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This article was written by BobTheDoctor27. Please do not add to it without the writer's permission.
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| Judgment Day | |
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| Story | |
| Setting |
Fractures Alternate Universe: Metru Nui
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| Date Set |
1,004 AGC
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| Timeline | |
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None
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Judgment Day is the final story serial in BobTheDoctor27's Fractures Universe storyline and his final piece of BIONICLE fanfiction.
Story[]
Prologue[]
Stretched across the desolate equator of Bara Magna there lay a most arid and repulsive desert, which for many a century had served as a barrier against the advancement of civilization for its Agori inhabitants. Further north the planet was peopled by a grim district of lofty mountains and dashed with jagged canyons. A simple flutter of a disinterested gaze revealed no more than the common characteristics of barrenness, inhospitality and misery. The bleak chain of Iconox's snow-capped peaks towered off in the extreme verge of the horizon, contrasted by the looming, nightmarish presence of the Black Spiked Mountains.
Surely in the whole rest of the world there could be no more dreary a view than the one atop the sandy mound from which Makuta Antroz observed the scene. In this great stretch of country there was no sign of development, nor of anything appertaining to life. There was no bird in the steel-blue sky, no movement across the baked tan ground – above all, there was absolute silence. Listen as he did, there was no shadow of a sound in the entire mighty wilderness. Nothing but true and perpetually complete emptiness from New Destral to Roxtus.
The Makuta’s gaze rotated round slowly, for this dreary landscape was not all that the bleak world contained. Small, beady eyes narrowed behind his Kanohi Jutlin as he observed the sheer enormity of the idle Matoran Universe standing by the charred ruins of Vulcanus.
It was a sight that Antroz doubted he would ever grow used to seeing. Not so very long ago it had been an absurdity to imagine his kind rising to a position of such power. That their tattered, unambitious species could rise up in revolution and smite the almighty metallic illusionist. That however few Makuta remained would live to admire Mata Nui’s face from outside his hostile interior.
The metallic juggernaut had been rendered still by their efforts, like a loyal soldier standing to attention from his superiors. The actions of Antroz and his kin had brought this upon the world. They had speared Mata Nui from his position atop the Wall of Stars and dragged him down into the mud to squabble and bicker with other such degenerates.
And yet his sullen, lanky form remained standing even now, after all hope had been extinguished. It loomed higher than any mountain lost in the sprawling distance. It stood lazily on feet the size of continents, colossal metal bisects slacking, pistons locked into place centuries ago. Vacant, as if Mata Nui had entered a daydream, a kind of blind, dull flicker in the depths of his orbs. Gathering dust under the desert sun.
Although Antroz may well have been the smallest living organism in sight for kio around it was evident that the wasteland had once sustained life of its own. Peeling his eyes off the gleaming object of his wildest fantasies and desires, he spotted a pathway traced out across the desert, which trailed off over a sand dune then was lost in the shimmering, shifting expanse of sand. It was rutted with wheels and trodden down by the feet of many adventurers. He remarked the odd glimmer of creamy white objects scattered randomly. Bones. Dropped like litter. Some coarse and large, others smaller and more delicate. The former generally belonged to Spikit, Rock Steeds and other desert-dwelling beasts, the latter to Agori villagers. For seventeen hundred mio one could trace this abandoned convoy route by simply following the remnants of those who had fallen.
Wordlessly, Antroz flexed his shoulders and took flight, launching himself into the air then unfurling his bat-like wings. He hovered a moment then soared across the thick, viscous desert air, eyes roving the scenery beneath him.
The inhabitants of this world were a disorderly bunch. They were irrational and unregulated. Scavengers and thieves. The conquest of any world, which mostly consisted of taking it away from those who were left standing after a bombardment of Rahkshi platoons, was not a pretty thing when examined under a moral microscope. But when the Makuta had descended from the heavens above it was abundantly clear even then that the natives were savages. The kingdom of Tajun had been sprawled with corpses even before their armies razed the land. This was a world of shattered civilizations and conflict of so great a scale that even the great Makuta Icarax shuddered at the thought.
One did not often have to dig deep in the sand to find some evidence of a burial.
New Destral had been established out of the ruins of a poorly-maintained arena. It was perhaps the sole landmark of Agori craftsmanship left imparted in the vast sea of sand. As he approached the fortress, Antroz was once again reminded of the degenerative state these villagers lived in. Chained together and guarded as they were, he had never seen expressions so dull and tired of living as the ones slumped before him.
Even under the watchful supervision of Rahkshi guards they were dying slowly – it was very clear. They were not enemies, they were not criminals, they were not prisoners – nothing but colorful shadows of disease and starvation, lying confused in the daylight gloom, shaking wildly and mumbling in their own brutish language. They were kept here for their own good. Agori civilization had come crashing down by their own doing. They were ruffians who needed to be controlled and taught better, even if that meant being lost in uncongenial surroundings and rationed on unfamiliar food. They sickened, became ineffective, then were permitted to crawl away and rest. Their waning shapes were free as air – and nearly as thin.
And most disturbing of all was the fact that these barbarians were incapable of dreaming. They were diseased.
Gliding majestically, his wingspan broad and full, Antroz began his descent towards a small stunted structure in the western region of the fortress’ grounds. Once the building had been home to a native Agori shepherd who woke early each morning to tend to his two Sand Stalkers. Their yellowing, empty skulls now decorated the garden and the hollow helmet of the shepherd stood skewered on a wooden stake. The once peaceful dwelling had been appropriated to fit the needs of its current occupants.
No sooner had his clawed feet touched the sand his wings folded behind him, retracting with cut-throat speed, tucked away tidily for formal negotiations. Although impressive, outlandish bat-wings made for quite the distraction when discussing matters of business.
The moment he crossed the threshold Antroz felt the glare of the sun release him of its cruel clutches, which was a welcome relief. He was accustomed to the darkened weather of his beloved Xia, where the Twin Suns were muted and offered no heat or offensive light to penetrate his armor.
The Makuta scanned the chamber he had entered intently, instinctively searching for an exit should the conference turn sour – a tactic that he had forcibly drilled into his routine whenever entering a room. But there would be no danger this evening.
The Mighty Tridax was present.
Indeed the former Makuta of Nynrah watched him enter with a cold eye, arms folded, a sour expression stitched onto his Kanohi Avsa. Clearly bored and unappreciative of the opportunity Antroz was virtually handing him on a silver plate.
Beside him, stooped under a set of heavy, battered armor that dragged his height down about a head shorter than it should have been was Malum, a former Glatorian of the Fire Tribe who had allied with the invading Makuta right from their arrival on Bara Magna. One of the few Glatorian left free to roam the wild world. A loyal servant of their course, though a little too ambitious for Antroz’s personal liking.
Just like the Agori primates, the Glatorian were inferior to their Matoran Universe counterparts. Antroz had never known a Toa to wander around carrying the head of a Rahi on the end of a stick as a weapon. But, then again, never before had a Toa usurped the clan leader of the Vorox. He was a formidable figure in this parched wasteland, one who possessed a crackle of true power. Malum was not one to be underestimated. The Rock Steed’s head that was impaled on the end of his staff was evidence enough of that.
But the Makuta were by no means reliant on this ruffian with a pack of beasts. He was a fool best-placed under the Brotherhood’s gloved thumb, not even afforded the dignity of physical touch. He was an annoyance to be tolerated. A resource to be exploited. A tool to be used.
“I have performed a substantial service for you, Makuta of Xia,” announced the disgraced Glatorian, butchering his pronunciation of Antroz’s adopted home.
“Out with it, brute,” he snapped in response.
The Glatorian hesitated. His eyes flickered to the ground and he gritted his foul teeth, no doubt regretting his alliance to such hostile superiors but only slightly more disgusted by the alternative. “My scouts caught word of a resistance group holed up in the remains of Tajun.”
“So did mine,” continued Antroz gravely. “I leveled those old ruins with some of the Brotherhood’s finest artillery only for you to wind up interfering and getting your grubby fingers ahold my bounty.”
“Regrettable, I am sure,” countered the Glatorian falsely, wandering over to examine the single open window that the chamber contained. “Your forces were able to mobilize the Toa into a retreat but, if I were to speak strategically from one tactical leader to another, they were unprepared for the ensuing chase.”
“An opportunity that you so eagerly took advantage of to capture my prisoners.”
Malum shrugged, his Rock Steed staff shifting in his grip.
“Had my Vorox legions not been patrolling the area as a precautionary measure then you would have enjoyed no success that day. My intervention gives you a considerably stronger foothold against these rebels. The capture of two leading Toa revolutionaries is better than an empty handful of sand, is it not?”
“Your argument would have some legitimacy if you were not here to discuss a ransom for transferal of these prisoners,” added Tridax, his words brewing sinisterly, leaving his lips in an almost predatory, reptilian manner.
“I am owed for my services,” bristled the Glatorian. “And our alliance is no more concrete than the Sea of Liquid Sand. We co-exist in a mutually beneficial partnership, one which has the potential to pay off in future when you undoubtedly return the favor. Your kind is honor-bound, after all.”
