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*please critique* With the advent of a return, and a possible reboot to bionicle, I've been thinking about doing my own little complete re-telling and re-imagining (since Greg mucked up the feel and the lore after 2003, in my opinion). If y'all like this, I'll post the rest when I'm done with it. This story follows a matured Matoran, a Tuakana, on his journey to defeat the enigmatic Makuta that has plagued the island of Mata Nui for countless centuries. Mata Nui has been without Toa for several millennia, so all that this Matoran has on his side is sheer willpower, and those who wish to fight beside him. Chapter One, "Christening of Fools" . . “You’ve spent your time hunting for that near-life experience; something that’ll make you feel…. Something. But along the way you’ve caused hurt, shattered dreams. Sometimes the forces of life conspire to make a man build dreams on promises, promises which one cannot deliver. A cheat, someone violent, someone meek… “ Onewa turns to face me, and gestures something with his hands. “I’ve seen others like you. One of them was me.. You’re hoping for a dramatic, poetic end to your life of adventure?” I chime in, after removing my mask out of respect for the old Turaga. My opaque, protodermis facial tissue moves in tandem with the mechanical plates of my masseter, my under-face. “I hope to end with dignity, Onewa. Not to be held in any high regard, or with fame at all. I wish to live my life for me.” “Good, because a Tuakana like you seldom gets one. One like you, with a death wish, hunting a Makuta’s thrall who has allegedly drawn its proverbial line in the rock of Onu-Koro, far away from your home territory, I might add, has little chance of a dignified death. You won’t go out triumphantly. I can tell you that much.” Says the Turaga. I raise my eyes to his, and retort. “I have not a death wish, Onewa. Just a wish for death upon the evil that has overtaken the minds of my entire village.” My voice becomes more hostile as I talk. One must have restraint in front of a Turaga at all times, I tell myself. Onewa tilts his head, his mask shifting slightly. I can see his eyes behind it, I think he’s raising an eyebrow. “So you wish for death, eh? And you dare to tell that to me? You know me, and what I have been through.” He stares me down for a good few seconds. Enough seconds to pass a few seasons, it feels. Onewa turns and walks over to the portal overlooking the deserts of Po-Koro, and breaks the silence. “I made a death pact long ago, in a land far different from this one. Metru, I believe you were a pilgrim from there, yes? I have been cursed with the title of Kommundau for three hundred-some years... Do you know what that word means?” “No, sir, I do not.” After another pause he states, “It means ‘one who takes’. The label, the journey, both will overtake you until you become but an exterminator. You will do good work, and people will feel safer because of it. However, you will get strange looks, and be given a strange room from entire villages. They will fear you, Dushka. Do you really want that?” He says with great weight to his words. I sigh, and invite myself to sit on a bench by the wall. “There is no village, and no Matoran or Tuakana left on this island that I wish to revere me. All have been… Reduced to braindead husks by the infernal Makuta. If I could do only one thing with my life, it would be to spare others the same emptiness in my heart.” “That is quite a pitch, Dushka. Quite a pitch. That’s miles more noble than the reason for my pact.” Says Onewa. “I won’t ask, Onewa.” I state. “Good, I wouldn’t give you a straight answer even if you did.” There is a slight pause between us, as Onewa walks over to an elaborate woodcut on the wall, and gestures to it. “As you know, when the great spirit Mata Nui lends his soul to one of the machines in a sleep shell floating beyond the barrier reef, they exit the shell living and sentient, once the shell beaches itself. Wherever they land dictates whether they become of water, earth, air, fire, stone, or ice. They are then given a mask to ward off the Makuta’s influence once they reach a village, and thus become a Matoran. They’re smaller at that time, but they quickly grow, like you did. But time does not make one an upper-class, artisan Tuakana like you are, action does.” Onewa, turns to me, and removes his mask, bristling with wires and vents. His face is average, though the protodermis on his eggshell white face is distended and wrinkly in a manner I’ve never seen before. A large, grey crevasse dominates the right side of his face, his eye socket narrowly dodging whatever