okay guys imagine this: Turaga Nuju and Turaga Whenua are arguing loudly about the past and the present when they turn to look to Kopaka and Onua for support, only to realize, to their horror, that neither Toa has literally any interest in this topic
An au where Onewa has a seizure disorder and it doesn't make him any nicer or make him like Vakama any more from the get-go but it does mean that Matau gets pinned to a wall so hard his head rings the first time - and last time - that he calls Vakama cross-wired. You want to say that one more time, wind-rider? No?? Okay then
He does not understand the need for them, in the way he does not understand a need for the rest.
But they are his now, as they are presently being given to him to serve at his side for the rest of his fleeting eternity: following etiquette they avoid his direct gaze and bow in as perfect a synchrony as they can showcase. Behind them their maker watches on with an expression that no doubt is a mirror of his own - distant, scrutinizing. He can only assume the great artisan is analyzing every movement to privately critique or preen his creations according to how well they perform. There are no such thoughts in his own mind.
He wants to ask, to inquire the great why of it all, the calculations made to decide that this and that are necessary additions to his purpose while he stays uncomfortable in these limbs. But the Great Beings are not here to answer, and nobody dares assume that the why's of a god made by gods can be answered by any except for those same gods.
So he remains quiet where he sits, asking no questions; he blinks in a way that could be a nod and courteously offers his thanks.
Artakha, in his silence, seems pleased.
The Toa continue their stillness.
-
The changing always requires a pause.
The smaller body needs air to help kickstart its voluntary mechanisms, and while its vital functions are kept active without him their output is too weak to sustain higher consciousness immediately: as such he is forced to breathe deeply with it a number of times, so that oxygen can flow within the measly frame in proper quantities until he is able to will the minuscule eyes into functioning.
One of the Toa is always by his bedside when he wakes. There is a throne for him to sit upon and for them to look much more dignified standing by, but he never uses it, because it is much easier to awaken and fade on the mattress he has confined this body to. If he looks at them a moment too long he notices the imperceptible twitches caused by his non-judging gaze.
He does not understand the reason for any of this - the throne, the fortress, the body, the Toa. It is so superfluous, so pointless in the scheme of it all. The inner world, much like this body that he is so seldom in, will keep functioning autonomously without his supervision; the outer world, which he wades through in the body made for his purpose, is what he needs to explore and document and understand; the overlap between them is faint if none. There is no need for all of this. He does not even think he likes it.
Then again, what he might or might not like is also superfluous.
The Toa are so stiff, so tense. Looking at them gives him a sense of unease. They try to be quiet and distant, colored statues keeping watch over a mausoleum; he can feel their eyes pierce him when he breathes, can catch the second they turn away when he finally takes in the room. They were made to protect him, but there is nothing to protect him from here: so they stand, and wait, and take turns standing and waiting as he wakes and fades soon after.
He wonders if they have explored the fortress. He has a perfect awareness of it, its blueprint and plant inserted carefully into this brain so he knows exactly where every part of it sits; do they? Have they scoured its rooms and halls and corridors while they were free from standing and waiting? It is their home more than it is his, effectively. He does not live in it. He has no use for it. He has no use for this body and he has no use for Toa.
Perhaps these three elements, he muses, are connected. Perhaps they are a self-sustaining cycle: there is the fortress because the Toa need to live in it, there are the Toa because the body needs to be looked after, there is the body because the fortress needs to house it; there is the body because it needs to be looked after by the Toa, there are the Toa because they need to live in the fortress, there is the fortress because it needs to house the body.
After all, all he uses this body locked in this fortress for is to check on these Toa.
He wonders if they feel lonely.
They are six. They should not, in theory, be lonely.
But there is always only one looking after the body, and he has no way to know if they ever join together for discussions, or games, or pleasant silences, or restful sleep. He has no way to know if they are not, in practice, lonely.
How he dislikes this body. How he dislikes this fortress.
He fades again.
-
The Toa is sitting on the floor.
"Toa Lewa," he calls.
He watches as the poor thing jumps for the surprise of hearing his voice speak aloud, and speak aloud that name as well. The green mask returns to a disgruntled frown after it shifts to face him, spook worn off to leave a simmering anger or annoyance that vocalizes itself as a mildly inquisitive grunt, uncaring of whether such an expression is polite or proper.
"Why are you sitting?"
"Because it's less tiring than standing," Toa Lewa answers in a standoffish tone.
"You never did so before."
The Toa grunts again, defiant, the sound wordlessly conveying 'so what?'; but nonetheless the langly body begrudgingly pulls itself up, slow and unhappy.
"You may sit, if you wish."
The Toa immediately drops back to the ground.
He observes him. The Miru's grin is wide and dark, the light eyes frightfully bright from inside its shadows; one of the green legs flaps angrily, the other's foot thumps with muted repeated thuds, the hand with fingers picks at the axe.
"Have you visited the fortress?" he asks.
"No," Toa Lewa answers.
"What parts of it have you seen?"
"This room. This floor. Floor under. Our room." then, lower, bitter, flashing an acid glare: "Still more than you have, for sure."
The Toa is right on a technicality.
Still, he can see beyond: he can see the endless expanse before him, the distant lights coming closer, the bodies moving forth until impact stops, shatters, diverts them. All they have, now and forever, is the fortress, and they have shut themselves from its majority out of duty to a body that does not even move.
"There is a greenhouse," he muses. The cradle of Spherus Magna's flora - what could be saved, what is expected to return. He sees Toa Lewa perk up, doubtful or disbelieving. "A repository of plantlife found and made. Specimens of all sorts are housed there for safekeeping."
"How many plants can there be?" the Toa asks, scoffing a bit.
"Quite a few. Many are to be made still."
Toa Lewa darkens again, deepens the hunch of his back.
What an injustice, to be made to stand pointlessly beside an unmoving body when there are others, somewhere far away from these walls and floors and roofs and rooms, whose only purpose is to create strange things to their heartlight's content.
He imagines these are the thoughts behind the green mask. They would be his, if he too was confined to such still duties.
"Waste of time," the Toa mutters in the end, picking at the axe with a renewed vigor that however falters back into lazy habit. "You don't need that many. Seen one, seen them all."
"Which plants have you seen?"
A shrug: "Algae, dried and wet. Grass. Trees."
"What trees?"
"A tree is a tree. They all look alike."
"Some have needles."
Again, Toa Lewa stops fidgeting, bewildered.
"What do you mean, needles?"
"Their branches are covered in needles."
"Why would they need that? There wouldn't be place for the leaves. Is it to scare birds away?"
"Their purpose is to resist the snow of their cold native lands, which would suffocate wide brimmed leaves beneath its weight but only bends needles until the excess falls from them."
The other remains unconvinced: "There still aren't any leaves."
"The needles replace them."
"How big do they have to be to make up for them, then? As big as the branches? As the tree itself?"