The two Makuta exchanged glances. No quick telepathic message was required for them to decide that the Glatorian could easily be paid off with worthless trinkets or be labeled an enemy of the Brotherhood.
“I want the Black Spiked Mountains,” declared the crimson leader of the Sand Tribe simply, his eyes growing darker. “My Vorox are accustomed to sleeping in hardy conditions and we would be able to comfortably exist outside your business deep in the crags and valleys of that place.”
“Very well,” stated Antroz drily, mulling Malum’s understated demands over in his mouth, as if he had not been prepared to budget any kind of reward, or that the Black Spiked Mountains were some kind of strategic position in passage to the northern hemisphere of the planet. “You drive a hard bargain. Two Toa for a mountain?”
“It’s not the Toa you’re paying me for,” grunted Malum coldly. He reached into his pack whilst maintaining eye contact with Antroz then threw a golden object into the sand of the hut’s floor.
The Kanohi Avohkii.
The Makuta of Xia cracked a devilish grin and scooped the glimmering mask up on his fingers. They scraped against the surface with a satisfying CLINK as he cradled the coveted secret weapon of the Toa.
This was, of course, not the original Avohkii, which had been lost centuries ago following the death of Toa Takanuva. It was a counterfeit. One that had been crafted by an enigmatic rebel going by the pseudonymous title of Forger, no doubt hoping to follow in the footsteps of the Toa of yesteryear.
Makuta Tridax grunted contently then gestured towards a metal crate in the corner of the room. With a sharp tug he was able to yank it over to the center then open the lid to reveal Malum’s various prizes, all of which had been pre-prepared; a Brotherhood Tablet of Transit, a Great Rau, a polished Chronicler’s Staff, an Air Bladder and three Kanoka Disks originating from Nynrah.
“You will be familiar with our Tablet of Transit,” muttered Tridax half-heartedly. “But the remaining contents of this container are sacred artifacts remnant from our former kingdom. Let them serve as repayment for your services. Our alliance is now terminated.”
The Glatorian narrowed his eyes, visibly disappointed that he had not been able to achieve a partnership but still somewhat grateful he had been carved up a piece of land to rule over. A rare act of kindness that was not guaranteed when dealing with Makuta.
Antroz watched him drag the awkward metal crate to the doorway, all the while pondering just how useless this King of Sand was in his own desert.
Without a single utterance passing between them, the two Makuta stepped into the next room of the dwelling. At first it had seemed their associate had picked a strange place to negotiate. Now that they were able to finally lay eyes on the two Toa whom Malum’s forces had captured they understood why.
Two Toa dangled from chains about a bio above the ground, restrained to the point where free movement was near enough to impossible. Their shackles were made from iron, the floor from mud and the walls from hardened clay.
Which meant neither Toa Pohatu Nuva nor Toa Hagah Gaaki could tear down the wall they were bound to.
The two Rahkshi guards hissed and recoiled into the darkened depths of the chamber as their masters drew closer. Antroz’s devilish smile broadened. This was the makings of a good day.
“It would seem our enemy is getting sloppy,” he declared ruthlessly. “With so few Toa left in the world one would imagine the resistance to take better care of its dwindling numbers.”
Neither Toa spoke. Gaaki’s jaw remained locked, her eyes fixed on the ground with all the venom expected of a disgruntled female. Pohatu, however, did not have such emotional fortitude and gave in, making eye contact with his captors.
“One of the infamous Toa Nuva,” remarked Antroz, taking a slow and confident step closer. “When I gaze upon you now it is as if examining an exhibit in the Archives. An old war-Rahi from yesteryear now endangered and finally confined to a glass coffin. Strung up and put on display, for all to admire the final moment of your plight.”
No words left the Toa of Stone’s mouth. He was not one to pass out insults so freely. Instead he just grunted. Bitterness did not suit him. Legends depicted this Toa as one of integrity and honor. A wholesome figure, the idea of whom was so fundamental of heroism that he could never truly be extinguished.
“You stand here today, Toa Nuva, to pay retribution for your crimes against our cause,” snarled Tridax crookedly. “Your actions have robbed our numbers of Makuta Bitil’s influence, an offense that shall not go unpunished.”
“He wore yellow armor,” grumbled the Toa, his heavy voice carrying none of the warmth that the tales of old so habitually described. “He had it coming.”
“That may be,” grinned Antroz wolfishly, “but did Bitil’s extinguishing undo any of the tragedies that have befallen your ill-fated cause?”
“Come now, Makuta,” growled Pohatu, knuckles tightening against his shackles. “You make it sound like I don’t have another few tricks stashed away inside my armor.”
“You mean this old thing?” chortled the crimson bat-like captor, plucking out the dull-glimmering Kanohi that was tucked under his wing. His two clawed fingernails hooked through the empty eyeholes.
“That mask is one of several replicated Avohkii.”
The former Makuta of Xia’s grin broadened as dark energy swirled at his fingertips. The Kanohi in his hands began to blacken, as if the burning heat of a candle were being held up behind it. Within a matter of seconds the darkness had completely penetrated the mask’s form and its majestic golden glimmer was usurped with a gloomy, opaque thickness. The Avohkii had turned completely black at his fingertips.
“I’ll believe that the day another Av-Matoran resurfaces from the ashes of the Southern Continent to fill in Takanuva’s little armored boots.”
The Toa of Stone lapsed back into silence, his glare intensifying. Gaaki’s eyes fell to the ground beside him, twisting away in his chains, trying with every ounce of resilience in her body not to grant the Makuta the dignity of being looked in the eye.
“Have you nothing further to say?” snapped Antroz, casting an uninterested eye over the Kakama Nuva-wearer as he stood bound in chains.
He was met with a speechless glower. Such darkness was ill-suited upon the wrinkled face of so virtuous a Toa.
“I would take that for silence,” remarked Tridax, unclipping his spear from its leather strap on his back.
The end was close. That much was clear to the Toa of Stone as he grunted and heaved on his chains. One final act of furious resistance, but his mighty muscles were too tightly bound. The shining tip of Tridax’s spear edged closer. But was Pohatu its target?
“You are a very bold figure,” announced Antroz darkly. “I have no doubt that we could dissect you piece by painful piece and force you to watch, yet you would stay your tongue and not utter a single scrap of information, which makes the job of an interrogator somewhat superfluous.”
Three sets of eyes rolled towards Gaaki.
The tip of Tridax’s spear twitched in her direction.
“But what kind of hero – a Toa Nuva no less – would sit idle and allow us to punish a female because he is too stubborn to speak words that can no longer protect him?”
The Makuta of Nynrah latched his long, bony fingers around the Toa of Water’s wrist and yanked it down, aligning his blade with her hand.
“I wonder how far I shall have to go before you realize that you may as well give us the information we desire,” grated the Avsa-wearer. “A finger? Maybe even two? Depends how much you will be able to stomach.”
His hand twisted. The blade pressed against Gaaki’s thumb. One flick of Tridax’s wrist and she would never hold a sword again. The bite of metallic Protodermis was a bitter one. The Toa of Water suddenly went very still, but her eyes did not betray her. They stared right back at her tormentor with conviction for a long and intense moment before she tilted her head and glared at Pohatu.
No sooner had their eyes met, the Toa of Stone’s Kanohi Nuva began to shimmer. The chains rattled then fell silent as his limbs vibrated and pulsed with spectacular oscillation. Before Tridax could do so much as swing his blade around and let slip a brief exclamation the Toa was free.
But Antroz made no such hesitation.
Previous experience with a Kakama-wearing prisoner had taught him to be weary of Pohatu’s antics. Clenching his fists together and fixing his eyes on the Toa of Stone’s rapidly moving limbs, his innate Magnetism powers kicked in and clamped his foe’s legs in place, fixing the rebel captive to the spot.
The dust from the sand floor settled abruptly as the Toa of Stone gritted his teeth, his last-ditch attempt at escape foiled. His own over-armored feet had betrayed him.
“A valiant effort, Toa,” announced Antroz devilishly. “But alas, what use is a Mask of Speed in a world where you have nowhere to run? Tales of the great Toa Pohatu’s courage are told by Matoran around campfires and yet what does he do in his final moment of life?”
Tridax’s spear pierced the Toa’s back and penetrated through to the front of his armor, sticking its jagged tip out just below his heartlight. Pohatu gasped and slackened, his fingers scrambling furiously for the tip.
But the Avsa-wearer twisted the blade wickedly to ensure he stayed down.
“He flees, like a coward,” snarled Antroz as the great Toa of Stone began to spasm and quiver, his legendary voice now high-pitched and rasping for breath.
With a sly reclamation of his weapon, Tridax booted his victim in the rear, sending the weakened empty hulk slumping forwards. The hole ran straight though his chest. A critical wound. There would be no recovery from an injury of that severity. No remedy for his own mortality.
After a few labored breaths, Pohatu’s shaking began to stop and his wild gasps for desperate lungfuls of air slowed down. Eventually they stopped altogether and he just lay there, his magnificent armor looking hollow on his stiff form, his mouth still half-open, his eyes half-closed.