blow caused such a scar. “And once one becomes a Tuakana, their path back to Mata Nui becomes jagged, and distended. Your path leads you to become Kommundau, I believe. None can speak for the great spirit’s will, but I firmly believe you and I are one in the same.” He then traces the scar down his face with two fingers, scraping off some “dead”, drained protodermis flecks and shows them to me. “See these?” He asks. “It’s called pouko, death sand. If you’ve never had it on your face before, you wouldn’t know they hurt like the sting of a dillwasp. They do, so don’t wince.” He then runs his index and middle fingers down my face, beneath my eyes. I try my best not to contort my face in pain. He then repeats the process with the other side of my face, giving me three vertical lines, tracing down from my eyes to my jaw. He draws on a fourth, a wavy line, on my furthest left side. I feel it stinging, eating away at the living liquid that makes up my face. It burns, down a few millimeters until my face has been scarred. “These scars,” He begins. “These scars are sacred, Dushka. They are the tears of Mata Nui himself. This ugliness that I have bestowed upon you signifies the ugliness in your heart, the detestable fixation on death and murder that you have inherited when your village, your friends, your family have perished at the hands of the Makuta.” Onewa fits his mask back on his face. “The long stripe, on your right side, that is the tear of Unity. It will dissapear should you open your heart to another. The shorter one, to the left of Unity, that is the tear of Duty. That will disappear when you complete your journey, and slay the Makuta. The third is Destiny. Only you know when that one will dissipate.” “And the fourth?” I ask, after a slight pause. “It will disappear when you’re ready for what is to come.” he says. End part 1 Chapter two, The Dead Man's Haste . . . As I exit the temple in which Turaga Onewa stays, I cross a good half-mile of Po-Koro's dirt streets and into the market district. Walking through the markets was always one of my favorite things to do. There's a lot I'll miss once I’m laying dead in the dirt, but I sure won't miss the harangues emanating from the rug guy. "Hey, Dushka! I know you're thinkin' about my rugs!" I look straight ahead, ignoring the long-masked man. He continues, "C'mon, you-" "No rugs, Lelan." I croak. "Alright, alright..." He trails off, defeated, muttering profanities. I walk a little further, until I reach a building topped by a tall trapezoid, dotted with red glass sun ports. "Here we are!" I say to the sudden absence of Matoran around me. I glance at the inscription above the door. "Cotet's Customs: Fresh Mahki Shrimp and Weaponry" I knock on the door, and fake a Ta-Matoran accent. "Sandman! I demand you feed me your freshest Mahki!" The door opens to a mask-less Cotet, chalky-white face covered in grime and grunge. His face immediately lights up. "Brother! It's been a while! Take off the mask and have a seat, stay for a bit!" Reluctantly in my mind, yet almost swiftly in reality, I remove my mask. Cotet's jaw goes slack upon seeing the four scars trailing down my face. "Dushka, come inside, I can help you..." He pulls me into his dwelling, and locks the door. Frantically, he places my mask on a hook on the wall, and grabs a small lightstick. He focuses it on my face, and I wince, just letting whatever happens, happen. “Death sand…” Cotet begins. “Brother, you are making a terrible mistake.” “I know what I’m doing. Well, not what I’m doing, but what I did. I have an idea about what I’m doing, not much else.” I say. “Someone must kill the Makuta, I know, but you aren’t that someone. This island has no Toa and a Matoran is not used in lieu of one.” he says. “You’ll be slaughtered.” I nod in silent affirmation in his prediction. “I came here for a reason, Cotet. I need weapons. Can I borrow your sand slinger you brought back from Metru?” I say as I walk back towards his workshop. “No! That’s my special thing. If I’m coming with you, you get a weld resonator, two ‘burners, and I’ll give you some brass knuckles for when you drop them in sheer terror of the monster that will lay before you.” I stop and look back at him. “You come with me?” “Yes! If you’re going to have any chance at all, you’re gonna need a vet of the Bohrok War, and the Wula War of one-aught-three.” I shrug. “I’m a vet of those too, and at least I came out with all my bits still on me.” I motion towards his bulky right replacement arm. “Dick.” He grunts. “I love you, brother.” I pat him on the back vigorously. He pulls me in for a hug and pats my back in retort. “I love you too, you.. You…” “Me?” I ask. He