in control of their bodies and are subject to impulsive actions as a result of their infection No; they made the conscious decision to give in to the hunger and have failed the Matoran

What do you think the end result of the story will be? The Brotherhood of Makuta will retaliate and wipe the Toa Metru out Makuta Teridax's plan will be permanently disrupted The factions of the Matoran Universe will unite to battle the Toa Metru The infection will spread and the entire Matoran Universe will be populated by zombies The Toa Metru will leave Metru Nui and ravage the entire Matoran Universe, wiping out all of the factions Teridax will become infected and be forced to reactivate the Matoran Universe in order to reach Bara Magna

In spite of the fact that the origins of the infection are intentionally being held back, did you feel that this story is lacking in: Action sequences, such as the usage of Kanohi Plot Structure, with no clear sequence of events Context that explains the background of the story I like the story and do not notice any major issues