Besieged

This article was written by BobTheDoctor27. Please do not add to it without the writer's permission.

Besieged
Story
Setting	Carniverse: Metru Nui
Date Set	1,001 Years Ago
Timeline
Previous	None
Next	None

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.

Story

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 bleak, 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 gray 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,” 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 grows distasteful 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 committed herself so wholeheartedly to Teridax's schemes.

The way Icarax saw things, the wearer of the Mask of Shadows was losing touch. This was a time for swift, tactical action. 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. Given the look on the figure’s Kanohi Kraahkan, however, Icarax knew he was in no mood for disobedience.

“Teridax?” he muttered skeptically.

“Indeed, Icarax,” muttered the crippled Makuta in a broken voice that carried none of his usual grandeur. 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 glance with Gorast as their 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.

“I shall personally lead an army of Rahkshi and raze their island!” snarled Gorast.

“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, gray 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 challenge. 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 five 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 recognized – 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 Pehkui-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 drain 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 he’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 Rhotuka 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.

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.”

“You call this Mata Nui's design?” 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 inquiries into your condition and for your own safety. It seems only appropriate.”

“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 counter-measures 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 overcooked.

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 mouth 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 could 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 ripped 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 steps. “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 Zatth at the top,” muttered Onewa.

“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. “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 softer 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 gray, 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 impostor, 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 impostor 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 gray, 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

Instantly, Matau ducked for cover as the lethal spray of Kanohi flung themselves off the shelf at him. Acting on pure instinct, he thrust an Aero Slicer up and tried to will an air current into existence, intent on sweeping the barrage of masks away. But, as he was brutally reminded, the winds were no longer his to control.

The Kanohi Kadin that he had remarked earlier scraped past the Toa of Air’s midsection, opening up a deep gash along his hip. Cuts and scratches were popping up all over his armor, each time drawing inky blood. He no longer possessed any kind of healing factor. He could either stitch his wounds up later, or strut around with them open for the rest of his undead life.

Activating his Kanohi Mahiki, Matau dived for cover behind the hearth in the center of the chamber. There was a brief flash of green light as his Mask of Illusion resisted him. It was like trying to start an old, rusty Motosled in the morning when he was late for work. Gritting his yellowed teeth to the point of breaking, he finally managed to yield some results. A fresh copy of himself sprang out from the hiding place and baited Makuta Gorast away. While he was at it, the Toa of Air used his Kanohi to create an illusory field around himself and his dilapidated teammate.

Onewa wriggled about on the floor, his legs still kicking from the other side of the chamber. The Toa of Stone had been completely separated along the waist yet he continued to struggle and wave about like a madman, swearing and punching at the air. Trying his hardest to maintain the illusion of his misleading Matau-bait, the Mahiki-wearer grabbed a hold on Onewa’s wrist and dragged his top half closer.

The Kanohi continued to cut through the air, and the sharp whistle of air rushing through the empty eyeholes continued to deafen them both. But the projectiles swiftly began to change direction, going after the false Matau, who was losing large chunks of his chest. The Toa of Air had to watch in horror as the female Makuta let the Kanohi drop and fired a burst of Shadow at her imagined opponent, scorching his head right off.

Rendered useless, the Toa of Air let the illusion fade. His deceptive, intangible corpse dissipated into thin air. Gorast raised a thick, beefy eyebrow, now very-much aware of what she was dealing with. The Toa of Air felt his neck retreat an inch further into his body at the thought of what fate lay in store for him once his concentration faded.

“A Toa of Air... armed with a Kanohi Mahiki,” remarked the female Makuta wryly. “An interesting combination. I never thought your kind to be the cerebral type, though.”

Cerebral was probably the last thing that Matau felt in that moment.

“And what good are mind games when a situation demands you to get physical when taking down an opponent?” challenged the formidable female warrior, her words stinging with every syllable.

“You’d be surprised,” answered Onewa cheekily in a whisper. Matau looked down to see the Toa of Stone reaching for him from the floor, a Proto Piton in one hand and an eccentric glimmer in his eye.

“Throw me.”

---

Twenty-seven years ago, Gorast had gone on the hunt for a nomadic Toa of Magnetism. It was a specific Toa, she hadn’t just woken up one morning with an odd craving. This particular character had overwhelmed a Rahkshi messenger and stolen a valuable snippet of Makuta Teridax’s Grand Plan, which was en route to a Brotherhood Stronghold deep in the Mainland Swamp of the Southern Continent.

Seeking to avenge a lost teammate, who had served as a Toa Hagah and rightfully been slaughtered in the rebellion, the Toa of Magnetism had issued an open threat to the Brotherhood by murdering one of the Continent’s Makuta, highlighting a tremendous lapse in Brotherhood security.

Unquestionably, Gorast had been attracted towards the prospect of retaliation to prove her worth to Teridax. She had trawled through records, intimidated a few Turaga, and even found the Toa’s village of origin, nestled deep in the Southern Island Chains. She could have marched in and extinguished dozens of lives in vengeance. But she had held off. She was, after all, a believer in justice, and punishing Matoran would not right the wrongs of a single Toa. So she had set out in pursuit of him.

Based on the terrain of his home settlement and the unusually high altitude of his village, she had begun her search on the Northern Continent, in the Nui Mountain Range. After just two weeks of wondering down freshly trampled paths, she had found the Toa in question, wide-eyed and sleepless. Adding his Kanohi Faxon to her trophy room back on Destral had been a particularly enriching experience that day, for she had learnt an invaluable lesson:

Even with the upper hand, Toa are cowards.

But now, in the present, the Toa that faced her were unlike any she had ever fought. They were zombies, as if Makuta Mutran had used a Kanohi Tryna to reanimate a bunch of corpses then somehow given them lives of their own once more. And if six of these Toa were enough to disrupt the centuries of careful calculation that had gone into Teridax’s plan and send him fleeing back to Destral in so shriveled and shrunken a form, then two of them would be more than formidable.

This wasn’t exactly a legitimate strike force. Gorast had a tremendous amount of respect for the Makuta of Metru Nui and an almost fanatical sense of loyalty to him. Regardless the odds stacked against her if the great leader of the Brotherhood had failed here, it was her duty to strike back. To win back some honor. Such humiliation could not be tolerated. Teridax could not be made to look weak. She would not allow it.

Another erroneous Toa of Air popped up. Yet another hologram. It flew around the chamber throwing threats and taunting her in some ridiculous local slang. With a single flick of her potent fist, a ball of Plasma struck the illusion melting the fake Toa to ashes in the air.

The two Rahkshi that flanked her began stomping their way around the chamber, hissing and gurgling like Bog Snakes on the prowl. They were tactical and began bluntly firing bursts of energy around the forge at random, hoping to catch the Toa of Air and his broken companion.

But then the illusion began to flicker. The Toa of Air’s Kanohi started popping in and out of the visual plain on the other side of the hearth, his eyes fixed on the Rahkshi, animated by a hungry glimmer.

“I guess there’s time for a quick-snack,” he chuckled, bringing one of his blades down on the armor of the Rahkshi of Shadows. The creature screeched as flesh was torn from metal and its weapon hand dropped like a rock. The emerald Toa looked up at her with wide eyes, then disappeared once again.

But Makuta Gorast would have none of that. Calling upon her Heat Vision, she opened her eyes wide and focused on the space where the Toa had been. Twin beams of blistering energy made physical contact with the shrouded target.

The Toa reappeared instantly, just in time for a forest of black blood, armor and metal components to explode from his chest. The Mahiki-wearer cursed and grabbed at the fleshy chunks of his breast. There was a deep cavity there now, exposing his inner mechanics and rotting organics. A grotesque mixture of the artificial and the unnatural.

But no screams of agony escaped the Toa’s crooked jaw.

Reaching out with her senses, Gorast detected roots growing deep beneath the surface of the forge. Karzahni vines. Dormant. Reminiscent from Makuta Teridax’s early attempt to seize power. She recalled the conception of the abomination on Destral and even put forward the creation’s name, after one of the most hated and despised figures in Matoran mythology.

Activating her Plant Life abilities, the Makuta raised her arms and forced the roots upwards. They slithered through cracks like worms then burst through the tiled floor. The startled Toa of Air recoiled in shock, drawing his blades.

But this wasn’t the main root. These were simply the spores. The Karzahni plant bloomed at Gorast’s will and a spray of plant seeds peppered the Toa’s armor. Confused, he glanced from his enemy, to the monstrous plant, then to his own body. Some of the seeds had bounced right off of him and onto the ground, but most of them were small enough to have gotten themselves stuck in the ridges of his armor.

The Makuta of the Tren Krom Peninsula raised her hand and balled her fingers into a fist, like she was lifting an invisible crowbar. Dancing to her every passing whim, the seeds began to sprout. Their growth accelerated at an astonishing rate, making roots bite into the Mahiki-wearer’s armor, wrenching metals apart. He roared out in dismay as his heartlight splintered and as creeping tendrils erupted from the cracks and spaces. A miniature Karzahni vine tore out of his chest. One by one, pieces of broken Protodermis clattered to the ground until, finally, he too had crumpled. The Toa lay there on the floor, broken, overgrown and tormented.

