Velox

Polling period over; topic closed.

Theme #6: The Mask Entry #1: "The Jester" I wear this mask to hide my name, Cover my face, cover my shame. This painted grin, burden it's been; A laughing glance, cover my pain. I laugh and dance, I joke, I sing, For peasant low, for queen, for king; I make you smile, and all the while, Deep in my heart, my soul crying. I show the world a merry face, I spread good cheer all round the place: Ever after, behind my laughter, Behind this mask, sulks sad disgrace. Long years ago, I had nothing, No paint, no lies to force a grin; I walked for miles, wore joyous smiles, Now that's all lost, slain by my sin. Who knew a chain could be so weak? One small blunder, my joy could take? Hard to believe, that I should grieve, For all this time, for one mistake. One word let slip invokes a curse. A desperate try tightens the noose. For the stars sailing, all else failing, All demons, worms, and fears let loose. Buried beneath earth damp and cold, Those eyes once bright, that heart once bold: The remnants of my long-lost love; Now laid to rest like pirate's gold. Of joy and grief I've been bereft, A hopeless void, an empty cleft. I've danced and twirled, made laugh the world, But in my heart there's nothing left. I wear this mask to hide my tears. The sun is gone, shadows are here: This painted grin, burden it's been; My sad heart can still offer cheer. I wear this mask to play a fool: A puppet and a broken tool . . . Though I am dead, joy I can spread; And make this world less dark, less cruel. ---------------------------------- Entry #2: "Simple" It’s really quite simple. More than anything else, people fear what they don’t understand. Everyone hates not knowing. Everyone wants to feel like they’re in control, like they know why everything happens, what everyone else thinks, why everyone else thinks what they think. What they don’t understand, they rationalize away in simple terms. Everything has an explanation. Everything is perfectly rational when you give it some thought, really. So why do I do what I do? It’s perfectly simple, perfectly rational, when you give it some thought. Surely I was traumatized as a child. Surely I witnessed some heinous act of violence, from which I could not recover. Surely I come from a terrible, abusive family situation. Surely I’ve suffered countless losses. Surely I am a victim in some way, and I only lash out because I’m lonely and lost. Surely, beneath this mask of violence and joyful hatred, I am a perfectly nice person. Perfectly rational. Perfectly simple. Just one of many, a victim of circumstance. And it’s true. So long as it’s convenient, they are right. I only mask my inner, placid, peaceful self out of fear and desperation. My mask is not physical, but a fabricated feeling of loathing, a false, if overwhelming, desire to see every last thing in ruins and every last person in pieces. But, it’s perfectly rational. It’s perfectly simple, when you think about it. It isn’t my fault. I don’t want it. I definitely do not enjoy it. But here’s a question. When you give it some thought. Who is behind the biggest mask? Those that hide their fear and their lack of understanding behind half-hearted explanations and rationalizations, or I, who wear my feelings on my sleeve? The answer is quite simple, once you give it some thought. ---------------------------------- Entry #3: "Masks of a Sith" Kleskizhae took deep breaths as he put on his helmet, preparing for the coming battle. “Why do you wear that mask?” Aeziya, his Twi’lek lover asked him. The voculator of his mask gave him what he thought was an intimidating monotone. “Don’t want anyone to ruin this pretty face.” She snorted. “Right, what a shame that’d be. Bigger shame you have to hide it.” There was a fine line between sarcasm and a compliment in there. That’s what Kleskizhae liked about her. She was always willing to speak her mind. She hid behind no masks. She gave him a kiss on the cheek of his helmet as they leaped down to the landing zone, with Kleskizhae’s red lightsaber blazing and Aeziya’s pistols ready and aimed. The battlefield was almost empty, they had come for clean up after a larger battle, to make sure that the Jedi Master leading the attack on Ilum was dead, and there were few better Jedi killers than Darth Kleskizhae and the infamous mercenary, Aeziya. Master Illius was a Miraluka, and a veteran of many battles. She’d been on the Empire’s most wanted list since the Battle of Balmorra, and in numerous battles since then, had won victory for the Republic. That was unacceptable. She had to be eliminated. The battlefield was a mass of bodies, unidentifiable save for the white armor of the Republic, the black armor of the Empire, the brown robes of the Jedi and the black robes of the Sith. But Kleskizhae sensed that a powerful presence in the Force still lingered. Illius stood over the body of a Jedi, one of her comrades, and the body of a Sith, who presumably was the one who killed the Jedi. Kleskizhae pointed his lightsaber at her, getting into stance to prepare to strike. “One last chance, Illius. Surrender or be destroyed.” She smiled without looking up. “Not often a Sith offers a chance at mercy. What would happen to me if I surrendered, I wonder, what would happen to me? Would you send me to Imperial Intelligence? Would you try to break me?” She looked up at him. “You’re an odd one. I can see it in every swirl of your