Any way, just so you know, its non-cannonical. Think of it as a sort of re-boot if you will.
I also really tried hard to get people to relate to the main character(Vakama)
I am going to try and limit the amount of main character to two this book(Vakama and Matau), as the whole series will really arch over them two.
A dead silence filled the coliseum, like a soft breeze on a spring afternoon. Its gentle whoosh passed through Vakama’s body in a chilling, almost shivering presence. He could almost hear his own heartbeat racing away in his chest, its uncontrollable urge to rip right out of its place.
He fidgeted uncomfortably, his aching muscles unable to relax. He rolled his neck and shoulders around, but it came to no avail. The horde of Matoran crammed together like fish in a can. Vakama could have sworn he had never seen the coliseum this busy. He had been told that every single Matoran in Metru Nui was here. He held his breath and closed his eyes, wishing he could be anywhere else.
A Matoran’s elbow came crashing into his right side.
“Sorry”, The Matoran said, not even giving Vakama a glance. Vakama winced. The bump was accidental, yes, but the apology was hollow with falseness.
Vakama looked around, his gaze scattered his surrounding with great horror. There must have been thousands of Matoran, all tightly packed, into a space not much bigger than a large Kohli pitch. The coliseum floor was empty, and its surface was covered in dust and sand, like a thin blanket. The stands were packed so tight that was barely any room between each Matoran. So little, that arms and legs were interlocked within the crowd.
He noticed the six different sections on the stadium. Each Matoran of a Metru had a differed colour. Blue for Ga-Metru, The Metru of Teaching, of which its vast majority of its population were female and was the only Metru that this occurred. Green was for Le-Metru, the Metru of Air-Craft engineering, and inventers of the great chute system, spanning over the entirety of Metru Nui. Brown was for Po-Metru, the Metru of Art and sculptures. Black was for Onu-Metru, the Metru of archives and history. White was for Ko-Metru, the Metru of engineering, and lastly his own, Ta-Metru, red and the Metru of Tool crafting and Mask Making.
None of the Matoran from different Metru’s sat together. Those were the rules. Most interaction from the different Metru’s outside the coliseum was strictly trade only. Vakama couldn’t really recall if he had ever spoken to a Matoran outside Ta-Metru even once. It wasn’t like his job, mask making, really opened for high interaction with Matoran of the other Metru’s. A tradesman, in Vakama’s case, usually a Matoran named Nuhrii would pick up the masks and sell them on the border. He didn’t mind it so much and from rom what Nuhrii told him, they were strange creatures.
Vakama’s chest started to cave in as the crowd seemed to converge upon him. An illusion he knew, but he could do nothing to shake the fear. He felt his head go light, as if it were a balloon filled with helium, wanting to travel off in to the distant stars, and the orange sky of Ta-Metru. He was breathing heavily. No one seemed to notice his pain and panic.
Why wouldn’t they notice?
Vakama could hear nothing, only the slight echoes from the shouts
“What’s going on?” someone yelled. The voices sounded distant, yet close at the same time.
He felt the tingling vibrations at the other Matoran slammed into him trying to see what was going on, on the coliseum floor, as if he wasn’t there - a ghost in a crowd.
“Move out of the way, I can’t see!” an impatient voice behind him said. He felt a shove from behind him. Vakama turned around, ready to give him what for. A large Matoran stood there, eyeing him up, like a serpent watching its prey. Vakama wanted to punch him square in the face, but he couldn’t. He just stood there for an awkward moment looking at him, unsure of what to say.
“I... I’m sorry” Vakama stuttered finally.
Why did he say that?
Vakama wasn’t much of a fighter, or a hero. He always wanted to be, but he felt he knew his place in the world: The quiet type, too afraid to do anything heroic. He’d be a laughing stock if people even knew who he was.
“You’d better be.” The Matoran laughed, almost aggressively. His friends joined in, purposely making the laughter sound violent, just to intimidate him. Vakama felt the warm blood swarm to his face. He turned around the back of his head burning in humiliation, like acid in the back of his neck, fizzing at his metal exterior.
Why couldn’t he get the courage to just stand up for himself once in a while?
The violent shouting was interrupted by a loud horn. The Matoran’s faces sank, as if they were gazelles spotting a lion amongst them.
The large coliseum doors opened like the gates of Karzahni, and a handcuffed and beaten Toa Lhikan stepped out.
Edited by III IV VII, Nov 20 2012 - 12:50 PM.