It makes him smile, conjuring that awful image in his mind: "They are very small," he explains, "Small but many, in hundreds of small clusters upon dozens of branches, so that any sunlight the harsh climate allows to shine upon them is caught without fail."
Green eyes squint doubtfully: "And you've seen this?"
"In depictions, more or less accurate, yes."
"But never in person," the Toa rebukes: "So you cannot know for certain if they are real."
He can. Very easily, in fact: he can search within his database and find everything he may need on the matter in seconds, he can provide plenty of visual and written proof so solid it has no use for empiricism; he can ascertain without the shadow of a doubt that coniferous trees do, in fact, exist, beyond the stalwart scepticism of any being who may have never witnessed one in the bark and sap before.
But Toa Lewa is also right. He, himself, has never seen one before.
He meets the Miru's challenging glare: "Perhaps you could."
The Toa blinks: "... Me?"
"If you would like to, you may search the greenhouse. If you find even one tree which bears needles - not briars or thorns - we will know it exists; if you do not, you will be right, and I will be wrong."
He can see how this offer (is it a deal? A challenge? A game?) intrigues his guard - the thumping and flapping has acquired a more thoughtful rhythm, for one, and his eyes gleam differently, the shoulders seem more relaxed. The axe is no longer picked at: a rough finger draws unclear shapes on it as a smirk takes form.
"Alright," comes at last the agreement: "Alright, I'll look for a tree with needle-leaves, and we'll see if there really is something like that."
"Would you like me to direct you to the greenhouse?"
Toa Lewa thinks: "No, I'll find it myself," he decides. "Exploring a little in the downtime can't hurt me."
Good.
"Wander as you wish," he tells the Toa. "This is your home."
Toa Lewa does not reply; his head turns lightly, watching only from the corner of green eyes as he fades.
-
There is a long pause.
"What do you dream?" asks Toa Gali , and immediately he can see her regret it. Strangled breath hits the wall of her Kaukau in the attempt to add something more proper, but the voice drowns before it can even spit out a phoneme and clamps itself shut.
"I do not dream," he answers.
The poor thing is mortified. A transparent mask must truly be a bane for one so frightened by their own self.
"You could not have known it," he tries to reassure the Toa. A meek whisper is the only reply. He tries to twist his words into gentle shapes when his curiosity demands that he continues: "Why did you ask me such a question?"
Toa Gali hesitates, stalls, tries to pretend she had spoken, gives in to what she assumes is an order: "I imagined there must have been a reason," she breathes, "Behind such long bouts of sleep."
Ah... A fair point, isn't it?
"You could not have known it," he repeats in the hopes that it will be enough for the blue shoulders not to stiffen further: "I do not sleep."
It works halfway: "Please, forgive my assumption," the Toa mutters.
What is there to forgive? Nothing. Her thoughts were coherent, there was no offense to his self; it must look like sleep, the way he fades into change, the way the body remains inert until again he slips into its head to open its eyes and se the room, see the Toa, and fade again towards what he really was made for.
"It was not entirely incorrect," he tries again.
A topaz glimmer glances back: "...Then, you still dream?"
"I see," he corrects.
"See... What, if I may?"
"The world outside the world."
Yellow eyes gleam captivated. The sharp edges of a skull only barely softened behind blue protodermis turn a little more to face him, hooks linking themselves into stillness before they can begin to fidget.
It is a rather mysterious way to describe the universe that stretches infinitely beyond the protodermis skies. Perhaps he should have worded himself more practically - but he reasons this, despite its mystique, really is the most practical way to refer to such a thing; and besides it would be a lie to say the curiosity those words have sparked in the Toa's stance is anything other than a more than welcome alternative to the usually rigid posture that afflicts his guards.
There is still a tension about the powerful figure that keeps more questions at bay, keeps her from prying, keeps the biomechanical weight shifting in place from foot to foot in an attempt to stifle any almost child-like instinct that might not be proper.
But that soft jittering gives him pause enough to realize it.
He would like for someone to pry.
"Approach, please."
Toa Gali freezes. Before he can offer reassurance again, however, her courage manages to squeeze through the paralysis: footsteps as light as they can be carry the Toa at his side.
A bright gaze fixes on him, halfway awaiting instructions, halfway almost excited.
He feels the same.
"I will try to show you something," he tells the Toa carefully. He has never done this before: even now, as he speaks, he is making attempts to fine tune the process, light enough not to startle his guest. "It might be very dark at first, but you need not fear: you will not move."
Toa Gali's expression furrows: "I... Don't think I understand."
"It is not easy to explain, I fear. May I make my attempt?"
"Of course."
"Allow me just a moment. Sit, if you would."
There is no seat next to the bed, or in the room at all really - he would have no use for it either way. Toa Gali takes a pause, turns quickly in search of something she notices only now is not here, eyes the mattress, eyes him; when he meets her gaze and blinks in a deliberate way that almost resembles a nod, she gingerly places herself at the edge of the bed.
He focuses back on the invisible connections crackling through the air. A line of numbered sparks reaches out to the Toa, carefully hooks around the ones sizzling and zipping in the topaz brain, ties the both of them with a faint knot.
Now, let's see - if he leans just far enough away, without fading...
Faintly, distractedly, he can hear a sharp breath, a movement at his side like a sudden jolt to find one's bearings: "The light!" Toa Gali cries. "The light has-!"
"Be not afraid," he soothes her: "All is well. The light is not gone, and we have not moved. You are seeing through the other body's eyes."
"The other-? What other body?"
"The one traveling through the outer world."
"So... So, your true body?"
He would not call it that. "If you wish, you may call it that."
"And this... This..."
"This is the world outside the world."
For a short moment, they observe it together.
The Toa calms slowly. Her hook no longer threatens to tear into the mattress for the scare: it seems she is adapting to the darkness.
At last, Toa Gali speaks again: "Those dots look like stars."
"They are. Some could be planets, or other bodies caught in enthropic motion which reflect light in place of producing it; but there are certainly stars."
"And the blackness? What is it? Is it a liquid?"
"That is the absence between them."
"So there is nothing?"
"Nothing at all."
The robot continues to move: the stars pass by it, grow larger before it, disappear behind it. It will be a while before he can observe anything up close, but for now he simply travels forward, into the endless black, like a fish dropped in an unfathomably large ocean, seeking an answer he cannot know for certain he will really find even if he traveled all the way to the limits of the universe.
But even so, isn't it all so marvelous? The silence, the vastness, the emptiness - isn't it incredible, how far it can stretch, how many millions of wondrous worlds it can contain, so distant, so strange?
Isn't it wonderful?
He feels through the smaller body the shift of a nearby weight.
Toa Gali thinks for a long time.
"It seems so very little," she murmurs.
Oh.
Well, he supposes... He supposes...
"It is my duty," he replies quietly.
