How long the Toa slept in that basement hideout beneath an abandoned tower in Ko-Metru, none of them knew. Time had not had much meaning to them since falling from the energised protodermis to the prison chamber beneath, and they spent many long hours telling Voriki and Tephrys of their adventures on Mata Nui: of their arrival, drifting ashore in cannisters, of battles with the Rahi, of the Golden Masks, of the awakening of the Bohrok, of their truce and the sudden fall, and of what they had seen in prison. They kept no intentional secrets, though of course the tale of so many months could not be shared in a single conversation, however long.
Voriki asked few questions, letting them talk, but Tephrys interjected as frequently as he was confused or surprised, and it was a rambling tale, told as much by Jaller as by the Toa. Voriki’s one interjection was to clarify Jaller’s description of Mata Nui before the Toa arrived.
“We’ve lived there as long as I can remember,” said Jaller. “My first memories are of building Ta-Koro, but that is long ago, and they are fuzzy. Perhaps it was two hundred seasons? Things changed with the weather, but the constants were the same: the six tribes, with the six Turaga, threatened by the Makuta and wary of nature, but content.”
When their story had finally wound down, Lewa was already nodding off, and Onua had been sleeping for some time, his head fallen forward between his knees and arms. There was not a scrap of food left in the hideout; the Toa had eaten through four large crates of crustloaves and downed it with an entire butt of water. Their bodies, which had survived on the edge of crisis and sheer elemental power, had taken in as much sustenance as they could and were now repairing themselves in sleep.
Jaller woke long before the Toa did, his ordeal being somewhat less than theirs, only that of a day or so unmasked, though his memory of his last day on Mata Nui was fuzzy, and he could not remember how he had come to be in Nidhiki’s lair. He had still not told the Toa exactly what he last remembered: the looming figure of the Turakh and a flash of intense pain.
Tephrys was not in the basement with them when he woke, nor was Voriki. Tephrys did appear, maybe an hour later, sliding down the rope to check on them, his cross-launcher slung over his back.
“They’re really worn out,” said the Po-Matoran, nodding at the Toa. “Guess sitting around in a dungeon doing nothing really takes it out of you.”
“It does if they don’t feed you,” said Jaller.
“Are they any good?” asked Tephrys. “Voriki is amazing, but he’s the only one left. Metru Nui needs more Toa, real Toa.”
“They’re the only Toa I’ve ever known,” said Jaller, “but I have seen them do amazing things.”
“Got captured, though, didn’t they,” said Tephrys.
“They ended the Bohrok’s attack,” said Jaller, “and I don’t doubt that they’ll find the Golden Masks and repay whoever imprisoned them.”
“Life must be good in the overland if can be so confident,” he said. “The way I see it, they have two choices: to accept what happened and survive or to seek too much and die.”
“Restoring what’s right isn’t seeking too much,” said Jaller firmly.
“You haven’t had much of a look at Metru Nui, have you?” asked Tephrys. “Fifty-thousand Matoran lived here before the Cataclysm--more than one hundred thousand at its peak. There are maybe a couple thousand now, scattered about, mostly living under Voriki’s protection in Le-Metru. Ta-Metru is overrun with Morbuzakh, Ga-Metru and Po-Metru still harbour Visorak, and Onu-Metru is mostly abandoned to wild Rahi--and not all of them came from the Archives. Ko-Metru a border territory, cold and abandoned, and no one dares set foot in the Colosseum.
“You would restore what’s right? Who wouldn’t want that--but it’s too much. Maybe with the Golden Masks, they could fulfill legends; without them, they’re just taller Matoran.”
“They’re Toa,” said Jaller firmly. “You trust Voriki, right?”
“Well, I trust them,” said Jaller. “Golden Kanohi or no.”
“Just as well,” muttered Tephrys. “The Golden Kanohi are stupid legends anyway... what good are Six Kings on the Six Thrones if the Empire is a crumpled memory?”
“I don’t know that legend,” said Jaller. “There’s a lot down here I don’t know.” In truth, he wondered if he ought to know more, but he wasn’t about to voice that in front of Tephrys. He wasn’t even sure he could quite say it in front of the Toa yet. It was somehow disloyal to the Turaga to admit that he knew too little lore.
“I’m going up to join Skori on lookout,” said Tephrys. “You can come, if you want.” Jaller looked at the Toa, who were still soundly sleeping, and wavered a moment.
“I’ll come take a look,” he said. He followed Tephrys up the rope, shimmying four stories to an open room looking out toward the darkness that was Onu-Metru. Here he met Skori, a one-armed Ko-Matoran, who nodded to him at Tephrys’s introduction, but said little. He kept his gaze pointed out the windows at all times. It was cold, for the windows were open to the city and a chill draft blew in.
“Ko-Metru still hasn’t warmed up,” Tephrys told him. “Probably never will.”
“Ko-Metru has warmed,” said Skori, but he did not expound further.
It was some hours later when they sighted Voriki, again on his glider, jumping the rooftops toward them.
“Something is bad if he’s coming in plain sight,” muttered Tephrys. Skori nodded. At the last building, Voriki folded his wing in one smooth motion even as he jumped toward them, coming through the window at a roll.
“Wake the others!” he barked to Jaller. “Enemies come through from their prison.” He panted to catch his breath, the three Matoran still staring at him.
“Dark Hunters!” he gasped. “Piraka!”