“Another of the legendary Toa Nuva slain,” gurgled Tridax with sick satisfaction. “And by my hand.”
“Then you shall be permitted his Kanohi Nuva,” declared Antroz, examining the fresh corpse before turning his attention to the captive whom Pohatu had given his life to distract them from.
“The last of our former watch-Rahi,” he cooed admiringly. “I warned my brothers to put down their pets before they proved unfaithful.” Toa Gaaki rolled her head around and regarded each Makuta with equal venom.
“Of course, with Toa Gali lying on the fields of the Southern Continent and the Order without its leader, I suppose Ga-Matoran need somebody to look up to. I see now that they are not a notoriously picky bunch.”
Still the Toa Hagah of Water remained speechless, the only way she could hamper the intent of her imprisoners.
“Capturing Toa Nuva is a welcome prize,” sneered Antroz, casting an eye to where Pohatu lay by the door. “But it is not often that our forces come across a Toa of such independent reputation. Many consider you to be the Second Helryx. I have even heard the term Water Spirit of the West attributed to your name.”
“Then you should know better than to cross me, little Makuta,” bristled the Toa icily. “I was alive and kicking while your kind was a puddle of mud that hadn’t even been concocted yet.”
“Stay your tongue, puddlemaker,” snapped Tridax. “You will respect your betters.”
“I am the last Toa Hagah,” retorted the Toa with every bit of gravity that the title entailed. “My name will go down in history and inspire untold millions. You’re just Makuta number three. We don’t even bother tracking your movements, Makuta of Nynrah. You have impacted nothing so original as a Kraata on this world since the Destiny War began.”
Tridax fell silent, his lower jaw protruding out in irritation. Toa Gaaki stood her ground, strung up, bound, but still rebelliously resolute. Quiet defiance radiated from her form. Hers was the body of a warrior, one who would divulge no information whatsoever. There was no physical – or indeed psychological – torment that would move her to treachery.
“You are the leader of the resistance movement,” muttered Antroz.
Gaaki did not respond, though a spark of emotion in her eyes betrayed her façade.
“Or, at least your splinter faction,” continued the Makuta, drawing closer, eyes roving her body with new intent. “A Mask of Clairvoyance would prove useful in predicting and evading our tactics, which would explain how your collaborators have eluded our every effort at capturing you.”
“Plus having a Toa of Water in a desert is an invaluable resource for the continued survival of your kind,” murmured Tridax, Antroz’s truth swiftly dawning on him.
“I remark it suspicious that you were unarmed when apprehended,” commented the Jutlin-wearer, weaving a semi-circle around the shackled Toa. “Is that sheer coincidence? Or did you leave your invaluable Tidal Spear with another Toa to wield?”
“Her Kanohi is different too. If I did not know better, I would say that is a – ”
“Mask of Reanimation,” replied the Toa of Water. It sparkled slightly brighter than the rest of her glistening gold and blue armor.
“Most intriguing. Though, if you have been able to foresee our every move before it was made, that does raise the question of how an imbecile such as Malum was able to acquire your company.”
The Toa of Water shrugged, her chains clinking.
“If neither your coveted Tidal Spear nor Mask of Clairvoyance are on your person then it would seem that you planned to be captured,” growled Antroz darkly.
Makuta Tridax instantly bowed his head and closed his eyes, launching a mental assault on their captive only to find himself incapable of breaching a strong barrier she had in place.
“I never cared much for those mental sweeps you Makuta were all too fond of performing,” snapped the Toa, a twinkle on her mask. “I learnt to block such invasions back on Destral after studying a Ce-Matoran prisoner.”
“Resourceful,” grunted Antroz, slowly beginning to realize that the pieces of the Toa’s plan were clicking into place and that the noose was tightening around his own neck.
“I assume your new Kanohi was crafted by this inscrutable Forger figure?”
“As a matter of fact it was.”
“An oddly specific choice.” The Makuta narrowed his eyes. “Considering there is a corpse in the room.”
The dull glint of Gaaki’s Kanohi intensified.
The two Makuta about-turned to find that Pohatu’s body had vanished.
“If this were a regrettable action, I would ask your forgiveness,” declared the Toa confidently. “But I have served my purpose. Toa Pohatu should be far enough away for his body to be recovered. My Mask of Clairvoyance has a new wearer. And your forces have been successfully misled with a fake Avohkii. It is a victory almost too good to be true and, in a sense, it is.”
Antroz and Tridax exchanged confused glances before the former Makuta of Xia stepped forward, grabbed a sizable chunk of Gaaki’s proud, loose chest armor and tore it off.
The inner folds of her armor were lined with explosive charges.
“By Mata Nui,” murmured Antroz in disbelief, his narrow light-sensitive eyes widening in disbelief.
“Drop dead,” commanded the Toa of Water, articulating each word with true venom.
There was a mechanical beep.
The trigger had been in her clenched fist.
It took a thousandth of a second for the sight of the explosion to hit Toa Nuva Kopaka, and seventy times as long as that the immense thunderclap as a small portion of the New Destral fortress brusquely went up in flames.
He had watched the entire undertaking through the scope of his Akaku Nuva. Nothing happened for a second after Gaaki had hit the trigger. Then the hut simply ceased to exist. It was suddenly a blinding fireball rolling up into the sky, like hot white tumbleweed. Great spouts of flame were leaping a thousand feet in the afternoon sun.
The entire valley was hit by a gigantic concussive shockwave. Even at his current distance, Toa Kopaka stumbled from the blow, his right foot stabbing into a particularly deep mount of sand as he tried to frantically keep his balance. The terrible explosion had blasted outwards and had met absolutely nothing in its path. The Toa Nuva closed his eyes and stood in silence.
There was nothing to see on the ground around the hut except a roiling cloud of thin smoke slowing into a teardrop shape four hundred bio long. Nothing at all except microscopic invisible particles of vapor accelerating into the atmosphere way faster than the speed of sound.
Pieces of broken wreckage were falling from the sky all around. Not much had been able to survive the intensity of the explosion, certainly nothing of Gaaki would be left at the heart of it all. It was mostly Protosteel chunks that the Makuta had worn. They impacted all around in bundles of clattering, flaming wreckage. He was able to track most of them with his Kanohi. Antroz’s Jutlin skyrocketed off far to the east, too close to New Destral to risk retrieval. Tridax’s Avsa was lost in the cluster of buildings.
All that mattered to him was Pohatu’s broken body. Gaaki had done well to disguise the use of her Tryna to smuggle the fallen Toa’s remains out without either Makuta noticing. As calculated, he had been intact at the time of the explosion. That had to have been long enough for him to be revived in the Red Star, surely?
Needless to say, Gaaki had positioned the Toa Nuva of Stone’s corpse at precisely the correct angle, as had been pre-calculated through a mental link. Forger has calculated the distance himself. Sure enough, pieces of Pohatu joined the mix of broken armor scraps. They were thrown to the west, directly towards him, ready for Kopaka to recollect.
The empty Kakama Nuva spun through the eternal sky, like a pebble being chucked at a lake. It struck the sand at an odd angle and bounced once before catching its underside roughly twenty bio downslope from the rim of the sand dune Kopaka was next to. He had been slightly off his mark. Or Gaaki had. Or the wind had. It was impossible to tell.
Attaching his Ice Blades to his feet, the lone Toa Nuva began skating through the soft desert sand to claim his quarry. A deep sadness overwhelmed his senses as he drew near.
Of course, his whole reason for being out here had been to reclaim his brother’s mask in hopes of using it to resurrect the Toa of Stone from it. Pohatu had died needlessly. It had been a foolish endeavor for his brother to have given his life solely to make Gaaki’s capture look convincing.
But perhaps he had anticipated that Kopaka would make plans with the Toa of Water for his mask to be recovered. Perhaps he had felt that he would not stay dead for long.
Whatever his reasoning had been, the Toa of Ice respected his brother’s Kanohi and handled it with extreme care so as not to risk damaging it. Casting one final glance over at the burning city, he about-turned and began the long walk back to his camp.
In quite a different place entirely, nature was thriving.
The tawny green grass teemed and tingled with life in abundance. Insects chirped and buzzed, birds tweeted, the gentle breeze crept through the swirling leaves on their lush branches, seducing them with tenderness. A spotless sapphire sky overhung the emerald forest, like the backdrop for a stage.
But beyond the mellow parade of rural integrity, the sinister tinkering of metal was heard. At first it did little to penetrate the peaceful protests of sights, smells and sounds, but then it began to pick up pace. No longer random or irregular. Systematic. Mechanical. Like heavy hydraulic pistons stopping and starting.
Footsteps inside the mountain.
Wild Rahi scurried and scattered. A Brakas Monkey leapt from its tree branch in a flurry of leaves. The world seemed to retract from the grassy amphitheater an entire minute before anything became of the noise.