A smile crept across Makuta Gorast’s Kanohi Felnas, her hands locking around her target’s arms, tugging him up to his feet. Her size dominated him. His snapping jaws yearned for the few organic components left in her body. The infection that plagued him could be seen quite clearly from this point, and it repulsed her. At first she had feared that the outbreak had been the work of Chirox or Mutran plotting to undermine Makuta Teridax. Now that she could see for herself, she saw that this quite clearly wasn’t the case. She had created Rahi from viruses and bacteria many centuries ago. She knew how a Toa worked. This was not the work of a begrudging Makuta sitting in a lab back on Destral.

“You know what the best thing about a Toa of Stone is?” chuckled the Toa of Air, his evil eyes wandering up towards her Kanohi, then up into the space above her head. Gorast’s eyes narrowed in confusion, then widened in horror as she followed his gaze. She looked up just in time to see the second Toa unhook his weapons from a wedge in the ceiling.

“Even when you cut them in half, they’re still heavier than a load of bricks!”

The female Makuta didn’t have time to curse. She tried to tear her hands off of the Mahiki-wearer but not even she was fast enough. The Toa of Stone’s arms locked around her neck and his body thumped her hard on the back. The impact startled her. His teeth sank deep into her shoulder.

Red strobe lights started flashing inside the Makuta’s head. Her jaw hung open in a roar of wordless frustration, like a klaxon. The infection had entered her system. Already she could feel poison gripping her. A deep numbness consumed her entire back.

Gorast’s first instinct was to leave her body. Even if her armor wasn’t damaged that should have been easy. But her Antidermis resisted. It would not obey her as it began grafting itself to her material body. Slowly, she awakened to the horror. She was stuck. Forced to experience every gruesome second of the transformation about to grip her.

But not here. That was for sure. The Makuta released her grip on the Toa of Air, then locked one of her mighty fists around the Toa of Stone, tearing him off her shoulder and flinging him against the far wall.

Her organic parts were screaming in protest with every movement while her mechanical parts screamed back. Her body was at internal war. This was a fight that she could not win.

Delivering one final blow to the Toa of Air that sent him crashing to the ground, Gorast activating her Teleportation powers and disappearing from the world altogether.

Struggling back into what resembled a sitting position, Matau exchanged a glance with Onewa. Their gaze held for a long moment before their greedy eyes finally fell on the pair of lingering Rahkshi. Then their vision became a blur of screeches and savagery.

The Rahkshi screeched.

---

With as much grace as a Manas Crab in a Knowledge Tower, Gorast materialized in the throne room of Makuta Teridax. Cursing and stumbling on her unresponsive legs, the female warrior sagged to her knees and held her head low. Eyes turned to stare at her. Some kind of tactical meeting was being held between the other Makuta. She saw as the backs of their feet turned to address her.

“My liege,” she bristled, unsure whether or not she was shaking from fury or terror. Her mouth opened and closed, but no words escaped her lips.

Silence reigned in the chamber for a long time before Teridax spoke.

“Rise, Gorast,” he snarled. The damaged warrior did as she was told, straightening her neck and tilting her gaze. Many of the other leading Makuta were assembled in the chamber, midway through a council meeting presumably. They’d started without their most brutal tactician.

Teridax must have anticipated her incursion into Metru Nui.

“These Toa are formidable,” winced the Felnas-wearer, fighting off the pain in order to give her report. “They are unlike any that I have encountered before. I battled just two of them. They squabbling for an hour then instantly banded together the moment I advanced.”

“You were infected,” stated the Makuta of Metru Nui atop his throne in the center of the opposite wall. He was still inhabiting his shrunken Turaga body. “Had you been successful in your mission you would have returned with at least a single limb from one of your victims.”

Gorast nodded and bowed her head.

“These Toa have mastered their new abilities. They are not bound by the Toa Code. There is no honor in their fighting.”

Antroz’s expression darkened.

The female Makuta’s flesh erupted, invisible fire exploding from every pore and crack in her armor. She screamed silently, consumed by the imaginary flames, feeling pain for the first time since her kind had evolved so many millennium ago. Her lips clamped shut and her eyes bulging. Her skin tightened but she refused to let it bother her.

Makuta Teridax rose to his feet and glared at the fallen warrior shriveled before him.

“I ordered Metru Nui to be quarantined, yet you disobeyed me,” he boomed. Even in his current frail body, the Kraahkan-wearer commanded enough dominance to make a mountain retreat.

“I could not stand to see your Grand Plan unraveled by Toa, my leader.”

A bolt of Shadow energy erupted from Teridax’s fingertips. Gorast could easily have dodged the dark projectile, but she did not wish to be disloyal. If the Makuta of Metru Nui wished to punish her then she would willingly accept her wrong-doing and bow to his superior judgment. She took the burst of energy head-on and savored the sweet sensation of pain.

“Fool!” bellowed Teridax aggressively. “Your perception of my Grand Scheme is as limited as a Ruki Fish’s knowledge of dry land. In disobeying me you have served only to further complicate matters.”

The Kraahkan-wearer glared at the squirming shell of a Makuta groveling on the floor of his chamber. There was no hint of pity in his cold eyes. But there was immense sadness lurking there, in the shadowy recesses of his pupils.

“Makuta Tridax,” he announced, turning to his extravagantly-armored ally. “See to it that Gorast finds peace.”

“Thank you, my liege,” whimpered the broken female Makuta.

The Avsa-wearer nodded, pulling out his Acid Spear from its nesting place between his shoulder blades. Charging up his powers, the Makuta of Nynrah fired a continuous burst of lethal electricity. Gorast’s eyes widened and she shuddered as thousands of volts of electricity poured into her head, shutting her newly-reforming brain down. She slumped backwards then hit the ground hard, the back of her head caving in on the impact. Her skull cracked on the chamber floor.

There was a long moment of dreaded silence as the Makuta marked the passing of their last sister.

“I never liked her,” snapped Bitil rudely, finally breaking the silence.

Teridax stepped forwards, hobbling along on his shrunken, stubby little feet.

“Antroz,” he murmured, lost in thought. “See to it personally that the Sea Gates surrounding Metru Nui are entirely closed off.”

The assembled Makuta exchanged concerned glances. In the end, the crimson Jutlin-wearer cleared his throat and leaned closer.

“My liege,” he muttered unevenly. “Did you not order the Toa Mangai to do that same task?”

“I did indeed.”

“Then of what service can I be closing a door that is already shut?”

“Metru Nui must be contained,” responded the Turaga-sized Makuta of Metru Nui, pacing around the top of the steps. “The gates remain closed from the inside and the Toa are trapped within. My reasoning is twofold. We must prevent the Toa from leaving, and we must prevent any curious parties from entering the island. Set up a blockade in the Silver Sea.”

“So I guess I’ll have to cancel my vacation plans in Ga-Metru?”

Teridax opened his mouth to respond only to realize that the voice had not come from any of the Makuta assembled beneath him. Equally confused, they looked around then stared up ahead. The Kraahkan-wearer followed their gaze and turned, only just coming to terms with the fact that the speaker was behind him.

A Toa of Water sat slouched in his grand throne, her feet slung lazily over one of the oversized armrests, her head reclined back against the other. She eyed him with an indifferent and unimpressed regard, bored by the Makuta of Metru Nui. But then her uninspired expression gave way to natural curiosity. She swung around, sitting properly and leaning forward, at the Makuta of Metru Nui’s eye level.

“This is all very interesting,” she remarked jauntily, taking advantage of the speechlessness of the assembled Makuta. “You Makuta are behaving very strangely. Cozying up with the Dark Hunters is one thing, but blockading Metru Nui? I guess the days are long gone when you guys would just sit back and make Rahi, huh, Teridax?”

Nearly the entirety of the Makuta species felt their jaws hit the floor as the Makuta of Metru Nui fixed her with a glare of ferocious intensity.

“The elusive Toa Helryx,” he murmured dramatically, mulling the words over in his mouth like a foul-tasting drink. “This is a surprise. You are not welcome in these lands, or on my throne for that matter, but it is a surprise nevertheless.”

“You flatter me,” purred the Toa satirically, rising to her feet and growing serious. “But there are matters that call for discussion, matters which concern – ”

“Leader!” yelled Bitil intrusively. “How did she get in here?”

The Toa of Water turned and fixed the Mohtrek-wearer with a piercing glare. A swift gesture of her hand caused a watery dagger to slash across the Makuta’s jugular. His eyes widened in shock before he too crumpled to the ground, Antidermis seeping from his throat.

“I’m sorry, did the middle of my sentence interrupt the beginning of yours?” she snapped with about as much sweetness as an icicle.

The dark, swirling cloud hovered in the air before retreating off and leaving the chamber in search of a new body to inhabit. Nobody noticed. All eyes were still fixed on Helryx.

“As I was saying,” continued the Toa sweetly, “I’ve been following the Brotherhood’s recent activities quite carefully: slaughtering your Toa Hagah, assembling an army of Visorak, hunting down Toa of Iron and Magnetism, reprogramming the Vahki, and now this. De-activating the Matoran Universe.”

The Kraahkan-wearer raised an eyebrow, impressed with how well-informed this Toa was.

“You’re heading for a war at this rate,” shrugged the Mask of Psychometry-wearer. “And I promise you, Teridax, it won’t work out well for your kind.”