"Of course," the Toa says. He feels her stand with a cautious haste (she probably cannot see beyond what he is showing still, so she must take care not to fall as he had feared she might) as if to relieve him of the reminder of her presence, as if she was trying to mend an offense. Were those words an offense? He has a hard time telling. "Forgive me. I did not mean - forgive me."
The knot loosens until the yellow mind is no longer tied to his, leaving topaz eyes free to see without obstruction.
He supposes that...
He doesn't know what he supposes.
How he dislikes this room.
"Please," he whispers, faint, so faint, "Do not be sorry."
He feels the uncertain weight of Toa Gali's gaze turn away from the body he dislikes as he fades.
-
Toa Onua keeps reading.
His awakening has not gone unnoticed: he saw the green eye move slightly, the Pakari tilt and settle back in its previous position. But this one is a quiet one, and knows there is no need to greet him when he awakes. And besides, the Toa is reading.
He observes the black claws follow what must be letters, light and careful as they seem to trace the shapes within circles. There is a small stack of tablets next to the Toa, any maybe another half obscured by grey legs, which comforts him; the library on the higher floor must have been thoroughly dug through and pilfered. At least the time will pass more pleasantly.
There is also a stool.
He imagines it feels like dirt.
It is not quite silence between them, on account of the faint scratching, but he does not mind it. He listens to enough true silence already.
Maybe he will fall asleep.
How silly. He cannot fall asleep. He can fade into change, but he cannot fall asleep. That could shut down the entire robot. Nobody wants that.
And either way he has no need for it.
He has no need for anything.
This body feels as though it was swarmed with ants. With rust.
How he dislikes it.
The light tap of a tablet being placed on the ground and the scrape of another being lifted from a pile drag him into the careful black claws, removing him from his thoughts, the sensations around these limbs: without meaning to, he moves the head.
Toa Onua looks back at him.
At last, after an age of holding back breath, a grey arm rises just enough to shift his attention: "I hope it is alright."
"That you read?" he asks. He feels so weak.
"That I took these."
"This is your home. Help yourselves to all that you wish."
Toa Onua hums softly.
He feels so tired.
How he dislikes this body. How he dislikes his room. How he dislikes this fortress. If only they had not made any of this.
"Have you read this before?" Toa Onua asks.
He has not read the tablet held aloft in the claw's grasp. He has not read any of these tablets. He has not been in the library, just like he has not been to any room that is not this one, just like he has not used anything that is not this bed. He has no need for it. He has no need for any of it. How he dislikes it. How he dislikes it all.
"I fear I have not."
"It's about astrology."
"How interesting."
"Would you like me to read it to you?"
"You do not have to."
"Would you like me to?"
Would he?
"Yes," he answers feebly: "Please."
The Toa's voice is low, a little droning. Every now and then he stumbles on the words, skips or jumbles them, breaks some into syllables under his breath before repeating them faster; one must assume the poor thing has trouble reading, or at least reading out loud, if the apologetic, awkward glances of green eyes that flash the body's way at every mistake are anything to go by. It doesn't matter: it's pleasant.
At times Toa Onua hushes, and it's his clue to help. Together they unfurl the meaning of unusual terms, break down a complex concept, better follow the steps of a process. The mathematical equations lengthen as the tablet goes on, and though he can understand them fine enough he assures the Toa there is no need to dwell on them if the characters overlap and muddle before his vision, and they move on - it's not like they have to put them to use. They certainly won't be trying to predict the future any time soon.
They read all the way to the end.
Toa Onua places the tablet away from the others.
Both rest a little before picking the next. Except, that does not happen: what happens is that the door opens, and a white shape stills into a frozen statue just outside, blue eye staring at the laying body.
He blinks deliberately, in a way that could be a beckoning nod. The Toa stiltedly walks in.
His brother stands from his stool that might feel like dirt, ready for the changing of the guard. A black claw picks a tablet that had been set aside differently from the others and offers it to the shield, barely grazing it to invite it to turn around, so that the item can be cast in its concave side as if it were a basket.
"This one is about Rahi," Toa Onua murmurs.
Toa Kopaka remains still. Very slowly, very stiffly, the shield is turned over. The tablet is placed in it.
The other leans in ever so slightly: "I think-" (and this whisper is even softer, quieter, maybe in the hopes that he will not hear it, and if he could he would like to more convincingly pretend he does not) "-That he likes being read to."
No response.
The two Toa pass each other by: one leaves and closes the door; one takes his seat on the stool and freezes in place.
Tense to the point of cracking.
Not even reading.
Poor thing.
Reassurance would not do - what worse way to reveal he knows of the words the Toa of Earth tried to conceal, to point the spotlight on his current guard's unease? No, better not insist.
He has no need to be coddled, anyhow.
He is just being...
"I hope the tablet is to your liking," he murmurs. The Toa remains unmoved. He feels so tired. "I shall leave you to it."
Toa Kopaka shows no reaction at all. The armed limbs remain perfectly posed, and the white scopes mask any glance that might be spared towards the laying body as he fades.
-
When he awakes, he is alone.
The eyes travel across the room, moving from one corner to the other: there is the bed (of course), and a stool that is more like a chair now and still might feel like dirt, and an increased number of tablets stacked in different piles; but no living being standing or sitting.
How unusual.
An unpleasant feeling constricts the body's chest.
All the times he has changed, the Toa have been waiting near him. It must not have been pleasant, but it is their duty, and they have found ways to mitigate the tedium. Why are they not here? If they are not here, where are they? Are they in the fortress? Are they outside of it? Could there be something keeping them away from the fortress? From the room? Could something have happened to them? Where are they? He knows the blueprints, the floor plan, but he cannot view the halls and chambers in real time. Where are they? He can locate every room but not the things or beings in them. Where are they? There is nobody here. Where are they? Where are they? Where are they? Wh
Force restart.
Buffer...
Buffer...
He repeats it to himself until he can feel the lungs swell against the ribcage, the mechanisms roll at a slower tempo, the limbs return into the body's possession after being swallowed by rust.
It's good to know it still works. Even if not literally.
Crackling connections soak in the message: it bolts through them, searching for the nearest repository.
Seconds after, someone is inside the room.
"Is something wrong?"
He exhales slowly: "Why were you behind the door?"
Toa Pohatu hushes.
"What makes you think I was?" is the eventual rebuke.
"That is how far the message traveled."
"Ah." sheepishly, the poor thing crosses tan arms behind a brown back. "Didn't count on you knowing that."
"I am not angry," he whispers, and it's true. He is relieved. Things are normal. He knows where they are. They are here. In the fortress. With him. Just, outside the door. "It only puzzles me."
The Toa shifts his weight from one foot to the other, looking at them: "I wanted to see if you moved," he mumbles, "While we aren't looking."
What a strange thought.
"Why would I do that?"
A shrug: "It seemed like something someone might do. And after that whole thing with the sores, I imagined that-"
"Sores?"
