If you don't know what this is, allow me to quote from the first fic's introduction:
The Biological Chronicle is a series of flash fics written by me. Like my earlier Glatorian Chronicles series of short stories/short epics, each story in The Biological Chronicle is a standalone and can be read in any order you please.
What connects these story is the basic theme. I gave myself the challenge of writing ten flash fics based on the ten years of Bionicle (one for 2001, another for 2002, yet another for 2003, etc.). The result is a mixture of my interpretation of scenes from canon, scenes from canon that were mentioned but never shown, and a few scenes that were never mentioned nor shown but which I nonetheless believe could have/probably did happen at some point in canon. I tried to stick to canon as closely as possible, however, so don't expect to see any new characters or locations or anything like that that weren't in canon.
They are all quite short (the longest is a little over 700 words), but of course that is to be expected from flash fiction. Fair warning: I've had little practice with flash fiction, so if these aren't as good as my usual work, it's because I'm not used to forcing myself to keep the word count under 800 words (although you are of course still free to criticize them however you usually criticize stories).
With that out of the way, enjoy:
Zaktan, standing on a ridge that allowed him to overlook the construction of the Piraka Stronghold, glanced to his left. A Le-Matoran armed with shredder claws was standing there, obviously trembling despite his just as obvious efforts to seem natural. Zaktan vaguely recalled the Matoran as the first villager he had met when he first arrived on Voya Nui. What was his name? Piruk, maybe?
“Yes, villager?” said Zaktan, using his friendliest voice (or voices, as the case was).
The Le-Matoran seemed to shrink under Zaktan's gaze. Nonetheless, he managed to say, “I just came to, um, to, well, uh—“
“Spit it out,” Zaktan snapped. He caught himself, remembering that Toa were supposed to be kind to Matoran, and then said, again straining to be friendly, “What are you trying to tell me, villager? Has something happened that requires my attention?”
The Le-Matoran looked down at his feet, digging his toe into the dirt. “It's just . . . well, one of the workers on Mount Valmai's slopes was . . . well, he was killed in a lava flow just a few hours ago. Balta sent me to tell you that.”
The Le-Matoran looked up at Zaktan when he finished, as if expecting the Piraka to say something. It took Zaktan a moment to remember that Matoran dying was supposed to be a bad thing and that therefore he should console the Le-Matoran. The idea sickened him to his core, but the Pirakas' relationship with the Voya Nuians was already getting rocky and he could not afford to make them more suspicious.
So Zaktan bent down, putting one hand on the Le-Matoran's shoulder. The villager cringed at the touch, most likely not used to the feel of Zaktan's hand. Still, Zaktan tried to give off an aura of concern, the kind he thought a Toa would show in this situation, and so looked the Le-Matoran in the eyes.
“I am very sorry to hear about that,” said Zaktan, forcing every word out of his mouth. “What was his name?”
“I . . . I don't know,” said the Le-Matoran, who much to Zaktan's frustration was still trembling. “I didn't know him very well.”
Zaktan sighed. “Well, I'm sure his soul will join with the Great Spirit in the next life. He was probably a fine worker and I am sure his friends will remember him always.”
“Some of his friends want to hold a funeral for him,” said the Le-Matoran. “Even though his body wasn't—“
“No,” said Zaktan, shaking his head.
Realizing how un-Toa-like that sounded, Zaktan said in a gentler voice, “I mean, I understand what it feels like to lose a friend, but perhaps, instead of a funeral, it would be better for everyone to work a little harder. Surely he would have liked that better than everyone interrupting their normal work schedule just to mourn his death, wouldn't you say?”
The Le-Matoran scratched the back of his head. “Uh, I don't know—“
“And without a body, what is there to bury?” said Zaktan as he straightened up. “Work away your sorrows, I say. It is what we Toa do whenever we lose a comrade, after all.”
The Le-Matoran nodded, though whether because of fear or because he agreed, Zaktan couldn't tell. “Yes, Toa Zaktan. I'll g-go tell the others to get back to work.”
The Le-Matoran scrambled away while Zaktan returned his attention to the builders of the Stronghold. He wasn't sure how much longer he could keep up this charade, though once the villagers finished their work here, he knew it would not be long before he and the other Piraka could show their true colors.
Comments, criticism, questions, etc. are all welcome .
Edited by TNTOS, Jul 08 2014 - 07:55 AM.