The leader of the Brotherhood of Makuta just stared back at her, the smile of a Takea shark in his eyes but his expression as emotionless as a granite slab. “You think you can judge me?”

“Only Mata Nui can judge you,” corrected the Toa with a shake of her head. “I think you need to be reminded of your place.”

“Is that so?” The short Makuta raised an outstretched palm and activated his Fear powers. Circles of phantasmic, red energy emanated outwards, bathing the Toa in their glow.

A few seconds passed in which she just stared back at him, then she breathed in a hearty lungful of air and hung her head gravely.

“I’m already scared, Makuta,” she stated plainly. “Deep down in the pit of my stomach. I’m perplexed with trepidation and concern for the fates of this universe’s innocent inhabitants. I have a stone heart heavy enough to sink you, and a pointy reckoning sharp enough to shudder you in your sleep.”

The assembled Makuta exchanged worried glances. No Toa had ever resisted the grip of their Fear powers before. Some had even died from anxiety attacks. This was unheard of.

“I have an organization,” stated the Toa bluntly. “A group of warriors and scientists and tacticians dedicated to Mata Nui.”

There was more confusion in the chamber now. Mutran and Icarax exchanged confused glances. Krika tilted his head and leaned inwards. Antroz hung his head, recalling his earlier conversation with Helryx.

But Teridax only smiled sinisterly.

“I had long-since suspected the involvement of a third player in this game,” he chuckled to himself, returning to his throne and sitting down heavily. “The problem with mentally shielding your operatives is that their secrecy becomes obvious to a telepath such as myself. They stick out.”

The Toa of Water shrugged. “To suspect our existence is one thing. Facing us in battle is something else entirely. You don’t want to find out what that’s like, believe me.”

The Makuta of Metru Nui closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, savoring the moment. He knew where this debate was heading.

“You can’t operate in the shadows anymore,” continued Helryx forebodingly. “There are no shadows. Every corner of this world is known to us. We have agents in every organization, on every island, in every Matoran campfire.”

“Do you have an operative in Metru Nui?”

The Toa of Water fell silent, regarding the Makuta coldly. “You killed him, didn’t you?”

“Not directly,” smiled Teridax wolfishly.

“War is unavoidable if you continue on this path,” sighed the Toa. “You’ve been busted. You’re more busted than the most busted guy who ever lived. If this was a court case you’d have been tried, found guilty by a unanimous vote, jailed then executed already.”

“And yet here I am, sitting in the body of the most powerful Turaga in this Universe.”

“You have a grand total of two strategic footholds in this universe,” continued the ancient Toa of Water. “You’re facing war on every possible front and you have no allies. You’re in a worse position than you ever have been before. How many Kraata can you pull out of your own rear end before I raze Destral and build a Matoran Recharging Center where your fortress used to stand?”

Teridax’s expression darkened.

“You threaten me, Toa of Raindrops?”

“As much as the idea of punching a Turaga in the face appeals to me, I’m here for diplomacy,” countered the Toa of Water. “You have one final chance to stop before you take things too far.”

“The Makuta are superior,” snorted Teridax. “Our rightful place is in Metru Nui, ruling this petty world!”

“And yet you’re running away from Metru Nui!” laughed Helryx out loud.

The chamber fell silent.

“What happened in Metru Nui to make you come scurrying back to Destral? What could scare a hard-boiled Makuta that much?”

“Leader! You do not have to answer to her!” protested Icarax in fury. “This is outrageous! She should hang for this intrusion into your chambers!"

Toa Helryx snarled and turned to face the rogue spectator. She formed another ball of water then morphed it into a projectile as sharp as Protosteel. With a single flick of her wrist, it sliced through Icarax’s skull, then carried onwards, plunging into the heads of Tridax, Antroz, Mutran, Krika and Chirox. Six bodies slumped to the ground heavily, followed by the splash of water at the end of the line. One by one, the Antidermis masses began to seep out, each Makuta as startled by the abrupt blow as the last. All six of them swiftly hurried for the exit, humiliated in the greatest capacity.

Teridax glared at the Mask of Psychometry-wearer.

“What is it that you offer my Brotherhood?” he asked simply, his tone quieter than a stream meandering through a murky forest.

“An alliance of sorts. Mata Nui brought you into this world to serve the ultimate destiny of making Rahi for his Matoran to play with. I cannot allow you to oppress the innocents of this universe, but I understand that the alternative is equally unnerving. I’m sure that we can come to some kind of mutual agreement.”

“Your honor can be restored,” she continued. “You can return to your position as the law enforcers of this universe once again. There can still be peace.”

“We refuse to be subservient to the likes of Matoran,” he reaffirmed. “We are superior in every capacity.”

“I understand,” nodded the Toa. “The Makuta have been dealt an injustice that they did not deserve. I propose an alliance to remedy that blemish.”

The Makuta of Metru Nui glared at the Toa intensely, searching her eyes for traces of artifice. He found none. She meant it.

“Very well,” he murmured, already scheming away, processing this new information in his head. “Your organization is a welcome ally of my Brotherhood.” The sheer enormity of the situation had escalated further, leaving the Matoran Universe in the balance. This was an opportunity for him to exploit.

The Toa of Water smiled wearily. Only now did the wrinkles under her eyes show.

“Then this may mark the end of hostility between our factions,” she smiled. “Peace in our time.”

“It might,” agreed the Makuta cryptically. “Or it might not. Be wary where you tread, Toa of Water.”

“Negotiations will begin tomorrow,” added the blue-armored warrior. “In your Convocation Chamber, at daybreak.”

To her surprise, the Makuta shook his head. “An agreement of this scale will be remembered for years to come. It should be negotiated on mutual territory.”

“Anywhere in particular?”

“The Coliseum,” answered the Makuta calmly. “At midnight... that is, after all, when I operate best.”

---

There was a second flash of blinding light in the stone chamber on Daxia. The Order of Mata Nui operative known as Tobduk tensed and rose to his feet, a dagger in hand. He lowered it and saluted instantly the second Toa Helryx trotted into view.

“I take it the negotiation was success?” he asked.

“Too soon to tell,” grunted the Toa of Water. “He agreed, but I wouldn’t regard it as a means of achieving lasting peace.”

“So you don’t trust him?”

“Not for a second,” snapped the leader of the Order of Mata Nui austerely. “He’s probably already thought of thirty-three different ways to double-cross us.”

“So what do we do?”

“We see where it goes. And one thing’s for sure: we stay the hell away from Metru Nui.”

Chapter 5

“Onewa and Matau should be back by now,” snarled Nuju, picking at the fresh chunks of meat stuck between his serrated teeth.

Nokama turned her attention towards Ta-Metru, as if she could surpass the unfathomable distance and spot her brother-Toa in the smoking industrial district of the island. Whenua’s gaze remained on the ground, his eyes drooping with remorse.

Between the three once-Toa lay the gnarled remains of a Kikanalo. The mighty Rahi had wandered too far adrift from its herd, stumbling into the abandoned central belt of the island in search of scraps, where the Toa had intercepted it.

There was a far margin between meat and flesh, not that the mechanical beast had much of either in its genetic composition. Rahi had far more metal in them than Matoran, which had made the experience even more unpleasant for Whenua, who could still feel his stomach turning at the thought of devouring a creature he would have cataloged the behavioral patterns of a week prior.

It hadn’t been appetizing, but the Kikanalo would at least sustain the three infected Toa for a little while longer. Devouring Rahi was far more civilized than rooting out what few pockets of Matoran resistance remained on the island.

“Clearly there is a connection between the loss of our Elemental Powers and our collective state of mind,” mused the undead Toa of Ice. “While we seem to have agreed that our current condition is what blocks our abilities, I wonder if there’s a deeper dimension.”

“Whatever this infection is, it’s evil,” snapped Nokama, robbing Whenua of the chance to respond. “The change has been mental as well as physical. Perhaps it has changed us so much that we no longer think ourselves worthy to have Elemental Powers. Maybe that’s why they’re shut off.”

Nuju rolled an eye then grunted, returning to the Kikanalo at his feet, picking through the tufts of matted fur with the forensic precision of a pathologist studying a victim on an autopsy table.

This was a much more manageable group, just the three of them. The scholars and academics. All like-minded, intellectual types. They balanced each other well with their pragmatic rationalism. There was no need for the foolhardy ambition that so characterised their other teammates. Onewa and Matau boasted serious personality defects such as argumentative natures and general pettiness. Vakama was far too liable to disappear off on his own, as evidenced by his current absence. A doubtful Toa who could not command his own life did not deserve a position amongst them, the team’s elite members.

That being said, however, Whenua still had sneaking suspicions about Nuju. He speculated that Nokama had similar reservations, for the two of them were team players. Even before the infection had consolidated its grip upon the Toa, he and Nokama had constantly entreated their team to respect the value of comradery. Much the same as Onewa and Vakama, Nuju had made no such efforts, preferring instead to be one of the many lone-wolves that so colored their dysfunctional Toa team.

Whenua had spent his years studying the various Rahi beasts and cultures of the Matoran Universe, a profession that had instilled within him a profound appreciation for all things historic. But the problem Nuju presented to their new group dynamic? It was theoretical; a concept that didn’t even exist in the present tense of their situation. While he was sure beyond reasonable doubt that the undead Toa of Ice would one day aspire to depart their company in search of personal exploits, Whenua had no means of fathoming just how detrimental Nuju could be should he choose to abandon his unity.