"Yes, the..." the Toa's orange gaze lays on him again, disbelieving: "Did... Did you not feel them?"
"I fear not."
"Are you sure? Because when Lewa saw there was ichor dripping from under the bed and called the rest of us so we could move you a little," (Toa Pohatu repeats the motions with which the six of them must have shifted the body out of their way - a very gentle shift, careful) "The back muscles looked torn right open. They were pouring into the mattress for... Probably some time, I think. The stain looked fairly deep. We've medicated them, of course, but did you really not - didn't you feel that? Any of that?"
Ah, yes: prolonged stillness can cause that sort of injury. He remembers now. But the time he spends in the body is so little, and any connection to its senses is severed as soon as he fades into the robot.
"No," he answers as such: "I did not."
"... Good thing we noticed, then."
Good thing indeed.
He wishes they had not bothered with it. It's not like anybody will come into this room but them. It's not like this body has enough purpose to require maintenance. It's not like he will ever need it for anything that would be greatly hindered by a loss of ichor or open sores.
He wishes he had not distracted them with something like this.
Toa Pohatu observes him quietly. The orange eyes are sharp as they take him in, scraping gently the shell that encases him as if to carve the real shape of him from it.
"Maybe it's a chance to change your routine," the Toa eventually offers.
He doesn't understand: "I do not believe I have one."
"Then it's a chance to make one."
"What would comprise it?"
"I don't know. Anything. Walking! That would be a good start, no? It would let you go around a bit, breathe some fresh air - and it can help prevent sores, too."
"It is a good suggestion," he agrees after a moment of thought: "But I fear it would be quite difficult. I have never moved this body."
"Didn't you?" Toa Pohatu argues. "To come in here. From the throne."
Did he? The memory is faded, smudged. Yes, he must have walked to this room, just as his guard claims: he would remember the constricting feeling of machinery around him if the body had been moved. The image is still worn and blurred in his brain, as if waterlogged.
"Do you remember when that happened?" he asks.
"About... Thirty years ago, I think."
Ah... That explains much. The eyes wander down to the thin, limp arm: "I fear the muscles have since atrophied," he notes: "The body's weight might be too great to lift in any manner."
The Kakama tilts, a heavy foot taps once, twice: "Well," Toa Pohatu tries, "What about sliding?"
"Sliding?"
"Yes, just to the side. Horizontal movement could be a little easier."
It could.
Intrigued, he seeps into one of the hands and tries to will it to slide: it feels cumbersome, unpleasant, but it moves. Slow, but it moves. He notices that the Toa lights up.
He tries again, now focusing his efforts on the broader area of the entire arm. It's a lot harder, and he can feel the organic material strain and stretch until it's overflown with dully stinging needles, but it too moves. Only by an inch, but it moves. The other seems hopeful; it rubs off on him too, surprisingly.
The leg is too heavy, too weak when he shifts onto it: the knee warms uncomfortably as soon as he makes his attempt, not helped by a numbness that worsens his exhaustion at the merest hint of a motion, tearing a quiet, guttural sound from the throat. Broad hands lay on the limb immediately, settling back in its previous position and gently kneading the soft tissue to soothe it.
"That's not too bad," Toa Pohatu notes with a smile. "You can move."
He offers back a tired, small one of his own: "That I can. It is not quite walking, though."
"But it is moving."
"That it is."
"Maybe we can figure how to make it easier. Maybe... I could create some kind of contraption? To help with exercise? Or I can just move your limbs for you until you can on your own..."
I have no need for that. Please, do not bother yourself with this.
"Water," he says instead, "Might be a simpler solution."
A grimace flashes over the Kakama for a moment.
"It would sustain the body and lessen its weight," he explains. Toa Pohatu listens intently, but he can see discomfort course across tan protodermis. Stone sinks, after all: it is natural this would cause apprehension. But the body should float. "I would require assistance, still - but results could be reaped quicker."
He watches the Toa think it over, dark hands fidgeting. The proposal is not dismissed: "Gali could help with that. Maybe."
"I shall ask her at a later moment, then."
"Why not now?"
"There is no need for haste."
"She is usually down by the shore either way. I can carry you. I'll stick to walking so I don't jostle you too much. If she's there, we can try right now, and if she's not, you'll have a nice view of the beach."
He hesitates.
There is no need for this. For any of this. This body... This body has no use, no purpose. There is no need to take time out of their days to care for it beyond their guardianship.
There is no need to see the beach.
He breathes deeply, and blinks in a deliberate way that could be a nod.
Such graceless hands can be so gentle: they lift the body as if it were spun glass, curling heavy fingers around the side of a knee, of a shoulder, with a light grip that could put ivy to shame, and raise it to rest against a narrow chest with every care in the world. He can hear calm mechanisms chatter right against him, pulling him into their repetitive, melodious conversation as the arms are adjusted to cross over the lap so that they may not fall.
They walk all the way to the beach, as Toa Pohatu had promised, though the Mask of Speed of course shortens their journey even when they stop after every staircase to assess his comfort (which at times falters, but only briefly).
It is all protodermis, of course. A silvery sheen coats the shore, a deeper grey divides solid land from the sea - all metal, in grains or liquid as it may be, brightened by an artificial light pouring from an artificial sky. And yet it really does look like a beach, and it is a pleasant sight; he loses himself for a long moment into the ondulating movement of the waves, the dark halo left in their wave as they recede, the washed up color of a thousand bubbles as they foam forward at each crash. Weaving in and out of the silver mass, Toa Gali sticks out amongst the monochrome landscape like lightning in a pitch-black night.
It doesn't take long before they are noticed. The Toa of Water stops abruptly, eyes them, and replies to her brother's small wave, in a tone that is not at all professional: "What are you doing!!"
"Beach time," Toa Pohatu answers, also unprofessionally.
Her hook points to the fortress: "Put him back!!"
"It's ok, he's awake! You think I'd just throw him into the biggest body of water available for fun? Especially if he was unconscious?"
Toa Gali reacts in seven different ways across the span of two seconds: she stiffens, notices the glow of open eyes, grimaces first sheepish then peeved, raises both tools to the Kaukau as if to pierce through the visor and into her skull, groans in frustration, and begins to apologize: "Please - forgive us, my brother-"
"All is well," he reassures her. "Do not apologize. We wished to ask for your aid, if it was possible."
"Oh. ...With what?"
"It's for his muscles," the Toa of Stone explains: "They're weak right now, but being in the water should help strengthen them, so then he can move around on his own and won't get sores again."
It must have been a very frightening happenstance for them. Toa Gali's hooks link together apprehensively at its mention, and a million small movements confirm the deep unease creeping into every sinew with the memory of it.
Still, the plan must not seem sound enough if the Kaukau is so creased.
He tries to smile soothingly: "Water can sustain this body in place of its muscles. That way, movement will come easier."