steps back a bit and holds his hands up half way, frustrated. “Look, ever since I took that shrapnel to the conk back in the Bohrok days, my brain isn’t the best at thinkin’ anymore. Just pretend I said something insulting, but in a joking manner.” “Sure, why not.” I chuckle. He sometimes forgets that he said things already. “That’s fine, I should have enough brain in me for both of us.” He looks back at me. “That reminds me, back to why you’re stupid. You have no plan.” I have no plan, so I just shrug. Cotet wags his finger at me, and says “But a plan… I have a plan…” he motions me into his workshop. He rolls a stool over to me and I sit down. He then directs me to a dimly lit area of the workshop, where something’s partially covered with a blue tarp. Cotet takes the tarp off the massive object, and I now see that it’s black and shiny, at least. “This, my friend,” Cotet begins. “Is the Votlem-A. A ruthless, yet sensible machine capable of immense destruction.” He turns on the light for that area, and I see that it’s a black and yellow Bohrok, rebuilt to massive size with long, segmented arms and short, heavily armored legs. “A Bohrok?! How in the world is that sensible?” I say. Cotet makes a gesture with his arms and says “Don’t worry! It’s only a Bohrok on the outside. On the inside, it’s a very intelligent and capable Monk Ape brain kept alive by purified protodermis drips.” “You’re insane.” “What is, sane? To a man of my stature, everyone is insane. Except me!” “That means you’re insane. Do you know how illegal this is?” I say, getting a little perturbed. “Yes, but Vakama nor his goons are even in this Koro! We’re in the final frontier, my friend. And the fruit of this exploration… Is the Votlem.” He finishes with a showy gesture at the monstrosity. “Insane.” I say. “Genius.” He replies. “We can go back and forth all day, Dushka, but what we have to do is suit up and head out towards wherever you think the Makuta is.” I stand up and head over towards the weapon rack. “Jolihili, right on the border of Po-Koro and Onu-Koro. Straight west from here.” I pick up a ‘burner, and inspect it. A sword, a thin curved blade with six flat pieces extending back towards the bearer, held in place by a metal bar. The whole thing has a brown patina from age, but it has clearly been cared for lovingly. I grab another another and pin the two to my sides for quick access. “That’s like a six-day journey, if we go slow.” Says Cotet, in a pleased tone. I chime in, looking for my weld resonator. “Yeah, it won’t be that bad. Gives us ample time to get prepared for a likely death.” I hear him pick something up in the background. “Don’t be so macabre. There’s still some chance we get out of this alive.” I find the resonator, it’s covered with orange surface rust now, but back when I was using it in the Bohrok war, it was a stark white. It’s still as beautiful as when I left it here. It’s composed of two identical blades, held together by four thin resonation bars. A simple weapon. Well, less a weapon, more a tool used as one. Like a crowbar or an axe. With a range of twenty feet, it can mend together metals, melt them clean apart with a concentrated resonance cascade, or it can just be used to beat the sunshine out of whatever we meet. If Makuta’s thralls have any, that is. Beating the tar out of them makes more sense. “Yeah, maybe. Still got my pack here?” I ask. Cotet’s eyes don’t waver from whatever he’s working on, and says “Yeah, over there, next to mine.” His has a yellow Bohrok head he keeps as a war trophy, but hollowed out and used as a protodermis gas tank to power his strong, but old body if he needs to run or lift some giant boulder or some similar feat. It has four detcords strapped to it, and a teal sponge antenna at the top to draw in minute amounts of protodermis and nitrogen from the air. My pack is simple, just a big box with some knobs on the side where I can hang stuff if need be. I heft it up - it’s already packed. Just how I left it. “Alright, I think I’m ready. What’re you doing over there?” I ask Cotet. “Makin’ bombs.” “Oh, cool. We should head out soon.” He waves his hand at me, gaze not wavering from the loading bench. “Just five more minutes, bombs are important.” End part 2 New parts coming soon!
https://www.flickr.com/photos/114035403@N02/sets/72157647895428858/ The one on the left hails from the town of Mediellan in the center of the White Dune Sea, near Onu-Koro. This matoran staunchly defends his hometown from violent rahi under the Makuta's influence. His name is Naiit. The other, Lelan, is a rug merchant in the iron and adobe landscape of the shoreside city of Dondo. Comments? Criticisms? I welcome all!