In the end, the former Toa of Earth tried to shrug his suspicions off. It was no use courting mistrust. The inkling remained in his mind, however.

“You know, back in my Matoran days, I often liked to look towards the future,” he murmured, guiltily. “I had a plan for my life, working my way up through various Archivist positions, maybe writing some historical documents of my own. But, no matter how much I tried to ground my plans in reason, I kept ending up only wanting one thing out of life.”

Whenua’s undead teammates glanced at each other. Neither seemed to have received his invitation for response.

“I always pictured myself as a Turaga,” chuckled the once-Toa Metru of Earth. “Retiring from the Archives and traveling south to islands far from here, bringing with me years of wisdom and teachings to impart upon some muddled villagers. I’d have my own Ussal Crab to carry me around where my old legs could not. A staff, also, to adorn with tribal beads and the feathers of exotic Rahi. That is the life I’ve always wanted.”

“Perhaps it does not elude us yet,” shrugged Nokama, her expression growing darker. “Who knows, with the right amount of time and dedication, we may very well find a means of reversing this hideous transformation. You could be a Turaga yet, Whenua.”

“I think it unlikely that we will ever be restored to what we once were so fortunate to be,” mused the former Toa of Ice, adapting his more sceptical tone. “But I desire a life beyond this constant hunger regardless. It bears a heavy ethical toll, one I desire to shift above all else.”

“Perhaps, then, we should seek a means of remedying this curse,” pondered their Rau-bearing leader, glancing at the butchered Rahi corpse at her feet with something less than satisfaction. “But where would we go? The Sea Gates of Metru Nui have closed around us. We have lost the Great Spirit’s blessing. I doubt the gates of any other islands would open themselves.”

“There is a place mentioned in Matoran Legend,” murmured Whenua. “The realm of Karzahni, where damaged Matoran of the ancient world would be sent when in need of repairs. Perhaps the realm’s ruler would take kindly to Toa seeking his aid.”

Nuju’s telescopic lenses whirred as he fixed Whenua with his gaze. “I have heard that legend too, brother. Those who travel to Karzahni stopped returning centuries ago. The land’s ruler might not even be around anymore.”

The Ruru-wearer cracked a smile. Just like the old days, Nuju had jumped at the chance to outsmart him at his own game, filling in the other half of the legend himself. But he had elected to exclude one fine detail.

“The realm of Karzahni is a place fit only for the damned,” countered Whenua. “A place for all the universe’s maladies, and faults, and wretches such as we. Perhaps we can at least find the equipment and conditions to properly study our new forms once we get there.”

The undead Toa of Ice grunted in acceptance. “Very well. If Karzahni is where you believe we can go to reverse our state then perhaps it is an option worth consideration. Shall I summon our brothers, then?”

“No, you shall not.”

Nuju and Whenua turned to face Nokama in surprise. Their zombified leader was regarding the butchered remains of the Kikanalo, her gaze misty with thought.

“If we are to leave Metru Nui then we must stave off the temptation of devouring more innocents if we truly want to pardon ourselves in the eyes of the Great Spirit. Vakama is a wise Toa, but he relies too heavily on his emotions to guide him. He will be swayed too easily. Matau and Onewa are no better; impulsive, unpredictable. They lack the inner strength necessary to complete this undertaking.”

“What are you suggesting?” gurgled Nuju through his black teeth. “We leave the three of them behind to be damned and set off on our own journey? Just the three of us?”

“That is exactly what I am suggesting,” shrugged Nokama. “While we are all just as guilty as each other, our brothers will hinder our quest. What guarantee do we even have that they regret this bloodshed?”

“I imagine Vakama would have something to say about seeking redemption,” noted the once-Toa of Earth uneasily.

“Then maybe Vakama should have said something sooner,” snapped Nokama.

Whenua fell silent. Their Fire-brother walked his own path and, when they were Toa, he could respect that. But, given the events of recent days, Nokama had every right to be wary of their absent teammates. Did it allow them to deny their brothers a chance at salvation though?

With those final words uttered, the conversation dried up. Clearly Nokama’s word had become law and no further discussion was necessary. Already they could feel the hunger returning, the infection beginning to reclaim their thoughts. These were the final moments of clarity the three once-Toa would be able to enjoy until they chanced upon another wandering Rahi.

Slowly, the Toa turned their attention east, observing Ta-Metru illuminated by the glow of its devastation. Apathetically, they awaited the return of their brothers. In actuality, they just wanted to see if the ravaged universe could offer sunrise at all.

From the distance, the once-Toa spotted two vague silhouettes amidst the smoke and flames of Ta-Metru. One above the other. In-flight. As they drew closer their sketchy outlines became more vivid. Matau carrying Onewa in his arms, his Aero Slicers protracted out in flight mode. Both looked somewhat worse for wear.

For a few seconds they levitated above the square before finally descending to greet their fellow monsters on the ground. Then Onewa dropped from the arms of Matau and the two landed on the pavement, grins on their devilish Kanohi.

Of course, the legs of these figures were worthy of remark. Unlike the rest of their armor, they were entirely metallic in color and texture. It took their teammates a moment to place where they had seen them before. Finally, the pronounced sound of hydraulics reached their audio receptors and it became clear that their brothers were sporting Vahki legs.

Onewa’s lower half had been entirely restructured below the waist, presumably from the remains of a damaged Nuurakh. Matau’s left leg had seen similar mechanical re-adjustments. Together, they made an uncanny pair. There was wickedness in their eyes. They had been up to no good.

“Couldn’t find an Elda,” grunted Onewa, dropping an unusual, silver mask on the pavement before his teammates. “But we found the next-best thing: a Kanohi Arthron.”

“Did you run into trouble?” asked the Toa of Ice, remarking the absence of Onewa’s entire bottom half. “I seem to remember you being less… metal.”

The two brother-Toa grinned at each other, their mouths twisting into grotesque shapes.

“Nothing we couldn’t quick-handle.”

“So what’s next on the agenda?” asked Onewa. “Now that we have the Arthron I take it we’ll continue our hunt for the last few pockets of Matoran, then off to the next island, right?”

“Leave?” the Toa of Water frowned. “Whatever would we do that for?”

“For the same reason we think-do anything,” stated Matau. “For meat.”

Whenua and Nuju exchanged glances. Nokama showed no such indecision.

“Come on, now,” moaned Matau. “Don’t tell me the three of you are having doubt-thoughts about leaving this place. Wasn’t that always the plan?”

“Charging off headstrong in search of adventure is the mentality that has done more to harm this team than the combined efforts of Makuta and the Dark Hunters alike,” countered Nokama with a raised eyebrow.

“Besides, the plan was to restore ourselves,” added Nuju. “To undo this infection and absolve ourselves of our wrongdoings.”

“You want to win back your dignity?” chuckled Onewa before realizing they were being serious.

Now it was Matau and Onewa’s turn to exchange glances. The emerald Toa shrugged to his companion.

“Seriously? You want to be a noble Toa again? After all we’ve already done? Forget it. There’s no going back. No cure. No redemption to ease your guilt. We’re monsters now. We might as well embrace it.”

Matau glanced uncertainly at Onewa. Clearly the Komau-wearer felt strongly about this topic – a sentiment that he did not particularly share – but it seemed evident that neither of the pair wished to remain in Metru Nui. Their adventure in Ta-Metru had convinced them of greater conquests beyond the Great Barrier. In that regard they were united.

Nuju’s right eye narrowed. “Wrong does not cease to be wrong just because it is simpler, brother.”

“I’d have to agree with the star-gazer,” murmured Whenua. “Nothing good can come of furthering our downfall. Besides, we’re safe and measured here in Metru Nui with nobody left to challenge us. We can isolate ourselves here. Find peace. Set ourselves on the path to recovery.”

“Never thought I’d long-live to see the day when the two of you agreed on something,” chuckled the Toa of Air, trying to make light of the situation. “Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the month?”

“Any conflicts of perspective Whenua and I share have nothing to do with it,” argued the Toa of Ice, missing the joke entirely. “It just makes good sense. What we have now is sustainable. We can afford to exercise restraint; regain some tattered remnant of ourselves.”

“And think of how much more sustainable it would be if we each had a continent to ourselves,” grinned Onewa ambitiously.

“Stick to the carving, brother,” snapped Nuju. “Theoretics is best left with the professionals.”

The once-Toa of Stone’s eyes narrowed then widened. He had detected something unusually biting in Nuju’s words. Something had caught him off-guard.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means we’re staying. It has already been decided.”

“That so?”

Whenua shifted uncomfortably, sensing the Toa of Ice was skirting around dangerous territory. It was too late to go back now.

The once-Toa of Stone looked over all three of his teammates with contempt then snorted.

“I guess wrong only ceases to be wrong when the majority share in it,” he bristled.

“Wrong is still wrong even if everybody is doing it,” retorted Nokama frostily.

The five figures glared at each other unwaveringly. Tensions and rivalries months in the making were finally beginning to reach their boiling point. While the group was standing together, there was still a clear gap between them that neither side wished to close.

“So where does this go from here?” bristled Onewa.

“Nowhere good,” countered Whenua.

