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[VolcanoBakemeat]

Once again, for the first time in over a thousand years, all the Matoran of Metru Nui were summoned to the Coliseum. Except this time it was a different Metru Nui. And this time there were also Agori, Chrorami, Glatorian, Mortenti, Shadra, Skadilans, Srakans, Vesdar, and Vortixx, all of their eyes glued to the blue, benevolent face of Turaga Nui Nokama. Subtitles flashed in every direction, in ten different alphabets, twenty different languages, across the Coliseum’s seemingly infinite screens.

“People of Metru Nui!” she exclaimed. “The final brick of this city has been laid!”

The crowd erupted. What Nokama meant was dubious, but nobody denied a reason to celebrate. Buildings were still being torn down and built up, but over the last few centuries, the boundaries that had been laid out by the Matoran according to the original city’s foundations had been slowly filled up. And now that there was a central chute system connecting everything, it was safe to say the city was back to its former glory. All the work that needed to be done was done.

Everyone was rejoicing. Except for one soul, once a great leader, now aged and beginning to deteriorate in all the areas of the mind that had not been destroyed by trauma; no longer a presence in the city, all but forgotten as he spent his years in the deep crystal caverns outside the city with the Ko-Matoran monks. He knew of the celebrations, but he had no need to rejoice; instead, he retired to his cell and wrote four copies of the same letter. One went to Turaga Nui Nokama; one went to the Chronicler; one stayed at the monastery; one he kept for himself.

I should hope that by now everyone on Spherus Magna will have forgotten their life before, but I remember very well the great spirit named Mata Nui. Once he was merely mythology; now we can safely say that he not only exists but is still alive and thriving. Where he is only the Toa team assigned long ago to hide him and the body in which he continued to thrive knows for sure. And his name lives on in the works of the Chronicler. Yet with the knowledge of his existence also comes the knowledge that we are no longer dependent on him. Our instincts as Matoran, whether Toa, Turaga, or common Metruan or Koronan, tell us we must work ceaselessly to keep the Spirit alive. And now that spirit no longer needs us. So what are we to do? What is the point of staying alive if the tasks our minds are wired to perform no longer has any purpose beyond the superficial? I have given this much thought, and only one answer crosses my mind: nothing. It is time for us to free ourselves.

And shortly after Turaga Vakama wrote those words, he took a boat out into Aqua Magna, never to return.

_____

Review: http://www.bzpower.c...?showtopic=5062

Edited by Moo!, May 29 2012 - 02:35 AM.

[VolcanoBakemeat]

After Nokama read Vakama’s departure note at the Coliseum, there was a period of total confusion among both the populace of Metru Nui and the Turagacy that governed it. Vakama’s words spread around the city like wildfire, and most Matoran agreed that the old Turaga was saying that now that Matoran no longer need to work to keep Mata Nui’s brain functioning, there is no point in working any further. But it was that last sentence--it is time to free ourselves--that was so puzzling. At least one person interpreted it as an encouragement for Matoran to, metaphorically speaking, "move on," and the body of a Le-Matoran was found at the bottom of a chute tower, that last sentence scrawled hastily onto his arm with black ink. This theory would, of course, be supported by Vakama’s disappearance, although Vakama was not legally declared dead until over a century after the events of this story.

The other interpretation was a more literal one. “While Matoran are wired to work,” said the Ko-Matoran author and decipherer Lumi, “there is no longer any need to work. The last work we needed to do was to rebuild Metru Nui; now, nothing more is necessary, so we need to enjoy our lives from now on.”

The Turaga, however, were no longer Matoran. They had transcended that level, their memories had expanded, they were wired to learn and govern and teach and speak instead of toil. And Turaga Nokama had felt a fear inside, one she had not felt since the days of The Makuta, one which pierced her to the core. It began when Vakama’s letter came back; it was exacerbated by the news of that poor Le-Matoran who had plunged to his death.

What is our duty now? she wondered. What is our destiny?

A thousand miles away, six canisters washed onto the shores of Aqua Magna.

[VolcanoBakemeat]

Could I get this topic closed? This would be better as a short story.