The rumbling cliff face erupted in a spray of stone debris. Dust and pebbles and moss and a thunderous crash flooded the hollow, leaving a gaping wound in the rock. A pair of deep, perceptive orange eyes surveyed the area guardedly before the powerful figure emerged. First came a metallic gauntlet, which was attached to a hulking arm, which was attached to a deep-set, muscular body, which was caked in Visorak blood.
The mechanical stranger trotted out into the grass, gears whirring and grinding, completely out of sync with the natural hum of life. The entity known as Cathaka blinked in the daylight. It was seven in the morning and the Twin Suns were shining directly ahead. Cathaka had been fighting non-stop for forty-eight hours, engaging Visorak after Visorak in a purely sequential manner before finally, at long last, extinguishing the infestation.
With a heavy sigh that would have shaken an observer to the core, the ground rumbled. An instant later there was a burning flash of light as the Kaita separated and three weedy Matoran filled its place. Instantly they fell to the ground, spluttering and disorientated by the experience. Two whole days as a Matoran Kaita had demanded a heavy toll on their feeble forms. Readjustment would take a while.
But, when he had rested long enough to return to his feet, the Fe-Matoran known as Turas began staggering around. He was shaky and clumsy but he still managed to acclimatize before either of his companions, Kyros or Goll. The former eventually followed suit and rose with the aid of a rock, swayed, then fell flat on his Kanohi in a drunken heap. Goll squirmed and wheezed in the grass before deciding to just give up. He wouldn’t be walking anytime soon. The wound in his back was still fresh. That, in conjunction with the fatigue that he and his companions were now feeling, was a lethal combination.
But a simple tiredness wasn’t going to stop Turas. The former Nynrah Ghost hobbled forwards like a poorly-coordinated Keras Crab, to be with his wounded friend in these, his final moments of need.
The tips of a palmtree’s tendril-like shadow licked at them, like waves crashing up a beach feebly, sheltering the Matoran from the maturing morning’s sunshine. It was creeping up on him.
“That was a glorious battle,” wheezed the dying Po-Matoran. “Such power at our fingers. Imagine how this war would have transpired with Matoran Kaita. The entire Visorak populations would be endangered in a single afternoon.”
Turas stared at the hole in the left side of Goll’s chest. It tunneled all the way through to his back. Blood was seeping from it freely. Bone and wires protruded out.
The old warrior shifted and grimaced. He was in a lot of pain, but he wouldn’t have to suffer much longer. Goll had been in bad shape before the Kaita had been formed. Taking on the hive of Visorak had been an entirely ruinous effort.
He was finished. They all knew it. That was why Cathaka had brought them here from the underground cave, so Goll could die in the open, breathing fresh air.
“I never found out what happened to the Kanohi Kraahkan,” he moaned. “I never found out what became of the Toa Nuva, I never found love, and I never met a Bara Magnan. I have so many regrets in life, so many reasons left to live, yet none of them can shift this tiredness.”
“Save your breath,” murmured Turas softly, trying not to shudder.
“What for? I won’t need it where I’m going.” He raised an eyebrow. “You don’t think I can survive this little flesh-wound, do you?”
“Of course not. I’m just sick of listening to your whining.”
Goll laughed heartily. The sound turned into a blood-drenched cough. Turas held him back as he shook and moaned, spewing up blood and phlegm. When the fit passed he asked the Fe-Matoran to carry him out into the sunlight.
“I don’t think I need to worry about catching a tan.”
Turas did as he was told and carried the old war Rahi beyond the field of debris. He didn’t weigh much. Thin and drawn, overstretched by the world. He propped the village elder against a large rock, then settled beside him. His eyes stayed closed. He’d dozed off. The Fe-Matoran studied him sadly, memorizing every line of his creased Kanohi Nuva. Kyros eventually scampered closer uncertainly, unsure as to whether or not he should be there in Goll’s final moments, being his technical murderer.
With a jolt, the Matoran of Stone woke and looked around, alarmed. When he saw Turas, and the hole in his chest, he relaxed.
“Oh, it was only a dream. I thought we were in trouble.”
“Nothing to trouble us out here.”
He smiled lopsidedly. “That Kanohi suits you well. It was my original mask.”
Turas said nothing. He couldn’t think of a single thing to say.
Goll’s eyes wandered. He sighed. “I hope I get to see Fiancha again. And Varis and Gorta. Maybe even Toa Takanuva. So many who have gone before me. Do you think there’s an afterlife? Will I be reborn as a Fusa? Or is it just… nothing?”
There has to be something,” muttered the Matoran of Iron. “Why would the Great Beings give us souls if not? It’d be pointless.”
He nodded in response. “Part of me wishes I could hang on and see how it all turns out. But then I think about the odds…”
“Don’t worry,” smiled Turas grandly. “Never doubt the ability of good Matoran to get spanners caught in the mechanics of the Brotherhood war machine.”
Silence hung for a while. The flow of blood had slowed, but neither Matoran kidded himself. It was because Goll had none left to give. There would be no recovery, not this time. He’d been injured before and had cheated death many times, but his last card had been played as soon as they stepped into the hive.
He shivered and stared up at the Twin Suns. The glare shone directly in his eyes. He didn’t even blink. His optics must be frying.
“I wish I’d done something with our village. Erected proper buildings, built a craftshop, or a communications center, or a library. Maybe even an amusement park. Or a fountain. Something fun.”
“We were never meant to live lives like that,” mumbled Turas. “I used to think I could choose it, just turn my back on the fighting and move to Metru Nui, maybe scrape together a living as a tour guide in the Archives or farming in Le-Metru. But I’ve been locked into this course since creation, just like you. We never really had a choice. This was all written in stone eons ago. I hate the unfairness of fate – of destiny – but…”
He paused. Goll’s head had slumped. Turas tilted back. The Po-Matoran’s eyes were closed. The last breath had slipped from his semi-parted lips. His heartlight was off. Wordlessly, he let his fallen friend’s head rest back against the rock, then rose gently.
Kyros watched as he pottered over to a spot in the shade then bent, clenched his fingers tightly, and drove them in to the dry, hard-packed soil, scooping out the first fistful of Goll’s grave.
As time passed by, the hole in the earth expanded and Turas’ figure gradually sank further into the ground. Several minutes later, Kyros stepped forward timidly and joined in. It was hard, filthy work but, after an awkward half-hour of digging silently in the midday glare of the Twin Suns, an adequate grave had been dug. They gently placed the body at the bottom then stood on the edge, peering down into the fissure, trying to comprehend just a sliver of clarity from the scene before them, as if they could decipher the sheer magnitude of the terminal state and universal constant that a grave represented.
Turas then reached towards the nearest pile of dirt, intent on beginning the long process of burying the body. But then he stopped, glanced back, then hopped down to join Goll. He took one long look at the Matoran then set to work unclipping his armor.
“Woah, there!” exclaimed Kyros suddenly. “What do you think you’re doing!?”
“He doesn’t deserve this,” muttered the Fe-Matoran, detaching the Pakari Nuva from the corpse and laying it down on top of the small pile.
“He doesn’t deserve this either! Put those back!”
“You’re carrying a spear that you stole from the home of a dead De-Matoran,” snapped Turas with venom. “You’re hardly one to talk.”
“It’s not right!”
“Who’s left to judge?” he shrugged. “Another word out of you and I’ll be digging a second grave today.”
The Ko-Matoran fell silent and watched as Turas stripped Goll of his armor till he was just a naked figure, sprawled and empty. Then he tore off his own armor.
“Oh, this is just getting ridiculous!”
“Quiet.”
Kyros snorted then stepped back, repulsed by the gesture but unwilling to challenge his final companion. When next he looked into the pit, Turas was standing, fully-armored.
Or, rather, Goll was standing and Turas’ weak little form was sinking into the humousy never-regions of the soil.
Turas climbed out of the grave, his newly-adopted disguise gleaming brightly. The armor rested upon him well. He fitted the Pakari Nuva.
“This way, Goll’s memory can be honored beyond the grave.”
Kyros nodded in an empty manner, his eyes cloudy.
“What?”
“I’m just… thinking about something.”
“Again, I ask what?”
“When I was wearing the Krana… I kept seeing these pictures.”
“It’s called eyesight.”
“Not that!” scowled the Ko-Matoran. “I think I was foreseeing something, a glimpse of the wider plan through the Bohrok Hive mind. It was pretty dark.”
“Describe it.”
“I saw fire and smoke and ash, and the air burnt and blistered with poison,” mumbled Kyros slowly, his expression grim. “What could it mean?”
Turas shrugged. “There are no Krana of Clairvoyance. Maybe it was the image that the Bohrok were working towards being played through the Hive mind, like you said. It certainly seems likely, but I doubt it. Could’ve been a weird specimen. Couldn’t been playing a trick on you. Could’ve been a telepathic message from a Bohrok trapped in a volcano. Or, more likely, you’re making it up to divert the blame for your murder of Goll.”
“I am not lying,” growled Kyros, pronouncing every word as if it were a statement of fact, then fixing Turas with a glare.