A tense silence now hung. The time for words had passed. Nokama shifted in her stance only to find Onewa matching her. Matau’s fingers itched nervously at his sides. Whenua uncrossed his arms.

“We were never that close anyway.”

Nuju moved first, dropping down into a squat and activating his Matatu. Before the first blow could be landed, the once-Toa of Ice used his power to tear Onewa’s Kanohi Komau clean from his face. Such a powerful mask was wasted in the possession of such a Toa but still presented tactical complication. His former teammate stumbled but shrugged the dizzying effects off.

Next to move was Matau. He ducked down into a charge for Nokama, one hand reaching into his pack. He was swift on his feet, but not quite quick enough to evade a swing from one of Whenua’s Earthshock Drills. The wicked weapon caught his mechanical leg, dealing a sinister blow to the outer casing and knocking him off-balance. With all the grace of a Gukko bird in a snowstorm, Matau clattered to the ground.

Weapons were now drawn. The first strike had been dealt. The conflict entered a brief lull of hesitation. Was this too far? Was anybody justified at this point? Was it worth it?

That moment of indecision was all it took for Matau and Onewa to play their hand.

Perhaps they had anticipated the battle beforehand. Maybe they wanted added assurance for the loss of their Elemental Powers. For whatever reason, it swiftly became apparent that the two mechanically-adjusted figures had raided the forges of Ta-Metru for masks. Matau pulled his hand from his pack to reveal a teal Kanohi.

“Oh no,” wheezed Nuju, eying the mask in the hands of his energetic brother-Toa.

Calix.

Before the white-armored stargazer could bark a warning, however, Onewa delivered a mechanical kick that threw Nuju off his feet. He crumpled, the armor on his upper thigh now crushed out of shape by the savage hydraulic assault.

The second he hit the ground, the Calix was pressed against Matau’s bare forehead. The magnetic clamps locked into place and thus dissipated all chances of anybody laying a finger upon his emerald form ever again.

With a wordless exclamation of joy, the undead Toa of Air bounded forwards, dodging Whenua’s swipes with the lithe agility of a Brakas Monkey. In the space of less than a second he was upon Nuju, swiping the Matatu from his face, neutralizing the biggest threat on the playing field.

Sensing the shifting advantage, Nokama and Whenua readied their weapons and sided back-to-back while Nuju stumbled about shakily then crumpled to one knee.

It was in that moment, amidst the rubble of a broken city and in the twilight of Mata Nui’s providence, that the Toa Metru splintered. In the space of just a few minutes, the world’s final Toa team had truly come undone. A group that had been held together by duty for so long had finally lost all sense of virtue.

Attaching his Aero Slicers to his back, Matau activated is wingpack and made a dive for Nokama. Startled, the once-Toa of Water lashed out with a Hydro-Blades, but Matau easily evaded the swing with the aid of his new Kanohi. Looping his arms around the small of her back, he managed to hoist her up into the air, intent on dropping her from a great height. Any Le-Matoran Chute-farer knew the pavement below was the most lethal weapon in all of Metru Nui.

But Nokama had no intention of meeting her end that day. She delivered a sharp hack with her Hydro-Blades, which looped around Matau’s shoulder and buried itself deep in his back, damaging the wingpack and piercing the tissue beneath. Instantly their momentum died and the pair crashed onto the top tier of a nearby building in a tangle of limbs and weapons.

Unable to feel the pain of the puncture in his back, Matau tried to detach his Aero Slicers only to be met with disappointment. Both had been damaged in the destruction of his wingpack. A shame. Flying had been fun while it lasted. With a frustrated growl, he instead joined the scramble for Nokama’s Hydro-Blades.

Meanwhile, brawling on the street below, Onewa and Whenua struggled for dominance in a battle of bloody fists and sharp wits. At full strength – and with the added advantage of his new legs – the undead Toa of Stone reckoned he could overpower his opponent under normal circumstances. But, with his Kanohi Komau lying out of reach, his strength had dipped significantly.

“Come on, Whenua, don’t be like this,” he growled. “There’s no going back to how things were. You need to embrace this. Toughen up. Get your head out of the past.”

But his opponent only shook his head amidst his struggling.

“No. We need to isolate ourselves… It’s the right thing. The only way… we can stop the spread!”

Onewa gritted his teeth. “We’re not going to find a cure in Metru Nui and you know it,” he snarled. “But a cure could lie beyond the Sea Gates!”

Whenua’s brow hardened. All traces of indecision now purged from his complexion.

“And so could the extinction of the Matoran!”

Onewa growled in frustration as he struggled to maintain his stance.

“Don’t tell me you’re developing a conscience.”

But his once-brother wouldn’t listen. With one final push, Whenua overpowered Onewa, finally getting a proper handle on the carver. With one swift motion, he hoisted his bisected opponent off his feet then slammed him into the ground.

“Just some common sense.”

---

Several paces away, Nuju let slip a taciturn glance at both conflicts as he reached for his Kanohi Mahiki from the ground. There were two wild bits jostling for control. The option to fight on either side was there and he could throw the balance of favor on either side.

But, despite his opposition to Onewa’s ethics, he didn’t feel entirely settled in either camp. For that reason he chose not to interfere just yet. It was, after all, best to remain hesitant, to see how things played out without his involvement.

The skirmish should have been over already. Onewa and Matau had the tactical upper-hand with their mask powers, but Whenua and Nokama would not be put down so easily. They were Toa Metru. They had labored to overcome more obstacles than perhaps any other group of Toa in recorded history. If nothing else, they were able to bounce back.

So why was this taking so long? Simple: compassion was dead.

Onewa was engaged in a losing battle with Whenua while Nokama and Matau fought for possession of either others’ weapons atop the roof of a nearby abandoned building. Caught in a bloodlust like this, none of the combatants were going to show restraint. They were seeing things through to the bitter and bloody end. No holding back. This was the full brunt of their fury. Anything could happen in either situation.

Sometimes it was worth stepping back and gaining a fresh perspective. Nuju had found this technique to be a useful one during his years of stargazing. That was, after all, what this was all about. Two conflicts of ideology: both of them wrong, but one of them marginally less so.

So maybe it was time to exploit this malicious streak; to stab somebody in the back and strike a fatal blow. And so there remained but one question: who was the correct target? Who was of the most strategic value? Whose demise was in his best interests?

The option of striking Onewa in the face with his Crystal Spikes was an attractive one. But, as much as it appealed to the Toa of Ice, he knew it would not subside the churning in his stomach.

Was that his guiding force then? Had he fallen so far that he would kill an old teammate for the sake of hunger? Would eliminating Nokama instead even ensure him a full belly or just a heart heavy with remorse in his few moments of waking sanity? Was he so base as the entertain the possibility of killing either of them?

The argument in his head appeared to be taking a greater toll on his body than he had originally thought. No sooner had the idea crossed his mind, an overwhelming dizziness possessed the former Toa of Ice. There was a moment of silence that appeared to engulf his consciousness and his breathing was halted.

Then the world around him began to shake violently, until patches of the scene jerked into an intense, kaleidoscopic blur as colors and shapes conquered his vision. The rubble of Metru Nui melted away until all he could see was an immense backdrop of white. Swirling, shifting, shimmering. Nuju could do nothing but gaze in horror as his body was cast forth, his muscles beyond his control, his struggle fruitless.

Perhaps I was a touch too harsh on Vakama, he mused internally, now subjected to a vision of his own.

A waft of smoke blew into the blank canvas before him. It swirled and coiled before gaining density and taking a form, assaulting his senses. Slowly, the ebony, vaporous mist grew solid, resembling a complex circuit of features.

As it grew in mass, the apparition began to feel more familiar to Nuju. This was definitely the form of a Matoran, no doubt some poor soul still lodged in his gut, one of the many Matoran whom he had so diabolically failed.

But the apparition lay dormant, its eyes closed, no Kanohi upon its face, and still possessing the ghostly texture of smoke. A faint smile permeated the lips of the figure’s shadowy face.

Nuju gazed in disbelief for a long moment, trying to define exactly what had caused this chilling hallucination. Either he had finally snapped and this was a conjuring of his own design, or Matau was attempting to distract him with an elaborate ruse. In either case, the likeness of this smoky dream-prison seemed far too intricate for either solution. Perhaps the Great Spirit had finally realized which member of the Toa team spent his Matoran days determining the future and resolved he would be a better candidate to receive visions than Vakama.

No sooner had the disgraced Toa of Fire’s name crossed through his mind, the smoky figure rippled with life, his back arching back and two lights flickering on in its misty eyes. The apparition gained solidarity and a Kanohi Hau appeared upon its murky head.

Ihu.

The ghost – now having taken on the form of Nuju’s dearly departed mentor –gazed upon him. The Ko-Matoran’s arms were held tight behind his back, an eyebrow raised, and the faint trace of a downcast frown expressed upon his features. Enigmatic as always. It was an image he remembered well, but there was a redemptive twitch lurking there somewhere.

“Address me, Nuju,” he instructed, “for I dread to look upon the most abominable form of my prized student and call you Toa.”

But speech failed him. Nuju’s mouth hung open. For decades now he had wondered what to say should he ever be reunited with his mentor in the afterlife. His sudden death had left so many unanswered questions. Now, finally confronted by the figure, words escaped him entirely.