Toa Gali hums. In the end, after thinking much in a very short time, the blue tools unclench with a few nods and blue armor begins to fade as it moves back towards a steeper slope upon submerged sands.
Her brother watches her dumbfounded, making a small gesture that seems to ask 'why didn't you take him from me?'; his sister swings an arm into the waves, clearly conveying 'because you're coming in too'. Based on the stern squint of yellow eyes and a more annoyed repeat of the forceful invitation, he assumes the Toa holding him must have made a rather harrowed face.
Nonetheless, heavy feet dare dip into the waves. They much move more clumsily, more uneasily than their lighter counterparts, always afraid to be pulled under. Yet his very brave Toa Pohatu soldiers through discomfort enough to reach his very proud sister, and gets commended with a partly mocking coo that elicits back a grumble.
They lay him in the water carefully - hands holding the head aloft, hooks catching the ankles. The body floats, as he had imagined; despite the manner in which the waves rock it, it feels remarkably similar to the robot's moments of idleness, when he allows inertia to drag it forth on the path decided by a brief boost. It feels familiar. It feels light. Hands and arms hurt less as they slide across the liquid mass.
They coax him into certain movements, like mellow kicks, the preludes to a swing. They rotate him upright, though he feels the sea mold around him so heavily that he could swear he could try sitting in it and it would be as solid as stone. He thanks Toa Gali under his breath, two words that pretend to go unheard to focus back on helping him maintain a mostly standing position before he is allowed to relax and float a little longer until he assures them he is ready to try again. He holds onto them as they keep him steady.
It's nice.
He has no need for this.
But it's nice.
The Kaukau points to shore: the hooks grow still. Orange eyes lift off him follows the line of sight reaching towards their back. He can't turn yet - his neck hurts.
"Oh," he hears Toa Pohatu say. "Trouble."
"I've got this," he hears Toa Gali say.
Curved tools lose their hold on him, and with a furrowed expression she dips away. Steady hands scoop him into their hold.
Toa Tahu stands.
Pink eyes burn holes into the air.
His sister reaches the Toa of Fire first, agile as she is in her own element while their brother of Stone slowly struggles through it: the two begin a an argumentative dance, pacing themselves on hisses and sharp affirmations, circling one another without coming to blows but with a tension aching to crackle out of them that instead remains caged, only lashing out in flickers. Every time Toa Tahu begins to face the sea again, Toa Gali pivots their confrontation away from it, digs more steps deeper into dry land, maintains the attention away from the being slowly clambering to shore.
As soon as the water no longer suffocates brown feet in its swarming hold, the Kakama glows.
"Wait," he says weakly.
Toa Pohatu stops right before the fortress entrance.
"Please," he asks. "Let me stay here a little longer."
The other hesitates, fingers drumming: "My brother won't like that."
"I will speak to him. You and your sister have done only good to me. He will understand. Please, I would like to stay just a little longer."
Would it be allowed?
Swift steps carry him on the other side of the island. He is sat on the sand, close enough that the waves can creep upon distended legs without reaching his guard; he watches their motion, feels their gentle touch upon the body, the air that brushes it when they leave.
They sit for a long time before Toa Tahu finds them. No words leave the Hau when he turns to meet its fuchsia gaze: in fact it stills in place like cooling magma.
Without a word, he blinks in a way that could be a beckon.
The Toa approaches.
-
"Toa Kopaka."
His guard does not flinch. Freeze, maybe; but not flinch.
The Akaku turns towards him.
"What vexes you?"
Toa Kopaka allows a glare to furrow white features for a second. Poor thing, so secretive, and here he is reading through walls of snow like that; really, he needs to learn to feign ignorance.
The Toa takes a moment of silence before responding: "A message."
"What might it be about?"
"Pridak."
Barraki, then. "What of him?"
A soft creak betrays ice hardening upon the sword: "... He is getting comfortable claiming things he has no business claiming."
"I see. Would you have a copy of this message?"
It's very awkward to hold thing when one has no hands, let alone tools that do not lend themselves to actions of the sort. Nevertheless, being as resourceful as his sister, Toa Kopaka has learned to work around this unpleasant limitation.
The piece of scroll is passed into the body's hand for him to read. Raising the arm takes so much less effort than it did changes ago, he notes before focusing on the message.
"Hm."
"Exactly." Toa Kopaka hisses.
He thinks, and thinks, and thinks.
"I believe it would be good to summon him," he muses.
The Toa stares in disbelief: "Why would you? Let him dig his own pit."
"I am curious to ask about his words, and even more so to see if he would stand by them in the presence of an authority perceived as higher than his own. Besides, it would at last put the throne to use. The six of you would make quite the impression at its side."
"He would only disrespect you. He judges worthiness by appearance, and you seem weak: that will be enough for him to treat you with nothing but contempt."
"Then," he replies, holding his hand aloft so that his guard knows to approach and lend him support as he stands, "If he indeed matches your judgement, I shall find myself forced to ask that you treat him to an exit as dignified as he is courteous."
It happens only for the briefest of moments, so quick and lightning-fast that none could ever swear with utmost certainty that that which broke upon the stalwart mask of Toa Kopaka was a mischievous grin.
But he sees; and he smiles back.
-
A horrible sound leaves the mouth before he is even conscious enough to move it.
Pressure flies to the arm, on the sides, on the head, cool and warm against protodermis; words try to coax him into an explanation but he can't hope to choose a single syllable in his overwhelmed state, and so all he can do is pull everything into a swirl, a tight coil, anything that can compress the feeling enough to suffocate it.
A part of the body aches.
How it aches.
If he were lucid he would be puzzled. There is nothing to ache like that in this body: it is mostly empty, filled only with the bare necessities, no superfluous organs or glands or muscles - it would be utterly pointless to provide it with any more than what it already has, considering how little he uses any of it.
But this feeling - this pain, pain he's only felt anything close to one terrifying time before, worse than the strain of moving, worse than the struggle to make a massive body function, worse than any emotion he has ever experienced - it is so great, so immensely great, and he cannot bear it, he cannot stand it, cannot stand to be so small and powerless and endangered, trapped in a faulty machine that tears his mind apart.
He doesn't answer the calls, the worries, the bodies ghosting over his phantom ache as they search for its source with harrowed concern.
He fades all at once back into the cold vacuum, into the relief of a body untouchable.
-
He holds his breath.
He should not hold his breath when awakening.
But even after what feels like two eternities he still cannot forget the pain, all-consuming, sharp toothed and cruel; and when the lungs insist they need to fill he allows it only through shallow breaths, short, frail, hoping to delay his own consciousness until his mind simply gives up and fades back into the frigid emptiness, into the body unburdened and infallible, too great to suffer such horrible things.
He has tried before. He has made attempts to awaken, and found the pain flaring like wildfire, and faded as quickly as he could before it could seep too deep into his fearful mind.