“Whatever. It’s over now, surely.” He turned and gestured towards the tumbling sprawl of sulfurous cloud that billowed from the flaming inferno of Mount Valmai in the distance. “They did it, Santis and Krennato, or maybe Torlo and the others, heck maybe all of them met up to collectively kick some metallic ass. Same thing. The Bohrok are going to be waddling around awkwardly with a footprint on their hides for a long time after a beating like that. Whatever vision you saw, I sincerely doubt it was Bohrok in nature.”
“Maybe it was a vision from Mata Nui.”
“Maybe the Krana just had to do the thinking for both of you.”
Kyros’ glare was eternal.
With yet another shrug, Turas turned and began filling in the grave. His new travelling companion eventually sighed and joined him. When they were done, the two Matoran worked together to pull one of the nearby rocks over to act as a tombstone. Using a blunt edge from a piece of Kyros’ leg armor – so as not to damage Goll’s armor – they inscribed an epitaph:
Here lies Turas.
A Matoran who planted trees and knew that he would not live long enough to sit in their shade.
“So what comes next?” asked Kyros, placing a bundle of bright blue flowers down on the soil.
“Now, we travel to the nearest village and start anew,” answered the Matoran in adopted armor next to him.
“And that will be our lives? Wasting away in some village, fighting Visorak till the day we die?”
“No,” answered Turas simply. “That will be my life. It will be your punishment.”
The Ko-Matoran fell silent, his eyes on the ground, his nose now lowered to just above eye level. It usually resided above his forehead, far up in the air. The power was no longer his. It was only then that he read the inscription on the tombstone.
“You’re burying him under the wrong name,” he muttered coldly.
“He wasn’t using it anymore, nor will he be using it again in future.”
“Between us we have stolen his life, his armor and his Kanohi. Will we not leave him his name?”
“No. We will not.”
And with that final, decisive remark, Turas about-turned and headed down towards the clearing in full stride, breathing in the fresh midday air, leaving Kyros to slump down to his knees at the grave or follow.
It really didn’t matter which.
The Knowledge Towers of Ko-Metru stood resolute in the all-encompassing darkness of the night sky. Even now the icy, eerie, hushed gusts of wind were muted. Not a single Ice Bat stirred.
Much had transpired in the Quiet Metru in recent months. Following the disaster in the rural township of Elysium just a few months previously, the Turaga High Council had come down hard on the city. Vahki now patrolled the city center regularly. But there was really no reason for it. Ko-Matoran were an orderly bunch and security was now suffering from being overmanned in relation to the threats that were being faced.
That being said, there were still plenty of regions that remained abandoned. During the war Metru Nui had been damaged, and there were entire blocks where shattered Knowledge Towers had toppled over. Wreckage still populated many derelict streets. Turaga Matoro had made a conscious effort to rebuild the island after the war. But since his death and the abrupt thrusting of government into the hands of Turaga Vilnius, the plans seemed to have been all but forgotten.
In one such forgotten alleyway, Toa Kualus stood gazing out at the city sprawled out before him. Metru Nui was vast and complex, a teeming and sometimes unstable amalgam of citizens from all walks of life. The disparity between rich and poor was conspicuous. The population boom during the war led to even closer and more problematic living situations. It was often a lonely, anonymous island where the tension between private and public manifested itself in crime.
Ko-Metru was, at its heart, the same as any other city. It was a pulsating heart that's arteries stretched out through the various streets and byways of the region. The Matoran moving through the city, giving it life and vitality, were the same as blood rushing through veins.
The Toa sighed inwardly to himself. When a situation got tough he found it was often best to just ponder his state of being. He was a semi-robotic, semi-organic, glorified maintenance worker in a planet-sized spaceship that flew around the universe with no clear direction. It really put the scale of his problems in perspective.
But no combination of words could change the aching in his chest. It had been nearly an entire year since he’d been impaled during the battle of the Turaga Tuyet Dam and, while he’d made a commendable recovery, there was no avoiding the fact that he was no longer the most able Mahi in the herd.
The sound of footfall bounced off of the shattered Knowledge Tower fragments that littered the ground. They were brisk steps that carried a resonating air of dignity with them. They slowed as the figure had to pick his way around the wreckage.
A blue and white-armored Skakdi came into view on the other end of the alleyway. He glanced at Kualus, stopped in his tracks, then edged closer. Thok was his name. He was a high-ranking member of an Onu-Metru based Skakdi mob, and he was none too happy about being in Ko-Metru. Matoran were none too popular amongst the Skakdi community of late.
Six months ago, Kualus would’ve thought the Skakdi were crazy if they thought they could take on the Toa Metru. But power had been slipping through the new Turaga’s fingers. Individuals had defied him and he hadn’t cracked down. The belief on the street was that Vilnius was weak, out of touch with the pulse of the city. Revolt had been on the cards for ages.
Thok and his fellow Skakdi mobsters were the start. More than a few of them had been arrested over the past few months, though they were a powerful force and Thok was a shrewd leader. He considered himself to be the most brilliant occupant of any given room he found himself in, but even under his leadership the Skaki couldn’t start any kind of revolution on their own. If other gangs were to riot, however, and the Toa’s forces were split, Thok's crew might just pull it off.
The snobbish Skakdi cast an eye around the deserted landscape which had been appropriated for the meeting, taking in the jagged crystal and gaping holes in the remaining Knowledge Towers.
“I don’t think much of your interior decorating tastes,” he sneered.
“It’s as good a place as any,” nodded the Toa of Ice idly, before gesturing to one of the three chairs he’d laid out in a triangle. The Skakdi ignored him and continued to stare at the destruction.
“Are you sure that this is appropriate, Toa?” he asked, nose in the air, eyes narrow. “I have, of course, always envisioned myself brokering an agreement over the rubble of Metru Nui's tallest buildings. I just pictured there being... walls.”
“You’ve no enemies here,” replied Kualus – a ludicrous lie that nearly brought a smile to his lips.
“I should live to see the day,” grunted the mobster. He relaxed and finally took a chair. “Who are we waiting for?”
“A guy called Axonn.”
The Skakdi whistled as Kualus sat down heavily.
“I've heard tales of his kind; the healers of this world, able to cure all sorts of mental ailments and afflictions so Mata Nui could turn a blind eye.”
“I wouldn't say that in front of him, if I were you,” murmured the Toa of Ice sagely.
Thok grinned. The conversation lulled. Then the silence turned leaden.
“I left two of my associates at the end of the street. If they don’t hear from me within twenty minutes they’ll call it in and – ”
“All I’m waiting for is Axonn,” sighed the Mask of Rahi Control-wearer. “It wouldn’t be polite to start without him.”
Thok lapsed into silence, and concentrated on his fingernails. He seemed less nervous than Kualus, which irritated the former Toa Hagah considerably. He was playing a new game, in which maybe thousands of lives were at stake. The Skakdi cared only for himself. He was unhindered by the constraint of innocents. Kualus didn’t think like that. He would need to maintain the illusion that he did. Any kind of sentiment could be regarded as weakness.
Tourik would’ve been a far better negotiator for this operation.
Axonn turned up four minutes later, drawn and ill-tempered. He stopped at the threshold of the archway and spotted Thok.
“What’s he doing here?” he frowned.
The armored giant was, of course, a newly-appointed member of the Metru Nui Law Enforcement, just like so many other former Order of Mata Nui agents or Dark Hunters left kicking after the war. He was in a polished, blue set of armor and stuck out like a Le-Matoran at the back of a Ga-Metru classroom.
“We need to clear the air with his people too,” explained the Toa of Ice simply. “The intention here is to find grounds for peaceful cohabitation between our factions.”
Axonn glared at Thok, who smiled back innocently, then leveled his gaze on Kualus. “I thought this was supposed to be one-on-one. I’ve no intention of discussing private affairs in front of that Piraka.”
“Watch your mouth,” snarled the Skakdi sourly. “Else I shall teach you the true meaning of a Skakdi Smile in these parts.”
Axonn let loose a hollow laugh of a single syllable then turned to Kualus. “Is this the kind of character you want allied with your Toa team?”
“I don’t like it,” shrugged the former Toa Hagah, “but I’d rather talk with him than blunder into conflict. If you really want, I can see you one at a time, although I have the exact same thing to say to both of you. It would be a lot quicker and more diplomatic if we could behave rationally for these negotiations.”
The Rode-wearer hovered uncertainly.
“For Mata Nui’s sake, sit!” bristled Thok. “The overgrown-Matoran’s right. If we don’t talk today, Metru Nui will be in turmoil tomorrow and that's in nobody's interests. You’re meant to be the ones upholding the peace.”
“He has a point,” muttered Kualus icily. “The Metru Nui Law Enforcement is a whole cluster of brutes. They need to conform to regulation or all sense of civilized institution in Metru Nui crumbles. You must know what I’m talking about.”
Axonn glared from Skakdi to Toa. His sapphire Kanohi shone just a little bit brighter in the glimmer of the Twin Moons before he grunted then took the third chair, moving it a few bio away from Thok. The weak piece of wooden furniture looked as though it would crack under his weight, but the structure held. Regardless, he braved the chances. He had entered the negotiations. That was all that mattered.