aura. You try to mask it, but the Light is with you.” “Nonsense,” Kleskizhae spat. “I’m a Sith.” “There’s more to this than Sith and Jedi. This is a battle of balance in the Force. I’d like to counter your offer. You can take off that mask and come with me, where you will be safe. Those with compassion don’t last long in the Empire.” “So that you’d have me murdered? Or worse, made a Jedi? Aeziya, let’s kill this Jedi and be done with it.” Aeziya smiled. “Taking out chatty Jedi? Always a pleasure.” “Fine then,” she said, drawing her green lightsaber. “Someday that mask will come off, and I won’t be able to help you then. I only hope that I will be the only one who can see your true self.” She was injured, and despite her power, she was no match for one of the Empire’s best lightsabers, much less the Empire’s best shot. After the battle, Kleskizhae took off his helmet and sighed. “Something wrong?” Aeziya said, placing her hand on his now exposed face. “We killed a Jedi, we get paid. You don’t actually believe her, do you?” “I . . . I don’t know. They say Miraluka can see your alignment in the Force, attunement to the Light or the Dark side of the Force. You don’t suppose I use the Light side like a Jedi?” “That’s a bunch of nonsense and you know it. Light side, dark side, who cares? I wouldn’t be with you if you were a typical Sith. And I’d definitely never be with you if you were a Jedi. All that matters is that we’re alive and she isn’t.” Kleskizhae smiled. “I suppose you’re right.” But inside he worried. She didn’t understand Sith politics, not the way he did. There were days when he felt like he was wearing more masks with his fellow Sith than he did on the battlefield. And they served the same purpose. Protection. Survival. Saving his pretty, pretty face. ---------------------------------- Entry #4: The monotonous drone of marching sentries fills the air. I crouch in a dark corner as I wait for them to pass. Not impatiently, no, I cannot afford impatience. A little haste and the whole operation could be ruined. Perhaps I should introduce myself. I’m a spy and saboteur. My name is not important and you don’t need to know my affiliations. All you need to know is that this base contains the deadliest weapon in the enemy’s arsenal and we need to blow it sky high. If we can do that, this cold war will finally be at an end, the Antarctic will be restored to its natural beauty and the world will be saved. You know the drill. It’s a tricky job. The sentries here shoot on sight and their weapons are specially modified lasers, designed to first freeze and after a few shots, kill. And if I get rustled out, my team has no chance. Yeah, I have a team. No, I don’t need to mention where the rest of them are. Being a spy is complicated. You constantly have to maintain a mask behind which you hide your emotions, your ambitions - your very personality. As the leader, you cannot show the slightest doubt to your teammates, who rely on your judgment. You have to be perfectly impassive and suppress any internal turmoil when you do what’s necessary. Fortunately, most agencies prefer their operatives to stun rather than kill. Equally efficient and fewer legal ramifications. Quickly, I shoot the two sentries in my path, leaving them frozen for five minutes. I advance towards the inner chambers, creeping from shadows like a lynx stalking its prey. The door has a clever mechanism. It requires another operative in a separate location to operate a switch, which in turn can only be accessed by the cooperation of two other agents. All of whom are in danger of being detected by guards who will trap them and sound the alarm. That’s why they choose us. We’re one of the most trained and cohesive teams in the agency. We’ve been working together for over ten years, well before this war even began. My agents are stationed right where they should be, so well-disciplined it’s like our team has a hive mind. I barely need to use the radio to signal Radia. There, you see? She’s got the door. The epitome of a well-trained operative. Silently, I slink forward and am about to finish wiring the explosives when- “Go Dash! Wooohoo, we finished the game!” Where on earth did that come from? I look up at the ceiling and then straight out, at the wall opposite. No, I don’t believe it. I, Dash, leader of the Alpha team, cannot be made a fool of like this. This entire set-up, the fortress, the mission – it’s all an illusion, a form of entertainment for these untrained youth. My actions and this scenario form the veneer, the professional mask of espionage for a simple action computer game. Spy games evidently hold considerable glamour. There are two children on a computer, treating me as a simple puppet. They tug their controls like a marionette’s strings. Whatever happened to free will? Helplessly, to my immense frustration, I wire the detonator and leave the room. Safely outside of the fortress, I hit the button. Kaboom. The fortress is gone, the Artic is safe and two children have won their video game. And all that it took was my disillusioned dignity. ---------------------------------- Entry #5: "A Vigilante’s Mask" Some call me a vigilante. By one definition of the word, they’re right. I seek out those who choose to break the rules, and I punish them accordingly. Only I do it outside the law. Nobody knows who I am. Most of my victims are in no state to identify me when I’m finished with