So he keeps his consciousness faint, ready to jolt away, ready to escape the anguish.
He keeps it faint, keeps it faint... Faint...
He feels the lids above the eyes.
He feels the sternum rise, and lower; the fingers, down to their tips; the skittering sensation of legs left too long soft and unused.
He feels weak.
The ceiling looks foggy before his sight properly finds its focus.
Where are his Toa?
He forces the limbs to sustain him enough to sit.
His vision blurs into static as he pushes the body up: it stumbles immediately, knees too weak after who knows how long since they last moved threatening to buckle, but he grasps the bed and pushes, meets the wall and pushes, careens forward but finds the chair and holds onto it as he heaves. It feels like he's carved through a mountain. Even just staying still, doing nothing, makes every muscle in this frame tremble and the spine snap under its own weight.
The grey noise melts bit by bit. He leans on the wall, reaches the door. Somehow he manages to not fall when he opens it.
The corridor. He just has to walk down it. He just needs to walk.
It hurts.
It hurts.
He's so tired.
He just needs to walk.
He just needs to walk down the corridor.
As light as if he were in the water.
He just needs to walk.
He's so tired.
He just needs to walk.
To walk.
To walk.
To walk.
To
The weight shifts and he stops and he breathes, and something holds him aloft and holds his sides and holds him with what feel like claws gentler than anything in the world, and he turns and a Pakari speaks to him but he can hardly hear it.
Onua sits him on the floor before he can take another step; he grips the grey arm tight like the fate of Spherus Magna depends on it.
His Toa is here.
Oh, goodness, his Toa is here.
He leans weakly against a black shoulder, feeling the thrum of worried cogs. Onua keeps a steady hold on him.
His Toa answers him though he can barely realize he has asked a question: they didn't know what to do, didn't know how to fix it - they were made to protect, but how can they protect against something they cannot see, cannot understand? There is a talk of maps, of comparing them to the body, of comparing them to messages - the messages, the messages, of course... And to think, it had seemed of such little use to him for so long! A room dedicated to keeping watch on the inner world's history and calamities! What good would that have been, when his purpose was beyond it and their purpose was him? What good, when the knowledge could not...
Like them, he understands only now the purpose of the body.
How cruel. How efficient.
But the ache has passed.
The ache has passed, and his Toa are here.
Where are they?
Onua helps him to his feet, sustains him as he tries to walk faster than he can, as fast as he almost could before he left this body to atrophy again. They pass through the halls and corridors in the haze of a nightmare that curves into the jagged bends of the number five, path threaded crumbling behind them to worsen into four, three, two, one - rebuilt slowly by voices faint and distant that he struggles to tell apart, that blend into silent colors when his hand grasps the frame of a door.
Their eyes are marvelous, stars against a white universe, blinking within nebulae his dizziness can't help but blur. They stare at him, at their brother who holds him. Fuchsia spotlights waver.
"Was it you?" he asks hoarsely.
Tahu does not breathe.
He goes to grab the red shape, lurches forward stuntedly to force it into the clear image of a Hau he can see: "Was it you?"
Voices overlap halfway between reaching him and avoiding him, explaining or trying to as best they can; he can barely understand them, the world is fading, if he could just... Just... If he could - and the warmth stilled by horror is under his palms and he can feel, he can feel through this body like it's his, like it's his, and he can look into the glowing eyes, he can see his Toa, he can feel the warmth under his meager grip.
"I'm sorry," Tahu whispers.
He sounds so small.
"I'm sorry," Tahu whispers, "I'm sorry, I couldn't - if we left you - if we left you like that - I couldn't just-"
"The ache has passed."
His hands shake on red shoulders.
"The ache has passed," he repeats, and holds the Hau in his trembling grip. "It has passed. Was it you?"
Pink stars stare. He can hear both their lungs strain as they breathe.
A nod.
He collapses.
"My Toa," he caws, delirious with relief as arms wrap around him, as he tries to reply to their embrace, "My Toa, my Toa, my Toa..."
They hold him, all six of them, they steady him with their injured brother who so stubbornly insisted no aid was needed, they try to lay him down on his side and ask him to breathe, cool him, soothe him, attempt to carefully dislodge him from the breathless spiral he revolves within: at last their grasp strengthens enough, and with a pull so firm and gentle he find himself sitting, heaving ragged deep breaths, surrounded by bodies grounding him as best as they can.
He blinks.
He blinks.
His shaking hand is held. His back is sustained.
Goodness how it all strains.
Goodness.
His eyes meet the masks.
"My Toa," he breathes, filling every world that may exist with the words. They curl around him. "My Toa."
-
"If there's a Makuta in the foyer again I'm burning down an island."
"Perhaps," he mumbles, voice still pasty from the recent change, raising his hand to be held in a chivalrous grip, "You would like to experience the humble beetle's pious life firsthand."
Tahu grasps it: "Jokes on you, I love the terrarium."
"I know."
His Toa pulls. His vision flutters away, and he almost stumbles: arms reach to hold him upright quickly, fingers tightening slightly around his. His elbow rests against warm protodermis as he reaches for his head.
"All is well," he soothes. A blink: there he goes. "Just stood too quickly."
"Are you sure?"
He treats his guard to a warm smile: "Yes. Thank you."
Despite the threat made, the Toa of Fire walks with him all the way from the greenhouse to the foyer and does not immediately combust the fortress into a melting heap the second the massive creature comes into view.
Pohatu notices them, interrupting a question with a shout their way: "Did you know the big lizards and the antidote apes became friends?"
"How nice," he replies.
The Makuta, though displeased by a lack of specific terminology, bows towards him.
Red eyes follow his Toa as they are dismissed, waiting until they are again out of sight before daring to voice the thoughts rumbling beneath the Mask of Mutation: "You are quite lenient with them, Great Spirit."
"I am."
"I fear for the impact of such behavior on their discipline. The Po-Toa, for example: he came to me as soon as I landed, on his own, as though he had nothing else to do. He remained by my side as I waited, asking about my duty, utterly distracted from his own."
"He was not."
"How so?"
"I have asked Pohatu to welcome esteemed guests, if it would please him. He is very personable, is he not?"
"I assume he is, yes."
"And was your wait dull?"
"No, it wasn't."
"Then please, thank him for a duty well carried."
The Makuta hushes.
After a flustered moment, a rebuke: "I cannot believe your Le-Toa is following any duty that would involve being flown from a spire attached to a wire."
"You would be right not to. He is at ease."
"When shall this 'ease' end, if I may?"
"We will see."
"And should you be in danger?"
"You will find that Lewa often does what he wishes; and if I were to call for his help, in danger or not, unless he was indisposed, he would wish to come to me."
"How can you be sure?"
A breeze sweeps the hall, carrying along with all sorts of things - leaves, dew, sand, a green body floating up the ceiling and down again, mask glowing to slow its descent.