“First, I want to make one thing clear,” murmured Kualus. He gazed steadily at Thok. “Call me an overgrown-Matoran again and I’ll gut you, regardless the consequences.”
The Skakdi opened his mouth to jeer, only to see the real intent in the former Toa Hagah’s eyes, and closed it. “Touchy, aren’t you?” he pouted.
Kualus faced Axonn. “Many thousands of years ago, I stood atop a piece of metal scaffolding, hammering away on a mechanism that was larger than the Coliseum. I remember pausing to catch my breath and marveling at the sight of the Matoran Universe taking shape. That was the first time I saw Mata Nui’s face; big, ominous, looming kio away. Taller than any building I had ever seen, scarier than the worst campfire story and five times as chilling. I remember lying awake some sleepless nights thinking about it. I knew that its sheer enormity would haunt me for years to come and that it undoubtedly had some kind of symbolic meaning that I wasn’t grasping. It didn’t dawn on me until the Universe was nearing completion that we were fabricating our own deity. We were literally building a false idol and dedicating our entire culture towards its maintenance.”
Axonn and Thok regarded the Toa of Ice questioningly.
“That’s the way I’ve lived my life since my earliest memories,” explained the Toa of Ice resolutely. “I followed orders, kept my head down and stayed quiet. That’s how I became leader of my Toa Hagah team. That’s how I survived the Battle of Xia. That’s how I became leader of the Toa Metru. I believe in Mata Nui’s existence and would gladly give my life to preserve the benevolent pilot of our bizarre, humanoid starship, but I don’t expect any miracles from him. This is not a world of divine justice. This is a constructed world, built from the ground upwards, complete with all manner of flaws and rust and defects and cracks.”
“You’re not wrong,” bristled Axonn bluntly, shifting in his seat uncomfortably.
“In order to survive this long I’ve had to leach off of those faults. I forsook virtue for my own personal liberty and I refuse to live with that stain upon my conscience any longer.”
The former Toa Hagah glanced upwards at the open skyline of Ko-Metru for a long instant before bowing his head back down, content in the security of his companions.
“I was under the assumption that the war had been won and that things could only get better. But they’re not. I look around this island and I see an entire race on the brink of a second civil war. I see assassins and mercenaries selling their services amidst the ranks of Xian scum. I see decay and poverty and death. Our government is a shambles of poorly-coordinated, embittered Turaga. For Mata Nui’s sake, an Onu-Matoran is our Chronicler!”
Thok stifled an even broader smile.
“I too have sat back and hoped that the situation would remedy itself for too long,” stated Axonn gravely, shooting the Skakdi with a daunting glare. “But things have been left unchecked for too long. Vilnius doesn’t know what he’s doing. Not in the way that Matoro did.”
“On the contrary, I fear that Vilnius knows exactly what he’s doing,” shrugged Kualus. “The guy’s been in power for six months. In that time he’s spent a quarter of Metru Nui’s war budget manufacturing Vahki units and has launched a missile that nearly wiped out hundreds of civilian homes.”
“My tax-payer widgets at work,” grunted Thok coldly.
“These are some serious accusations coming from the leader of the Toa Metru,” murmured Axonn guardedly. “Are you seeking to stoke some kind of rebellion?”
“Simple. I want to distance the Toa from the Turaga. We’re not Vilnius’ hit squad. We seek to operate outside the realm of politics. That’s the way it should be. Otherwise we’re only one step above a unit of Bordakh.”
“Then command your team,” snapped the Skakdi. “Don’t come crawling to us for help.”
“Our resident Toa of Light would seem to think differently.”
Axonn stiffened in his seat. “I’ve heard reports about him. The mysterious new Toa you’ve added to your ranks. Some kind of combat specialist? What was his --?”
“This is pathetic,” interrupted the Skakdi of Ice. “How can this other Mask-wearing jerk call the shots if you’re in charge?”
“I am not exactly the leader of the Toa Metru,” chuckled the Toa of Ice dryly. “I serve as my team’s poster-figure, to ease popular opinion. In reality, the Toa have taken a darker turn under the leadership of… said Toa of Light.”
“Does this Toa of Light have a name?”
“Tollubo.”
Axonn cocked an eyebrow.
“You keep some risky partners,” whistled Thok.
“So why isn’t Tollubo here then if you want to discuss an agreement on behalf of your Toa Team?” asked the Rode-wearer edgily. “Why aren’t we talking to him instead of a Toa Hagah poser?”
“Tollubo rarely concerns himself with such matters,” responded the weathered Toa of Ice. “This meeting isn’t exactly… licit.”
“Oh?” cooed the Skakdi, a dangerous twinkle in his greedy eyes. “Toa working behind each other’s’ backs? Scandalous!”
The hulking former Order agent let out a long, uneasy breath and shook his head thoughtfully. Thok eyed him, smirking, then studied his fingers as if they were of far greater importance to him than the meeting.
“So you want to bolster the ranks of the Toa Metru in the hopes that it will disenfranchise your unit from affiliation with the Turaga?”
“I do indeed.”
“Then what kind of guarantee can you make us that your Toa Team won’t use the extra hands to organize a military coup and destabilize Metru Nui’s already frigid system of government?”
“Obviously I cannot speak on behalf of my associates,” shrugged Kualus idly. “But this is the time for change. The Toa need to be independent of the Turaga. There is trouble brewing on the horizon and, when it comes, we cannot be shackled down by our alliance with a bunch of bitter, old stooges.”
“I must admit, I’m not entirely comfortable with drafting soldiers into a Toa Team,” grumbled Axonn. “This isn’t any kind of military state. It’s not the least bit civilized, not to mention the fact that we’d be directly undermining a commanding officer.”
The Mask of Rahi Control-wearer shook his head. “The normal rules don’t apply here.”
“What do you think?” grunted the Rode-wearer, redirecting his gaze at Thok. “Or do you plan to sit there all night, paring your nails?”
The Skakdi chuckled hollowly. “I never trusted Toa before, but this one’s different. He wants to put a dent in Turaga Vilnius’ steel grip over Metru Nui. Our reasons are different, but so long as our aims are the same I’m willing to strike a deal.”
“And what do you want in return?” asked Kualus carefully, aware of the scheming nature of the Skakdi before him and conscious that he had probably already thought up a dozen demands to suit his own ambitions.
“I want the dismissal of Vilnius’ foreign policy and a Skakdi in the Turaga High Council,” shrugged Thok. “That’s the only way my people will calm down. That Turaga has done more to damage relations between Metru Nui and my homeland in the past three months than the Brotherhood of Makuta managed in the same number of years.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” nodded the seasoned Toa, the bags under his eyes growing deeper in the darkness.
Thok tilted his head. “How about you, big fellow?”
“The Metru Nui Law Enforcement is an elite division of the Order of Mata Nui’s most experienced warriors,” muttered Axonn. “Convincing them to abandon their pledge to law and order will be a tough sell, especially when I’m not fully convinced myself. But if there are going to be Skakdi in the ranks of the Toa Metru and if you give me your word as a Toa that Turaga Vilnius’ command would be disadvantageous for Metru Nui, then I will speak to my superior. I can’t make any promises, but I can definitely advise him in the right direction.”
“This is the birth of a New Metru Nui,” giggled Thok. “Centuries from now, we’ll be celebrated as the architects of lasting peace. And not a single Vortixx present.”
Kualus let his head fall back and smiled up at the sky through the holes in the roof. He had done it. An alliance had finally been reached. No longer could his fellow Toa cling to their old traditions and exist only to maintain the charade of a peaceful state. There was – of course – much work still to be done. He still needed to convince his own team that his actions were for the greater good, but he had time to play with. He could go on from here and…
The self-congratulation died prematurely as Kualus spotted a shadowy figure in the rafters. It was too dark to be sure, but his gut told him instantly who it was.
“No!” he yelled, springing to his feet frantically. Unarmed for the negotiations, the Toa was forced to clench his fists and call to existence a pillar of ice. Before the burst of elemental energy left his fingertips, however, the intruder was on the ground. He rolled away and rose fluidly, then turned and flashed a grin, a pair of luminous green eyes sparkling with twisted delight.
Kualus dived after him as Thok and Axonn struggled to their feet. The dark figure waited for him to close in and threw a lazy punch. The Toa of Ice ignored the half-hearted fist only to find that the fingers flew apart and dirt sprayed from his hand, catching the Toa’s eyes.
With the former Toa Hagah momentarily blinded, the stranger kicked him in the stomach, sending him crashing backwards. Having lived a long and taxing life in the line of duty, he was up again a mere four or five seconds later. But that was an eternity to a trained killer.
He took Thok first. The Skakdi had slipped out a knife and jabbed at the unwelcome newcomer, keeping his cool, using his free hand to grab his chair by the leg, utilizing it as a shield. The figure kicked the chair from Thok’s hand, leaving him open to attack on his left. The Skakdi seized the bait and drove his blade directly at his attacker’s heartlight. But the aggressor shimmied behind him, and locked a muscular arm around his throat. Thok dropped to the floor.