them. Few witnesses ever get more than a passing glance at me before I’m gone. The police search for me, in addition to those I hunt, but they don’t even know where to look. But, most of all, nobody knows who I am because I wear the mask. It’s a simple, featureless mask. Its sole purpose is to hide my facial features, and disguise my true identity. I made it with my own two hands, and I wear it when I embark on my missions. It is the mask I hide behind when I fight evil. Oh, but don’t think of me as a hero. I am not wearing the mask to become some sort of symbol. There are criminals who know who I am, and others who do not. Some fear me, and some underestimate my abilities. None of them escape my wrath. The mask is not a means of protection either, for myself or those close to me. I did not start my fight because a loved one was killed by the gangs who roam the street. My relatives live far away, and I am not close to them at all. I have no true friends or acquaintances. I was already a loner, and I have nobody to shield from the evils of humanity. The mask doesn’t offer me any powers, any special abilities, any edge for a fight. The mask itself is barely important; it is my fists and knives that take down criminals. The mask has one simple purpose; it hides my identity. But why must I hide my identity? I’m not hiding it from those I punish for breaking the law; I’m hiding it from the law itself. Why am I hiding my actions from the law? Why am I fighting crime in the first place? Why have I embarked on a journey of vigilantism with this mask? It’s not for some personal grudge or revenge. It’s not for some perfect ideal of right and wrong. It’s because I like to fight. It’s the thrill of the conflict. It’s the pain I cause to those who deserve it. I realize it’s not a healthy reason. It’s an adrenaline addiction; a crave I cannot help but give into. My morals are too important to me to take out my lust for battle on the innocent, so I do not engage in crime directly. But to join the police or the military stifles my actions and would not be enough. So I take matters into my own hands; I’ve found my own way to satisfy my needs, by fighting fire with fire in the darkest regions of the city. I hide behind my mask, because it is the only way society will accept me for who I am. ---------------------------------- Entry #6: "Thinking cap" "Wait a moment!" I yelled; I couldn't let father go yet. "I have a request before you retire for the night." I could see his hands fiddling with the elastic bands, hear his impatient feet tapping. It was understood that he was not to be disturbed when he wore the mask; this was my only chance. He seemed annoyed at my hesitation, not curious as to what was so important that I interrupted him so rudely. He was never himself when pining for the mask. "What's so important about this?" I'm sure if, God forbid, something should happen - a fire or some such - when he was immersed in that mask, he would just sit, oblivious and useless, in that old chair of his, even as all the wires and tubes were slowly burned and melted. He would remain motionless, absorbed in his useless fantasies. He grumbled and grasped his mask more firmly, disentangling the wires, tubes, attached to it. This was, with no doubt, my last chance to speak to him tonight. He graciously offered me a reply, making little effort to hide the sour note in his voice: "I have told you too many times, that your mind could never conceive of what I see." He raised the mask to his face. The conversation was over, and I would lose him once again. Determined to see that prophecy deemed false, I snatched the mask from his hands. "Let me at least try it," I pleaded, as his hands pulled uselessly at my fingers. He, in turn, pleaded for me to return it to him. It was a pathetic scene. "You wouldn't be able to take it. You won't understand!" His quivering hands snatched the mask from my fingers, and his fingers toiled over all the wires, switches, and buttons as he readied most precious possession for use. He raised it to his face once again, and again I parried, taking a firm hold on the curved metal, freeing it from his hands. I stood for a moment, considering what to do next, and he stood across from me, his eyes praying that I wouldn't harm his masterpiece. A minute passed. I could simply end this harmful device, but the pitiful sight before me troubled my conscience. How could I just destroy the greatest prize of my genius father? Yet how could I let I live on, ruining him, ruining me, ruining us all. I lifted the mask high to let it shatter on the ground. Taking a breath, I urged my fingers to let go, my eyes religiously avoiding my father's. But the mask didn't fall, bend, twist, shatter on the ground. I found my face enveloped in its smooth, cool curves. Darkness obscured my vision. All noise was blocked out and I found myself the beholder of a curious sensation, of floating. It was relaxing beyond anything I had ever experienced and likely ever will. It was beautiful, more so than the most amazing landscapes or brilliant sunset. Suddenly I knew everything. I was sure that if I only thought for a moment, I could solve the world's greatest problems, discover wonders beyond comprehension, invent machines too great to behold. Nothing was beyond my grasp. Everything I had ever hoped for could be achieved with no effort, my every dream realized. It then dawned upon my transcendental