"Yes?" grins the Miru.
"Thank you," he nods back. He raises a palm for Lewa's foot to bounce off of. "At ease."
"Alright!" and off the Toa goes, out a window again with a laugh.
His guest watches.
A resigned sigh leaves the gargantuan frame.
He offers the frightening being a hand; with no other retorts on the trustworthiness of his Toa to be had, sharp claws welcome his fingers carefully, and Makuta Miserix walks slowly beside him as they move towards the throne room.
Something wrapped around him, lifted him, pushed him against itself. The weightlessness wore off abruptly as the pendulum swing he'd been caught into stopped with a heavy crunch, like something splitting a sturdy mineral in half: his whole body recoiled with a groan, but did not fall as he abandoned it to its own weight.
"Don't give up on me now, firespitter," a voice rumbled at the side of his head and under his armpit, right against his chest, sounding as if it was being ground out of two slabs of granite.
The hold on him squeezed his eyes open with a great effort. First thing he saw were purple splatters, still dripping out of him.
He felt lightheaded.
Another jostle pulled him back from the precipice: "I mean it," the other insisted, "By the Great Spirit, pull yourself together."
His vision fluttered upwards, to meet the frown of a sun-bleached brown Komau.
"Onewa," he called weakly.
"We need to get you out of here." the Po-Toa punted his other foot into the rocky wall, angling his leg so it could lift the bleeding body over his knees. "Hold on tight."
"Onewa," he repeated, "My head's spinning."
"Yeah, I imagine it would be. Get your arm here."
"My head's..."
"I heard you, now try to-"
The rest of the sentence swam away from him, slipping out of his skull's crevices like a fish in clumsy hands. His heck lowered heavily and his eyelids with it: a cover of ink eclipsed the smudged landscape.
A harsh shake, the creak of straining metal; a hand pushed against the sputtering wound and pressed hard, as hard as it could, to force the hemorrhage slower and him conscious.
He coughed a groan into a brown shoulder.
"Don't you dare sleep." Onewa's growl rattled his chest. It was a curious feeling, like... Like.... The words weren't coming to him. His thoughts thinned and melted, snow under harsh sunlight. He faintly felt his spine hitting a wall. "Hey! Focus on me!"
His vision doubled, tripled, struggled to reconcile the faded shapes into a single sharp view: he failed just as a blurry glow enveloped the mask before him.
"Stay awake!"
He pushed back with renewed vigor, scraping his brain hard against the rock as if that could further shove the foreign order worming into his synapses to bend him to its will, fright and defiance desperately gnashing their teeth at the invader until it was driven away entirely - until another pang of anguish ripped the air out of his lungs, and his sight sharpened at a dizzying speed.
The shadows of the mask's creases overwhelmed him, swaddled him in their rough hold: all sound and color dampened, muffled in-between the weight of boulders, aside from something bright and far.
His chest shuddered as low words pressed into it: "This isn't the time to prove you can resist outside influence! I'm trying-!"
They stopped suddenly. He didn't know why.
For a time that seemed infinite, as he struggled and whined and heaved without knowing or feeling it, the world was reduced to heaviness against him holding him aloft and breath caressing his Huna.
"Vakama," Onewa whispered.
He tried to raise his head. A shaky hand forced him up gently: the far lights were closer, duller.
A soft glow warmed sun-bleached brown: "Stay awake."
The invader gathered his swimming thoughts, gathered him, scooped him into its arms solid as pillars weathered and broken yet steady, climbed out of the ocean invading his skull, pouring from his eyes, to deliver him upon dry land; together they pushed the waves eroding the shores back to the best of their abilities, for as long as they could, and at last Vakama raised his hand and grabbed a steady arm and looked straight into him, trembling and weak but warming again.
"Awake," he slurred.
"Awake," Onewa nodded. He jostled him, hurried yet careful, to get a better grip on him. "Awake. Att'a Toa."
"Awake."
"Stay awake, come on."
"Were..."
"Come on."
"Were your eyes always blue?"
Despite his urgency, the Po-Toa flashed him a disbelieving glare.
He clung to him harder, and as both muscles and proto piston strained with a shriek he dug his other foot deeper into the rock: "Alright," he grumbled - or was it a weak, scattered laugh? "Alright, I'll take delirious over gone. Now keep your crossed wires sparking and hold on tight."
Vakama grasped him with every bit of strength he had.
-
In his dream, he'd heard a panicked voice, and felt jittery hands grabbing him, and met a green so dark it could have lulled him to sleep - but he could not: he had to stay awake. The invader had still held tight onto him, and chased the waves off with his foot, and he had joined him as spiritedly as his weakened legs allowed.
And in his dream the green so dark had spoken with Matau's voice and fussed over him, tightening and wrapping and cleaning and crooning and holding and doing all sorts of other smothering caring things, until finally the worst had passed and the gentle words had assured him he was allowed to rest, and he had let himself blink for barely a moment.
And when he'd opened his eyes...
Vakama nudged a finger: "Onewa."
The other jumped: "Damn quiet lava eel," he cursed him. The Ta-Toa would have chuckled if he'd had strength. "Give my heartlight another shortcircuit, won't you? Like I haven't had enough of those for today."
His hand was rough and lined and smooth all at the same time. It was familiar, comfortable to be in its hold.
Being forced down by it was a little less pleasant.
"Don't even try that," Onewa warned. "You're easily the worst of the lot, so you have nobody to worry about. Your Toa can stay nice and quiet a little longer before they go back to wailing at your wounds and making everything about you for the six hundredth time."
"Please," Vakama whispered: "Please, don't make me laugh. My stomach hurts."
A gentle squeeze around his palm; his fingers coiled around it.
His gaze wandered upon the Komau sat by his side; after a brief moment, he found himself smiling slyly: "You're my Toa, too, you know."
"Oh, shut it."
"And you're very concerned with me."
"Watch it. I'll force you to do a handstand if you keep this up."
"Would that be a good time to show you how I can fight back mind control?"
"You sure like to crack jokes for someone who just told me he'd literally die if he laughed, huh?"
He allowed himself a wheeze.
Bad choice.
A hand pressed against his side to distend the muscles as he coughed and whined, rubbing its heel lightly onto the exposed organic matter. The motion soothed him little by little, relieving his body, his mind...
Vakama sighed without meaning to. He felt so heavy. So tired. Hadn't he just slept? Yet it had seemed like half a moment.
His eyelids lifted again with a terrible tardiness, as if made of lead.
Onewa observed him in silence now, blue eyes fixed on the purplish stains that hadn't yet been scrubbed from his legs with a slight furrowing of his brow. His thumb moved aimlessly against red protodermis, back and forth, back and forth with a slow rhythm; he met his gaze, a familiar exhaustion mirrored in the Ta-Toa's.
He leaned down to press their masks together.