Axonn cried in shock, the primal exclamation of a warrior. Within seconds his massive hands began to glow with sweltering red energy. Without blinking, he fired five crimson bursts in quick succession, opting for volume over accuracy. The dark figure rolled across the floor, inches away from the energy bursts. They got closer each time but it was still like hitting a Ruki fish with a Kanoka. Kualus wiped the dirt from his beady eyes and started forwards, forming a sharp icy dagger in his hand. That was when the energy bursts stopped.
“Axonn?”
The Toa of Ice paused, eyes flicking between the Order agent and the strange figure lurking in the shadows behind him, who had come to a rest.
The Rode-wearer turned slowly and the blade sticking out of his chest came into view.
It was Kualus’ original Toa Tool.
Sure enough, the familiar short spear-like instrument that he had wielded in his days before becoming a Toa Hagah was now plunged deep into the warrior’s chest. Its pure, unblemished surface now speckled with its first blood.
“Kualus?” he wheezed dully. “I think he's got me. I'm...”
The Toa stared at him from the ground, appalled. Axonn’s fumbling, ineloquent fingers fell to his chest and grabbed at the hilt of his old Toa Tool. He pulled it out, grimaced, then dropped to his knees. “Done,” he whispered, then collapsed.
Kualus scrambled across the floor like a Stone Rat, eased the fallen warriors’ fingers off of the Toa Tool then pressed the hulking hand to his chest, as if he could extend his heartbeat and return the old war-Rahi to life.
“I’m sorry, old friend,” he mumbled. “I didn’t mean for it to end like this.”
Kualus was dimly aware of the murderer working on Thok, finishing the unfortunate Skakdi off. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the dark figure rip at the screaming mobster’s face with his bare hand. The Toa turned away.
He didn’t think about revenge. It would be pointless. The swiftness with which the twisted aggressor had dispatched the three of them had been monumental. Even if he were still in his prime, engaging such an opponent would leave him on the receiving end of a whole world of pain. Thok and Axonn were dead. Any hopes of a peaceful alliance between their respective warring factions had been shattered. This would be interpreted as an open act of war. It would be bitter and bloody.
Scandalous, as Thok had phrased it.
The sinister newcomer concluded his business with the Skakdi of Ice then stood, wiping his hands clean.
“I would have liked to work on him longer,” he gurgled. “But time is of the essence.”
“Thode, you bastard,” hissed Kualus, not even looking at his once-brother. “Axonn was my friend.”
“That is why I killed him quickly. I am always thinking of you, brother-mine.”
The former Toa Hagah closed his eyes, extracted his old Toa Tool and lay his hands over the hole in the warrior’s chest, covering it discreetly.
“You’ve pushed me too far this time. What makes you think I won’t fight to the death?”
“Actually, I rather think that you might,” answered the Toa of Plasma nonchalantly. “Part of me thrills at the prospect. It has been many months since I have tested my skills against a worthy opponent, and many years since I have clashed swords with an embittered member of our old Toa Team. But I cannot risk winning. Your position is a commodity that I am in need of to fit my schemes. I hope that you have enough sense not to force the issue, but if you attack, I shall meet your challenge the same way I met Gorta all those years ago.”
“Tell me why you did it.” Kualus’ fingers gripped the sullied handle of his old Toa Tool tightly. The edge was sharper than he recalled. Someone had been keeping it in good condition.
“I was hired,” shrugged Thode, tilting his head to admire his brother from a different angle. “This was the final clause in a bargain that I made some years ago. I am free now, to leave this place and torment the good people of the Matoran Universe as I please.”
“Was your client Turaga Vilnius?”
“My client paid well, so he shall remain anonymous.”
“But Vilnius seeks to enforce order in the streets of Metru Nui,” stammered Kualus. “How can he do that when word of this gets out?”
The Toa of Plasma shrugged. Not my problem written all over his features.
“Matters such as this have a habit of being swept under the rug,” he said, dismissively.
“But this will have repercussions beyond even their foresight,” insisted the Toa of Ice, finally turning his head to glare at his former teammate.
“Come now, Kualus. Don’t make me spell it out for you,” Thode chuckled. “Logically, Vilnius wishes to run this shambolic island. He desires to change it to suit his image – not just Onu-Metru. So he has created an army of Vahki to help him achieve that fanciful aspiration. In conjunction with the Toa he has an entire military force at his disposal. But there is also the Metru Nui Law Enforcement splinter faction to consider, in addition to the threat posed by all these Skakdi gangs. Three different parties. A stand-off. But, now that Axonn and Thok have been disposed of, two of those blocs have been destabilized. Both divisions will send forces to retaliate against the other. With any luck, they will wipe each other out.”
“Leaving thousands of Matoran caught in the crossfire,” murmured the Toa of Ice, a cold truth dawning on him.
“Civil War in Metru Nui,” snickered Thode. “The titans will clash. I anticipate the splintered remnants of the Order of Mata Nui and Dark Hunters to prevail over a bunch of Skakdi anti-Semitics, though their losses will be great and the streets bloody.”
“By which point the Vahki will descend on the scene in full-force…”
“You take a while to catch on but move quickly when you do. Just like the old days.” The outlandish natural smile of Thode’s Kanohi Miru seemed to grin dangerously. “Of course, the best part is that this represents only one possible outcome of my actions here tonight. It is an opportunity for Vilnius to exploit, to swoop in and protect the Matoran with his army of Vahki and Toa, should he choose to take it. A chance to affirm his hold and be hailed as a hero once more. All because you decided to have a secret, revolutionary get-together with the lieutenants of both factions.”
Kualus said nothing. His gaze did not lift above the floor.
“Not even Vilnius would use that scenario,” he finally snapped. “The second he learnt that lives were in danger he would take action. He wouldn’t wait for a more opportune moment for his own personal glory.”
“Do you know that for a fact?” laughed the renegade Toa of Plasma. “I rather doubt he cares for the lives of a handful of Matoran foolish enough to get caught up in such a conflict. Life is a game, and Matoran are pieces on a board. No single boardgame has ever been won without the loss of a few good pieces. That has always been your falling – you were never able to separate yourself from the common civilian cattle. It holds you back.”
“You know as well as I do that there aren’t just three players in this game,” snarled Kualus darkly.
“Indeed,” sighed Thode. “The elusive Cult of Darkness. Ever-present. Always lurking in the shadows and scraping together one failed scheme after another. Drawing power from the unknown.”
The Toa of Plasma clapped his hands together loudly, startling the Toa of Ice.
“Wake up, Toa Kualus! While you attempt to piece your forces together from renegades such as these, your true enemy amasses. This is not just the Cult of Darkness anymore. Personally, I refuse to buy into such hysteria, but it can no longer be doubted that the forces of villainy have amassed with brutal intent, the likes of which Vilnius is completely unprepared to combat. Mudro has bullets with each of your names inscribed on and, unlike Tollubo, I doubt you will be afforded such a lucky escape.”
“What would you do in my situation then… brother?” asked Kualus with a heavy sigh.
“I do not know what the future holds for you, Toa Hagah. But I imagine that you will not have seen the last of the Cult of Darkness. You might want to consider hitting the road.”
“Never.”
Now it was Thode’s turn to sigh. “Very well.”
The Toa of Plasma flexed his muscles then glanced at Thok’s discarded chair, genuine sorrow lurking in the dark circle of his left eye. After a long moment of uncharacteristic silence, he snaked an arm back over his shoulder. Kualus followed his fingers as they came back into view. The Miru-wearer swung his arm down and placed the contents of his pack down on the ground.
It was a neat row of three Toa Stones.
“What the hell is this?”
“My resignation,” stated the Toa of Plasma, iron in his voice. “Or my disguise. Or a sporting change. Or even an act of cowardice, depending on the eyes of the observer. It could be any number of interpretations. Primarily, it is a statement of fact: Not even I wish to be a Toa when the Golden Age of Metru Nui inevitably ends. We will be hunted down like vermin. If I adapt the guise of a humble, muddled old Turaga when the Brotherhood come knocking on my door, however, they may be more sympathetic.”
Kualus blinked in shock. “You would submit? Of all the players in this game, I would have expected you to fight.”
Thode smiled wearily. Only then did Kualus realize just how much his brother Toa had aged in the past 40,000 years. The infection that was festering around his eye was getting worse. Now he was struggling to keep it open.
“You can regard me however you wish, but I am still a Toa, regardless of how far I have fallen,” he responded cagily. “Even I have enemies whom I cannot hope to defeat. I am more useful to the Matoran if I am alive.”
Silence.
“I offer you one chance to accompany me and leave this damned island,” added the Toa of Plasma.
Kualus shook his head, trying hard not to imagine the prospect of reuniting with his former teammate. “I’ll take my chances with the real Toa.”
The assassin winked at his old friend, then crouched, leaped, grabbed hold of a low-hanging rafter and pulled himself up into the darkness.
“Wait!” the Mask of Rahi Control-wearer yelled before his white and orange-armored accomplice vanished forever into the night. There was an itching in the back of his skull. He wasn’t sure what it meant, but he had a feeling that things weren’t as done-and-dusted as Thode thought. “Why are you in such a rush to leave?”