“At long last, you learn the virtue of silence,” muttered the scholar dryly, his features darkening. “Perhaps it is difficult not to, in a sterile world that festers with the grim hush of the grave.”

“I have… changed, since you last saw me,” gurgled Nuju. Even at twice his old mentor’s height, he would never be able to look down upon Ihu. His was a mind unrivaled.

“A triumph of deduction,” countered the wizened, old Ko-Matoran.

“You are… disappointed?”

“It’s hard not to be.”

Nuju’s gaze dipped. He couldn’t maintain eye contact with his former mentor. The shame was overwhelming. Memories of all those lessons in reason and patience and logic came flooding back to him. It seemed as though another person entirely had occupied that stretch of his life.

“When I gazed upon the stars so many centuries ago, I foresaw a world of abundance and plentitude,” mused the star-gazer, his head tilting back. “There may have been a precautionary mix of strife along the way, but it seems you and your band of false Toa have taken it upon yourselves to undermine my work. This is not pleasing to hear, Nuju.”

“I am… weak,” muttered the Toa of Ice. “I let my defenses down and allowed this infection to grip me because it was easy, and now my sins have mounted up and my goodness is forever tainted.”

“And that, dear Nuju, is most disappointing of all.” The scholar shook his head slowly, like a sage Turaga. “Of all my students you presented the most promise; the most guarded reserve, the greatest tolerance. For you in particular, I had high aspirations. But, alas, it is always the highest achiever who falls the furthest.”

The words stung, but Nuju knew he needed to hear them. He crumpled to his knees and bowed his head down.

“The crimes against this world that I have committed are their own monstrosities that I have become tied to. In the few waking moments of consciousness I have between feeding, they torment me. But there is one thing I must know from you, wise one. One final answer I must entreat you to ask.”

Ihu tilted his head.

“What manner of disease is this?”

The scholar shrugged. “Population control, perhaps,” he mused. “It could very easily be a means of keeping you Toa in check. Perhaps an ill-intentioned parting gift designed by the enemies of Toa. Maybe it is Tren Krom’s fatal revenge. Perhaps Mata Nui has simply given up on our kind and wishes to expunge the innocent from his innards. In any case, it seems most peculiar to me that the guardians of Metru Nui should be elected as the harbingers of its destruction in so monstrous a form.”

“And what does that make me?” murmured the undead Toa of Ice, his head still dipped. He couldn’t bear to let Ihu see the full extent of his monstrous features. “Some primal monster weak enough to give in to my baser instincts? Or an errant pupil who has gone too long without your teachings?”

“You are equal parts the victim as the agent of this chaos,” answered the scholar. “For this state was inflicted upon you. It is the infection that guides your thoughts. But let that be no justification for the villainy of your actions, young Toa.”

The lofty eyebrows of Ihu’s Kanohi creased into a deep frown as he regarded Nuju.

“Dare I entertain the possibility that I can be cured?”

“As with all infections there must always be some form of antidote for your physical condition. Whether or not the damage in your mind can be healed, however, is another issue entirely, one that I cannot provide you with the answer to. That is a distance you must walk for yourself.”

Nuju heaved a weighty sigh. Even though Ihu was by no means defending him, his words reassured the Toa that redemption was at least not entirely out of reach.

That being said, the once-Toa of Ice couldn’t help but remark how easily his old mentor had warmed to his pleas for sympathy. Did he truly crave the old seer’s approval so much that he had unwittingly persuaded him or was there another factor at play?

This was, of course, not the real Ihu. That much was clear to him now. This was an apparition of some kind taking on the personage of the long-dead seer; an uncanny reflection through a misty mirror, telling him exactly what he wanted to know, giving him guidance to lead him out of the dark. Perhaps a little too convenient.

Nuju raised his head slowly, casting his memory back to all the times when Vakama had detailed the contents of his visions to the group. To his knowledge, the Toa of Fire had never sustained a two-way conversation with anybody whilst in this state. He frequently saw figures from his past and fragments of events yet to come. Once or twice he would be given an order, steered in one direction or another by a familiar voice. Something about the vision he was currently experiencing didn’t quite match the mold Vakama had set.

As if sensing Nuju’s growing doubt, the figure of Ihu spoke again, an air of panicked finality to his words, as if he were drawing things to a close; maintaining the illusion.

“Your destiny has changed, Toa of Ice,” stated the Ihu-puppet, arms folded behind his back, words still just as biting. “It is the Great Spirit’s will that your task be repurposed. Perhaps you will find the redemption you seek along the way. Make it your lifetime’s journey.”

A growing gust of wind began to swell in Nuju’s audio receptors. It pulsed and rang, threatening to consumed him entirely. Slowly, the form of Ihu began to fade.

“Your lifetime has, after all, just become infinitely prolonged, my student.”

With those chilling final words, the world around him seemed to be sucked into the void of fantasy. The pressure in his audio-receptors ceased as swiftly as it had begun and Nuju found himself sprawled on the ground, back in the realm of realism. Stretched out above him was the Wall of Stars, blotted partly by clouds, glimmering dimly. As his eyes returned into focus, he found himself gazing directly at a crimson dot, one he had remarked many times before: the Red Star.

With a swift tilt of his head, he remarked that the battle was still raging on. Onewa and Whenua were still locked in their tussle while Nokama and Matau remained atop the roof. The experience couldn’t have taken more than a few seconds. His Kanohi mask lay on the ground beside him.

Interesting, remarked the Toa of Ice, this time making sure he heard the click of his mask reattaching before rising to his feet. Perhaps the vision had struck him in a moment of weakness when his Mahiki was disconnected. Maybe the illusion had been conjured entirely from his subconscious. A repressed memory of failing Ihu fighting its way to the surface.

Or, more likely, the image had been inflicted upon him by an external force, offering him the guidance he so desperately needed. That seemed the more probable possibility, but the question of who exactly was left to pass judgment upon the Toa remained a mystery.

Surveying the battle once more, Nuju decided that was a question to be answered later.

It was time to make a choice.

After a moment of readjusting, he growled and drew his Crystal Spikes.

---

“Is this the legacy we’ve built for ourselves?” snapped Matau, using his Calix to duck back and dodge a savage swipe that would otherwise have cleaved his arm off. “A bunch of whackjobs happier to scare-hide from the world than win back our redemption?”

“There is no redemption to be won,” countered the undead Toa of Water, drawing back for another swing.

The Calix-wearer shook his head, readying the Hydro-Blade he had snatched up off the ground. “I get it, sister, really I do, probably more than any of the others do. Ever-fleeing now would mean failure. It would make this whole mess seem real and dark-serious.”

“We’re a little past that point now, brother,” bristled Nokama, swooping low and hooking Matau’s remaining leg. He stumbled but managed to stay standing, supported by his mechanical limb.

“Haven’t we done enough harm to the Matoran here?” he continued, this time making an offensive move. “Don’t they fear-dread us enough? It’s time we left them in peace. Surely we owe them that much.”

“And terrorize another island instead?” challenged the undead Toa of Water, parrying her brother’s swing then locking her fingers around the ridge of his Kanohi with her remaining hand, tearing it from his face. “I’m sure the Matoran of the Northern Continent will be just as welcoming.”

The undead Toa of Air took another step back, his ankle brushing against the edge of roof’s framework. He teetered for a moment before regaining his footing, feeling much heavier without a Kanohi. As Nokama drew closer he reached into his pack to retrieve his Mahiki.

“Metru Nui is the most important island in this world. It’s isolated. Secret. Strategic. It’s not our domain, Matau, it’s our tomb. That’s why the Sea Gates surround it: to keep us contained.”

“It’s so much ever-more than that, sister,” sighed the decaying Toa of Air, matching the next swipe with a defensive maneuver. “It’s just… Ah, dash-screw it. You’re not going to listen to a word from my mouth.”

Pressing his Kanohi tight against his face once more, Matau called upon the power of his newly-attached Mask of Illusion. A Kanohi of such infinite possibilities. So many applications. So many forms to take. But there was only one to choose from. Only one person his sister would listen to.

The Toa of Air’s body glittered with an emerald twinkle as his form melted, replaced with the face of another. His color scheme flushed into a murky, earthy hue before blushing a deep crimson. The crooked teeth that protruded from his mask vanished entirely, replaced with a familiar face. Were it not for the emerald glitter of the Mahiki in-use, one would easily mistake him for the perfect likeness of Toa Vakama. In fact, with his fiery armor and passionate twinkle in his heavy eyes, it was almost impossible to distinguish him from the Toa of old, as if a snapshot of Vakama in all his glory had been taken from Nokama’s memory. Here he stood, new purpose twinkling in his eyes.

“Sister,” he murmured softly through a voice that was not his own. “We have drifted so far from Mata Nui’s light, allow me to lead us back.”

The Toa of Water gazed upon the form of Vakama, unsure how to interpret what stood before her. Matau had been right. She had always had a soft spot for the maskmaker. Seeing him like this, restored to his former Toa-glory, ignited a strange sensation deep within her. She could feel her insides stirring.

“For so long, we have been bound by our duty to this island,” said Vakama, Toa of Fire, his solemn gaze flickering across the remote skyline. “But we are no longer bound by that duty, sister, and this island has brought us nothing but grief. We were never fated to remain here, for our destiny lies beyond the Sea Gates, and so too does the cure for this infection.”