The Komau welcomed the creases of the Huna in its own vacuous spaces, ill-fitting shapes making the most of what little they could slot together: they nuzzled like animals seeking comfort from a great fright, temples pressed together, chin rubbing chin, foreheads dipping into necks to feel the pulse of an artery - to ensure it was still steady, still loud, still warm. Fingers crawled in tandem across their arms in search of a grip, a weak hold on each other, ready to grasp with all their might in a moment's notice just so that neither would risk slipping away into yet another unknowable darkness.
They continued their tender touch quietly, warmly, tucked into a corner at the edge of the world that nobody else could know.
His body seemed even more cumbersome when that contact broke.
Onewa looked at him in a strange way - like he was looking at something small, distant, that he couldn't touch. Maybe that was why he held his cheek like it weighed as much as the world.
"You look terrible," he murmured. His mask glowed so softly. "Get some shuteye, firespitter."
The invader sat by him, near him. His hold was steady on him, warm, sustaining him as he reclined into the tepid heat; Vakama leaned without a fight into the suggestion he would not have needed as it softened the edges of his vision, playing idly with Onewa's fingers, and drifted into sleep watching blue eyes dim slowly.
oh hey these again. cant shut up abt them so check down there for all the stuff the tags couldnt fit
Mabara Bitri my beloved permantently bloodstained woman!! it was supposed to be sort of like a carving of her, but i dont know if it translated well. i tried to do her burnt arm too but decided to go for the sleeve and glove instead
1: Atakus and Perditus whom I could not figure out how to dress so screw it, tapyri pussy attack. i had to draw an entirely new base bc when i tried coloring over the human versions Perditus's head was too tall and looked weird. figuring out how to do Atakus's wool was a special hell, but i think the end result is pretty good
2 & 3: both came to me as vivid visions after reading @whiteheartlight 's posts here and here. the first made me realize a funny thing abt the ships ive seen more commonly w kongu (and also the one that crawled directly out of my forehead like athena) and the second was just so powerfully evocative. his ragebaiting hounds. also its the first time i tried to give shape to what i like to call Miserable Wet Goth Hewkii Hair
4: this was spawned by @leiposting and Shadow Stealer's VA Waddlez3121 discovering that Shadow Stealer is short as hell and acting out a lil thing abt that. i love that lil smug treyla, i think thats the best lil face ive ever drawn :3
5: meant to be done for june but i only completed it now. THIS is a more definitive version of the Miserable Wet Goth Hewkii Hair that better complies with the hair texture i actually gave him; the yuri is helryx and johmak bc i like the sort of professional almost distant thing i gave them in a fic for bioshippingweek once; hakann n thok based on @lee-the-yeen 's designs and post; and last but not least romance-repulsed Gresh my beloved. he poofy :)
6 & 7: Mabara Bitri (full-body and headshot) and Usine, my frightening mysterious women!!!! i tried to sketch em out as soon as i finished that story i think, but im allergic to posting things on their own so they had to wait until i had more stuff. that lil doodle of Birì's features was also an attempt to show what jumps directly to the eyes of ppl who see her for the first time. the full-body was supposed to be similar to a carving but i think that got lost - i tried to do her burnt arm too, tho in the end decided to go for the sleeve and glove instead
8: another one i had in mind since forever - specifically since hearing the line "as important and loved as any of the sons of Makuta... or - well, maybe I'd tell myself that" in Akhmou's Lament and going Wow Just Like In My Pohatu's Psychological Torture AU! they would be great friends i think. just two horrendously poor self-esteemed stone lads who long to be evil worms cradled in their definitely certainly very trustworthy employer's claws
I headcanon that Matoran can have different colors of blood/ichor but I also still headcanon that Kopaka would bleed red. I imagine Artakha working on him and knowing that Kopaka would absolutely be the type of being to hide injuries, ignore injuries, pretend he's not two minutes away from bleeding out etc, so he decides to give him the most obvious and alarming color for his armor. Yeah good luck hiding that you stubborn loner. There will be no staggering to the ground and moving your hand away from your side to dramatically reveal an injury ten minutes after getting it on this team. Not on Artakha's watch
The Phantoka would love it if they found out that they got a whole book pretty much to themselves (Shadows in the Sky) while the Mistika's book (Secrets of the Swamp) is interspersed with stories from when Hydraxon was training them. "Ohhh look whose adventures weren't interesting enough to get their own book... aww you had to share with a story about ALL of us. The audience just loves OUR adventures" Lewa would not stop rubbing this in. I mean to be fair Shadows in the Sky is the best book sooo
Jaller with a shield that looks like what he imagines Lhikan's greatsword shield would look like because he's had a devotion to Lhikan ever since finding out it's his mask he wears as a Matoran retweet
funniest way to explain why the Toa Mata could reattach their limbs after the musculature rotted during their comas but why there are also beings with prosthetics in the world would be if the Toa Mata were the only ones who could do this and didn't know it was weird
Finally got around to making Tahu, thank you @daecus for the collaboration on this one!!
She was the one to come up with a name for Tahu and help with refining the idea for Kolhii, considering just how differently built Eridians are in comparison to Matoran 🙌⭐️
Edit: forgot to include the reference for Tahu’s Eridian form
Looking back at canon, I definitely would have expected Takanuva to be the cure for the shadow leeches. I can get behind the klakk since there are so many weird Rahi and it was a Rahi that caused it, anyway, but I would have loved to see Takanuva in his twilight state realizing that he could restore the light to the Shadow Matoran and save them. and then realizing he could save himself, too. He just had to turn back towards the light. realizing that there wasn't anything the Makuta could take from him that he couldn't take back. Takanuva reaching his hand out towards somebody in a shadow state to break the hold over them and they just crumple like he's shot them through the chest
The Klakk was certainly... A writing choice. But when you had Twilight Takanuva right there, after canonically venturing to other dimensions and meeting a light-aligned Teridax, it just feels so incorrect to do nothing with him.
Personally, must head-canon Takanuva as the real cure to the shadow leeches, because it just fits so much more with the world they built. I also think that something being a rahi might only depend on it having been made by the brotherhood of Makuta, so it starts to get really strange to think that the Makuta made, either intentionally or not, their one true bane in the form of this ugly thing;
Behold! what would to day be a disappointing GWP, this is the official model for the Klakk.
Made some doodles of @frutiger-fuzekle's Eridian Pohatu and Kopaka! I really like their designs and the rock formations they chose as reference.
I have the hc that, despite Kopaka/Slippy being really smol, he has a really deep, deep voice as an Eridian.
I got an idea from the 52-hertz whale, whose calls are so out of the normal range of pitch for other whales that it doesn't get recognized, so perhaps Kopaka/Slippy's thrums or the like are perceived as odd or harsh, even on the rare occasion he doesn't mean it. Though, Pohatu doesn't mind and takes the time to listen. :)
Last two doodles are silly shippy stuff because I love them as a couple. :>