The first real smile in centuries crept onto Thode’s Kanohi Miru. “The stage is set for a performance. I must find my way to a spectator seat that is far enough away.”
With those cryptic final words, he slipped away, leaving Kualus alone with the two corpses, on the brink of a total disaster, but with the slightest glimmer of hope at the back of his mind.
“Well, that wasn’t half over-dramatic,” muttered the Toa of Ice to himself.
Attaching his old Toa Tool to his back, he leaned forwards and scooped up the first Toa Stone. It shone with a dull glow. The instant he touched it, a memory flashed before his eyes, both tangible and distant. Like a passing gust of wind. The image of Thode many years before he became a Toa swirled in his hazy mind. A noble and righteous Su-Matoran, who put his life on the line every morning to protect the ignorant citizens of their village.
Where had he gone wrong?
Taking a deep breath through gritted teeth, Kualus hurled the Toa Stone violently against the wall, where it shattered in a stifling display comparable to icy water being thrown at a target. The noise chilled him. Nobody had ever destroyed a Toa Stone in the history of the Matoran Universe as far as he was aware. But, then again, he was fully convinced that these weren’t Toa Stones.
They were Lightstones.
After the echoes of each smashed stone had been given a chance to rebound through the silent city, Kualus decided that it was best to leave. Pushing regrets for Axonn and fears for the future from his thoughts, the Toa retreated to one of the darkened exit amist the remains of the structure, where he too was immersed in darkness, crunching over the broken shards with every step.
The world was one of swirling and eternal euphoria.
It was a realm of temperateness and ecstasy, of boundless bright breezes on soft, natural fields and long, imagined expanses. There was a tangibly seductive sensation riding in the air, a feeling comparable only the summer waves of warmth which existed purely in fiction.
Visually enticing natural splendor. A world made possible by shifting, semi-solid shapes and alluring colors dancing.
This was the world that Toa Jollun had inhabited for many months. The dream world. A non-physical heterotopia of limitless scale and enormity. The majesty of the place was really something to consider.
He drifted through an expanse of soft and mellow images, completely sedated by the intense colors, hanging on to every minute. Days ebbed away as he charged through fields, traversed imagined grassy, mountains, and threw stones into a metaphysical stream, puffing his thick chest out in satisfaction of the sweet smells of nature; the sensation of being alive and living to the fullest.
The Toa hadn’t any idea how long he had spent like this, in such a perpetual state of melodious half-consciousness. He was lost in a haze of dancing summer hues and sedated beyond the point of caring. The sensation was one of true, rural bliss. But it was also one that came twinned with a more sinister undertone.
This imagined space was one of fiction. He was aware of that much. The wild chaos of colors acted as a soporific barrier, preventing him from clearly recognizing his lost spatial proximity, but even his dazed and anesthetized mind was beginning to sober up to the truth.
The dizzying, empty space was itself proof that his own senses had betrayed him.
There was a frantic rush of thoughts that crashed and tumbled in his head. Wild, precipitous, and impulsive. Like a great tidal wave storming up the shore of an unsuspecting beach. But then the backwash barriers of his mind kicked in and reduced the thunderbolt of realization to a gentle, rolling watery breeze that trickled back down the shore, and Jollun remained ignorant, closer to inevitably eroding away at the imagined coastline with every minute.
Far from the Coliseum, guest quarters were being prepared. They took the form of a single room, one which followed an unconventional design, specified by a thorough client after a great deal of careful thought. The design called for several unusual features.
The quarters were designed for a specific purpose, and for a specific guest. The nature of the purpose and the identity of the guest had dictated the unusual features. The construction was concentrated on the second floor of a pre-existing stone building. A corner room had been selected. It had a series of large windows on the two outside walls. They faced south and east. The glass had been smashed out and was replaced by heavy metal sheeting nailed to the remaining window frames, then reinforced with a thick layer of plaster, which was then painted white on the outside, to match the building’s siding. On the inside, the metal was left unfinished.
The corner room’s ceiling was torn out. It was an old structure, and the ceiling had been made of heavy plaster. It had been pulled down in a shower of choking dust. The room was now open to the rafters. The interior walling was torn off. The walls had been paneled in old timber, worn smooth with age and polish. That was all gone. The floorboards were pulled up. The dusty ceiling of the room below was visible under the heavy joists. The chamber bore some resemblance to an empty shell long after its inhabiting Dermis Turtle had crawled off.
The old plaster from the ceiling and the boards from the walls and the floor had been thrown out through the windows before they were covered. The two Po-Matoran who had done the demolition work had shoveled all that wreckage into a large pile, and they had backed their transporter up to the pile ready to cart the debris away. They were very anxious to leave the place looking neat and tidy. This was the first time they had worked for this particular employer, and there had been hints of more work to come. Lucrative rewards for their services. And looking around, they could see that there was plenty more needed doing. All in all, it was an optimistic situation. New contracts were hard to find, and this particular employer had shown no concern over price. The two builders felt that to make a good first impression was very much in their long-term interest. They were hard at work loading their transporter with every last plaster fragment when the employer himself stopped by.
“All done?” he asked.
The employer was a large type, complete with a compact, muscular frame and deep voice. Dark armor. Good posture. Tight lip. Heavy eyes. He was about the size of a Toa, though he may very well have been a Skakdi for all that was visible in the darkness. He moved lightly and quietly. The overall effect was a figure whom one instinctively looked away from and answered quickly.
“Just clearing up,” the first Po-Matoran told him. “Where do we dump this stuff?”
“I’ll show you,” the employer muttered. “You’ll need to make two trips. Bring those boards separately.”
The second crafter nodded. The floorboards were eighteen inches wide. No way would they fit into the transporter with the rest of the junk. They finished loading the plaster and their employer squeezed in with them. He was such a big fellow cramped into a vehicle designed for Matoran, which made for a tight and uncomfortable fit. He pointed beyond the old building.
“Drive north,” he ordered. “About a mile.”
“A what?”
“My apologies. A mio.”
The road led them on a narrow road, which wound upward through some steep bends. Several awkward minutes of silence passed until the employer pointed to a junction up ahead.
“In there,” he murmured. “All the way in back.”
The Po-Matoran did as instructed, parking the transporter parallel with a small building, next to which were several planks of worn, weathered brown wood. The employer strolled quietly away as the two crafters unloaded. With tremendous effort, they managed to strap the old boards to the roof then all clambered back in. They followed the winding bends again and unloaded once more.
The boards were released then carried carefully inside the building. The two crafters took tremendous care to stack them neatly. All the way in back of the dark space. Then the employer stepped out of the shadows. He had been waiting for them. He had something in his hand.
“We’re all done,” the first Po-Matoran said, nodding his Kanohi Faxon gently, as if ticking off bullet points on a mental checklist.
The employer nodded.
“You sure are,” he muttered darkly.
His hand came up. He was holding a firearm. A dull black thing. He shot the first Matoran in the head. The crash of the bullet was deafening. Blood and metal sprayed as the body arched backwards then collapsed in a red haze of tangled limbs and dead weight.
The second crafter froze in terror. Then he ran, launching himself sideways in a desperate sprint for cover. The employer smiled. He liked it when they ran. He dropped his huge arm to a shallow angle. Fired and put a bullet through the back of the Po-Matoran’s knee. Smiled again. Now it was better. He liked it when they ran, but he liked it better when they were squirming on the floor. He stood and listened to his victim’s yelping for a long moment. Then he strolled quietly over and took careful aim. Put a bullet through the other knee. He watched for a while, then he tired of the game. He shrugged and put a final bullet through the Matoran’s head. Then he laid the firearm on the ground and rolled the two bodies over and over until they were stacked neatly in line with the old floorboards.
Then Tollubo drowned and everyone lived together in peace forever and ever.
THE END
Story Notes[]
- In the Prologue, the Skakdi Smile is referenced as a threat. This is a reference to the real-life Glasgow Smile, though the term is also used by Aljarreau.
Characters[]
- Toa Tollubo
- Racasix
- Glonor
- Toa Thode
- Toa Jollun
- Toa Danza
- Toa Orkahm
- Toa Tourik
- Gribrak
- Mudro
- Juulant
- Cobarox
- Terminator
- Toa Hordika Gorta
- Bioka
- Ignis
- Mesa
- Turaga Vilnius
- Turaga Velika
- Turaga Bomonga
- Carnac
- Alika
- Ramonda
Alternate Covers[]
Trivia[]
- The official banner was made by Chicken Bond, whose submission into a brief Judgment Day poster-making contest became the winning entry. The secondary cover was provided by Invader39.
- Judgment Day is set to be longer than Whispers in the Dark and will be split into two main books. Currently, it is resting in the seventy-fifth longest page position on this wiki.
| Fractures Alternate Universe | |||
|---|---|---|---|
| Main Story | Zero Hour (Prequel) • Whispers in the Dark • Over Your Shoulder • Frozen Calling • Falling in the Black • Judgment Day (Prequel) | ||
| Short Stories | Perspectives • Vendetta | ||