The Chutespeak had stopped entirely.

“None of us are perfect,” he continued affectionately, with a voice cool enough to still the most violent of tempests. “Some of us steal from street vendors, some of us are Dark Hunters, some of us carry the weight of a thousand butchered Matoran on our souls. We all have our baggage to carry and our own transgressions to reckon with. But these are the scars of identity. Wisdom teaches us not to make the bad decisions in life, but how are we meant to be wise without first making those mistakes?”

The crumbling Toa said nothing. The stirring in her stomach would not subside. Noticing this, the false-Vakama took a step closer, resting a hand gently upon her shoulder.

“I was never a good leader,” he murmured remorsefully. “I was too busy with my own guilt complex, too blind to take charge of my destiny. You had to make the hard choices that drove this team forward, and for that I cannot be grateful enough.”

The Rau-wearer returned the gaze of her fellow Toa. His eyes with glistening with sorrow. Reflected in those troubled orbs she could so clearly see the pain and frustration of his anxious soul; his inner dichotomy. He burned from within.

“But now I need you to look deep within yourself, Nokama. I need you to make one more hard choice and do what you know to be the right thing.”

The Toa of Water gazed intently into his eyes, bewildered by their artifice yet determined to resist him. She turned her head away as both of Matau’s hands came to caress her shoulders with the tender warmth of another.

“We are monsters all,” murmured the crimson Toa. “While there is some small victory in locking ourselves away and denied the Matoran the consequences of our wretched existence, it is our duty as Toa to take the less-traveled path; to win back some small slither of ourselves – of goodness.”

Nokama’s eyes narrowed.

“We are sinners and therefore we are nothing. But what are we if not even repentant sinners? What are we if--”

Quicker than the jaws of a Ruki fish snapping over a startled Gakunga, Nokama grabbed Matau by either wrist. With one sweeping kick, the Toa of Air’s feet were knocked out from under him and he tumbled to the ground. Instantly, his Mahiki deactivated and the apparition of Vakama vanished. The crimson was purged from his armor and his monstrous self bubbled back to the surface, a blur of yellowed teeth and emerald armor. Nokama scooped up a weapon.

“That… was a low blow, even for you,” she snarled, advancing towards him with venom in her eyes.

The Toa of Air looked back at her, only half-heartedly attempting to crawl away until finally coming to a stop and slackening.

“Do it, sister,” he murmured. “Try-test the belief that evil never dies.” He spread himself out on the rooftop and sighed heavily, as if an enormous weight pinned him down that he no longer cared to shift.

The cold metallic edge of Nokama’s Hydro Blade was pressed against Matau’s throat, hovering for a second in both her hands before rising.

“You should’ve turned left… brother.”

---

Onewa squirmed on the ground, readying himself to deliver another kick. But Whenua anticipated the move, slamming his foot deep into his floored opponent’s midsection and grabbing his flailing fist, leaving him with only one hand to wave around with.

“What does it feel like… to be the predator for once?” he spat, swiping his spare hand at the joints in Whenua’s leg, intent on tearing out whatever rotten metallic chunks he could. “You must’ve watched hundreds of Rahi trap their prey from behind the glass. Never trusted yourself to be in that position though, did you?”

The Ruru-wearer’s grimace twisted into one of deeper frustration, but there was a twinkle of innocence in those emerald orbs. The Whenua of old – the guiltless archivist who desired nothing more than to spend his days learning – lurked still within them, on the precipice of indecision.

“I’ve had about enough of your mind-games, Onewa,” he snapped, making another play for the upper hand only to find his strength too evenly-matched. “You’ve been trying to claw your way into my head for weeks now, searching for some weakness to exploit or some thread to unravel. But I stand firm!”

The fallen Toa of Stone arched his back and gritted his teeth as a fresh burst of energy blessed his opponent. Whenua made another play for his free hand, forcing Onewa to pull it away. The pair wobbled but Whenua retained the upper hand.

“I am Toa Whenua,” he bristled. “I have my faults. I have my flaws. But I am a Toa nonetheless.”

“Please,” snorted Onewa. “Like any of us are worthy of that title anymore. The Age of Toa has passed us by.”

“Then allow me one more act of heroism, to prove that there is still some sliver of virtue in my heart.”

Whenua’s free hand clasped itself around Onewa’s face. The undead Toa of Stone cried out in sheer horror as his thumb wormed its way into his left eye, piercing his optics and gauging a small hole into his skull. There was a sensation of immense pain, backed off to a fraction of what it should have been. It stung him regardless.

Sensing the net closing around him, Onewa tightened his fist and tore it from Whenua’s grip. He then ducked back, yanking his brother’s thumb from within his skull. Readying both hands, the maskless Toa tried to assess the damage. A trickle of ebony gunge was streaming from his ruptured left eye, leaking down his cheek like a ruptured fuel cell.

The fight was drawing to a close. Onewa could feel it. Through the corner of his remaining eye he spotted the slender white armor of Nuju, who had finally recomposed himself and was returning to the fray. With only one functioning eye and with his Kanohi Komau lost to him, the decaying Toa of Stone knew that there remained only one option.

Whereas Matau had looted a Kanohi Calix from the foundries of Ta-Metru, Onewa had taken an alternative approach. There had been many Kanohi to choose from; Masks of Shielding and Rebounding with which to parry the blows of his enemies, Masks of Flight and Teleportation with which to escape and fight another day, even one Mask of Disruption with which to assault his aggressors and accelerate their rate decay until they crumbled to dust before him.

But the discrete approach had served Onewa well over the years. Although boisterous and direct, he was by no means a blunt instrument. His thought was more of the tactical variety than academic. For that reason, his secondary mask of choice had been an immensely personal one. A last resort with a specific target in mind.

Drawing one of his Proto Pitons and extending his other hand into his pack, Onewa shot both of his brother-Toa a warning look, trying to look about as intimidating as a one-eyed Toa with no mask could compose himself to appear. He could feel the familiar ridges of the mask.

“Your call, brothers,” he announced. “We can all still walk away from this.”

Neither Toa took their eyes off of him. They didn’t afford him a moment take advantage of. They instead drew their weapons, murder in their eyes.

“Suit yourselves then,” snapped Onewa, drawing his secret Kanohi and pressing it hard against his face.

Instantly he felt energy restored to his circuitry as the magnetic clamps locked into place. The dull silver Kanohi was instantly flooded with color as Onewa’s remaining eye lined up with it properly. Nuju narrowed his eyes, allowing his telescopic lenses to zoom in on Onewa’s mask of choice. When he finally identified the shape, a smile came to his lips.

“A Kanohi Zatth?” he snorted. “That is the impetus of our destruction? You mean to summon another Kikanalo for us to devour?”

The undead Toa of Ice turned to his comrade in search of support only to find all color had drained from Whenua’s face, replaced instead with an expression of horror.

Indeed, the Kanohi Zatth was a mask of some weight amongst the Onu-Matoran community. It served as a symbol. A giant stone carving of the mask even stood in the central lobby of the Archives. Any Archivist worth his metal knew the consequences of such a mask. It was just as much a Kanohi to be feared as it was respected.

“Stop him!” barked the Toa of Earth, activating one of his Earthshock Drills and charging forward. Nuju blinked, bewildered, then threw down his Crystal Spikes and activated his own Kanohi, raising a hand to channel his Telekinesis.

But, already, it was too late. Even as Whenua slammed into his target, the Kanohi Zatth had been activated. An invisible signal emanated forth, pulsing at a frequency far exceeding the range of an average audio receptor. Although the mask gleamed, there was no further spectacle. Such was the cruel, dull simplicity of their brooding fates.

In a tangle of limbs, the two Toa clattered to the ground. In spite of the sensation, the Toa of Stone remained resolute, his Kanohi still glowing even as Whenua’s fingers wrapped around it.

The signal was out. Some manner of Rahi unknown to Onewa had answered his summons. Of that much he was sure. He had felt his own mind brush against the ancient consciousness of a recipient in the murky distance.

With his single remaining eye, Onewa watched as Whenua clawed the mask from his face, yanking it off entirely then gazing at it in disbelief, knowing perhaps then that it was already too late.

---

“Come…”

The Rahi’s mind stirred from its slumber at the utterance of the word. Many years had passed since another voice had reached its audio receptors. The words was spoken in the Matoran dialect. A command. Almost derogatory. Therefore not worth the heed. The Rahi dismissed the thought and ventured back into its sleep, undisturbed. It returned to the dream it had been having for the past 400 years, of the open fields and green pastures of its homeland.

“Come…”

Again the word was muttered. This time more urgently.

The creature shifted from its position. For many centuries it had incubated in this hovel uninterrupted. Why was it now hearing the voice of an outsider?

Stirring, the Rahi slackened and turned its attention to the physical world for the first time since it had started dreaming so very long ago. The cavern it had come to reside in was untouched and there was no indication of a trespasser, at least none that was immediately apparent.

But this was no simple case of a Matoran wondering into the Rahi’s keep. The voice had emanated through its head. It had sensed the speaker mentally, his mind a muddled and chaotic jumble of dedication and vengefulness. A being of ill-intent and ambiguous morality. This much was clear to the Rahi.

“Co--”

The voice was cut short and the Rahi tensed. That had been unexpected, for there could be little doubt that the speaker had just been silenced abruptly. Already it could feel the voice withdrawing from its mind.

Troubling.

Looking inwardly, the Rahi reflected upon the hidden orator and the single word he had uttered thrice. It wasn’t much upon which to judge the nature of a being, but the creature felt it could make a reasonable guess; for the voice had been riddled with desperation.

While irritatingly confident, the voice had come entwined with a tangible pang of distress. The speaker had called out for aid telepathically when faced with danger. He had been cut short by his adversary, refusing to plea for help in even his final moments, choosing instead to command another to assist him.

Troubling it was indeed, yet still the Rahi felt oddly infatuated by this strange being. It was compelled to seek him out. His voice had been extraordinarily enticing, as if it were the sweet nectar that its winged kin gravitated towards.

With a hefty grunt, Keetongu rose to his feet, shifting his muscles. His dusty yellow armor glimmered in the crystalline glow of the cavern; his piercing blue eyepiece still blinking back sleep, little-knowing of what truly drew him from his slumber.

---

The process had been a harrowing one to observe. Rahaga Iruini had witnessed enough of the transformation to turn his armor a queasier shade of green.

Upon arriving in Metru Nui, the Rahaga had been horrified to find the heartland of Matoran civilization devastated by its own champions. Following the path of the mobilizing Visorak Horde, they had been surprised to find the Rahi bound to their vessels, stagnant in the waters of the Silver Sea. Arriving in the City of Legends, they soon discovered what had given the army of Visorak cause to stall.

They had, of course, observed the local Toa, one of the few functioning Toa Teams left in this turbulent time, in a monstrous state. While Norik had been quick to sense the handiwork of Makuta, it had become increasingly clear to the travelers that the infection was unlike anything they had seen before. Having braved the horrors of Destral while employed as Toa Hagah, the Rahaga had finally agreed that this was a new breed of evil, one that even Makuta Chirox lacked the imagination to create.

Having detained the one known as Vakama, they had guarded their captive in shifts of three. Gaaki, Pouks and Kualus had taken the first rotation whilst their brethren observed the skyways of Metru Nui. Initially, their plan had been to divide the infected Toa in different regions of the island. Capturing their leader first had been a bold move. The Toa of Earth or Air would have been much easier targets. But there had been few opportunities where the Toa split from the group. Vakama’s unexpected retreat to Ko-Metru had provided them with a rare opportunity and Pouks was nothing if not spontaneous.

Several hours had passed as the undead Toa buckled and roared in his restraints before finally slackening. Over the course of his struggles, Bomonga had stalked Nokama and her cohorts from afar while Norik and Iruini had labored to keep their distance from the remaining duo in Ta-Metru. Now the Rahaga had reconvened to study their captive.

Slowly, reason had returned to Vakama’s eyes as the bestial spurning in his belly dulled. He had crumpled down into a crouch, still restricted by the chains that laced him, his expression sullen. For some time now he had stared at the ground, his gaze unflinching, his eyes misty with the vapor of memory and the surly weight of guilt.

“I… I lost it, didn’t I?” he gurgled, quietly. “I lost myself…”

The words came as a surprise. Beyond a series of fuming curses and incoherent hollers for freedom, the Toa had hardly spoken during his captivity. Now his fury had dulled. The shame had final sunk in. The churning in his gut had subsided.

“Yes, you did,” murmured Norik softly. “But it would seem that you also got yourself back. That is what matters.”

“There is hope for deliverance yet,” nodded Kualus in agreement. “But you must possess an iron will, Toa. Redemption is not for the weak of heart.”

The crimson-clad figure shook his head balefully.

“Redemption eludes me, stranger,” he retorted. “There’s none to be had and, even if there were, I’m not getting any.”

The Rahaga glanced uncertainly at each other. They had hoped to appeal to the broken Toa’s better nature after his isolation, that he might perhaps be swayed to their cause. But it seemed Vakama had wandered too far down a dangerous path.

“How long had you been a Toa?” asked Bomonga, icily. “Before the infection.”

A moment of leaden silence hung in the chamber before the Toa finally shifted his head.

“Couple of weeks,” came the response. “Not long enough to make sense of anything, really.”

“But long enough, perhaps, you understand that a Toa must sometimes do things contrary to his beliefs?”

Vakama continued to shift uncomfortably, his misty eyes fixed on nothing in particular. A twinkle of life glimmered at Bomonga’s words, the only indication that he had heard.

“It’s true,” nodded Kualus. “Duty is arguably the most powerful motivator of the Three Virtues.”

“And, every so often,” continued Pouks sincerely, “a Toa will find that he must fulfill his duty not because he thinks it’s his responsibility to do so, but because he knows he must in his heart.”

The Toa pursed his jagged lips, allowing his monstrous, yellow teeth to mash together in his jaw. His eyes began to narrow with thought.

“For, you see, we were once Toa ourselves,” croaked Gaaki, gesturing to her brethren. “The enormous weight of a Toa’s duty is known to us. It is a burden that we six choose to carry, even after we became unworthy of the title.”

“Now, you may not have been a Toa for very long, Vakama,” continued Iruini, sensing the point his allies were trying to articulate. “But you are wise enough in the ways of Mata Nui to know that educating the mind without educating the heart as well is no education at all. You need to believe that you are worthy of recovery.”

“If you are so truly lost that you cannot see the light of redemption, then perhaps you can be guided,” pondered Norik compassionately. “Perhaps, when all else has been stripped away, there can be hope.”

“I find that doubtful,” muttered Vakama in response.

“Then prove me wrong,” challenged the crimson Rahaga, raising his staff and delivering a bolt of Fire that melted away the nearest length of chain. Vakama’s arms slackened and he felt the coil unraveling beneath him.

“You make mistakes, sure,” grumbled Bomonga. “You lose yourself in the pain or the fear or the hunger. But if you can recognize what you did, evaluate your mistakes and seek to correct them, then you are on the path of righteousness. That is what matters.”

“So tell us, Vakama, what are you?”

As the last of the chains clanked to the floor, the scarlet figure quivered. His eyes remained on the ground and for a long, unpleasant moment, the Rahaga watched him with bated breath, wondering if perhaps they had been too hasty. But then his mighty chest puffed out once more and his eyes flickered upwards. His eyebrows arched and his forehead creased. New purpose flooded his features as he took a decisive step over the chains, his armor battered and dull but still just as regal as the day he had received it. He tightened his fists and parted his lips.

“I am a Toa...”

Characters

• Toa Metru
  • Vakama - Infected
  • Nokama - Infected
  • Whenua - Infected
  • Onewa - Infected; Bisected
  • Matau - Infected; Injured
  • Nuju - Infected
• Rahaga
  • Norik
  • Iruini
  • Kualus
  • Bomonga
  • Gaaki
  • Pouks
• Toa Helryx
• Hahli
• Kopeke
• Tamaru
• Turaga Dume
• Velika - Unnamed
• Makuta Teridax
• Makuta Icarax
• Makuta Antroz
• Makuta Krika
• Makuta Chirox
• Makuta Mutran
• Makuta Tridax
• Makuta Gorast - Infected; Deceased
• Tobduk
• Nuhrii - Mentioned
• Orkahm - Mentioned
• Nuparu - Mentioned
• Krekka - Deceased
• Nidhiki - Mutated; Deceased
• Jala - Deceased
• Takua - Mentioned; Deceased
• Keetongu
• Ihu - Vision Only
• Toa Naho - Mentioned
• Rahkshi of Shadows - Deceased
• Rahkshi of Gravity - Deceased

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.
• In Chapter 4, Toa Helryx shares the same jaunty, flamboyant nature as the Tenth Doctor, as portrayed by David Tennant in the British television show, Doctor Who. She also mentions that Makuta Teridax has potentially thought of "thirty three" different ways to double-cross her. The number thirty three, in this instance, is a reference to Chalk33.
• In Chapter 5, the vision of Ihu was included exclusively as a tip of the hat to Chicken Bond's The Mentor's Way short story.

Trivia

• Besieged was BobTheDoctor27's first story to boast on an entirely canon cast and was his entry to the 2013 Halloween Writing Contest, where it was awarded first place.
• The official banner was voluntarily created by Jman98.
• Besieged is the current forty-first longest article on this wiki.
• The story was conceived and often written during period of intense focus upon surrealist film practices in BobTheDoctor's various film classes. In particular, The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari has been a prominent influence upon the shape and tone of the story.
• 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.
• In spite of the Maori Language lawsuit directed at LEGO, Jaller was intentionally referred to as Jala in Besieged as he was not canonically renamed until the arrival of the Toa Mata on Mata Nui, 1000 years later.
• Instead of introducing Velika at the end of chapter 4, BobTheDoctor27 initially planned to introduce a Carniverse counterpart for Glonor, whose untimely arrival in Metru Nui would have put him in a viable position to lead the Matoran resistance against the Toa Metru. This incarnation would have notably wielded a chainsaw and traveled to Metru Nui with the specific intent of destroying the virus. However, in order to present an entirely-canon character rostrum, this idea was scrapped at an early stage in the story's development.

See Also

• There Will Be Blood - A similar story where Toa are depicted as vampires
• Amalgamation - A similar story where Dark Hunters face a Frankensteinian monster