mind that my hopes and dreams, everything I strived for or would, was so utterly pointless. My joys and sorrows became insignificant blips in a dull life. Now I could see, yet I was blind to everything that seemed worthy. Now I could understand father, how his evil thinking cap had taken his life. Then I felt fear. Fear of having this sensation taken from me, of the horrid, boring life I had. I panicked, and my imagination fled, leaving only the darkness of the mask. The feeling of cool metal against my face returned, I could feel hands, and light punctured my panic. Father kneeled above me. His face displayed anger, but in his eyes I saw fear. He looked tired and thin, but more alive than ever before. I vaguely saw my hands, quivering. Beyond them father came into focus again, and mother. Now both looked relieved, and I felt them drop onto me, pulling me into a hug. As the daze left me, the horrific memories of wonder faded. I made no effort to hold onto them, instead embracing mother and father, inviting them back into my life. Father gripped me tighter, accepting the invite. ---------------------------------- Entry #7: "Happy Hour" On the way back my mask slowly came on, of course don’t be a moron, this isn’t a real mask I’m talking about, it’s just the hollow nincompoop I use to get by during the day. The stupid fool I’m supposed to be like, this normal man, is just your average run of the mill Joe… And he sickens me. I mean really? What’s the point of being this perfect person, the guy who worked hard in high school, then hard in college, and then got a good job. The guy who’s apparently a blast to hang out parties with, despite the fact that he doesn’t actually fun when there. Not to mention this moron is also unable to let me do anything. So every morning I leave the house without the mask on. I run around the city having fun, of course most people would are too stiff to even want to go out in these parts of towns, after all the crime rates have been pretty darn high, there’s even been a slew of murders. I however needed to meet with Joe’s boss, guys who didn’t leave their front door were cowards. Now you see, the boss had been pretty annoying to Joe recently, and normally I wouldn’t really do any favors for my mask, but he had making him stay overtime which meant he was cutting into my time, and that, well that’s just not acceptable. More than that… It’s downright terrible, and I needed to fix things. That had been my thought process as I entered the arrogant slob’s house, he hadn’t exactly invited me in, but the window was open so why not? Well it was open once I found it, may not have been the case before. It was also in pieces when I was done with it, but hey the guy had plenty of other windows, who cared if one ended up broken. Anyhow, sorry, I got sidetracked; I tend to have a habit of doing that. You understand though, right? Who am I kidding of course you do, you’re on the internet right. And ugh, you made me break the fourth wall. Ahem. Sorry, moving on. So yeah I entered the guys house, all sneaky like, picture a Mission Impossible movie, you’ll get the idea. Play the soundtrack as well, it’s rather fitting right now. Regardless of the chosen OST playing right now, I entered the slob’s bedroom and gently woke him up. When I say gently I mean I threw him onto the ground but all’s fair in love and war right, and I just loved seeing that moron hit the ground. “Joe?” He asked in confusion, the old man was still half asleep. “JOE!” He yelled this time, horror entering his eyes as he realized the predicament he was in. “My god Joe!” Yes we get it old man, I look like Joe, can we please move on? I have only 750 words and you’re wasting quite a few of them. “What the heck do you think you’re doing Joe, barging in here in the middle of the night and throwing your boss to the ground?” The old man was now berating me, funny that he still thought he had the power to do so. “Calm down man,” I cooed with my very charismatic voice, “I’m a friend of Joe, and well let me put it this way, you’re keeping Joe so busy and well I can’t have that. You understand right?” “I’m not sure I follow,” I’m still not sure why I let the moron continue talking, “Joe are you okay? Do we need take you to the hospital or something?” Have I mentioned how much I hate this guy? “POW!” I yelled as my hand slapped across the man’s face, I really love making sound effects. Then I grabbed the man by his collar and held him against the wall. “Do I really have to explain it again? I’m not Joe, now I think we’re done here.” The old man’s eyes widened when he saw the knife in my end, and suddenly they went blank when the eye was now in his gut. Remember those murders I mentioned before? Yeah, my bad. Anyhow, satisfied with a job well done, I departed from the fool’s house. Once I made it home, I made sure to give back control to Joe, he was going to be quite surprised tomorrow when he found about my present to him. Yup, life’s awesome. ---------------------------------- Entry #8: "Halloween" Halloween, fifteen years oldSitting on my bed, staring at the plastic mask in my hand, picked it up from the dollar a few hours agoTrying to decide, you know, whether I’m too old for thisTrick-or-treating and allI mean, I’m fifteen years oldToo much, rightWell maybe, not like there’s any set rules for this or anythingFlip the mask over, rub my thumb on one of the creasesIt’s Iron ManBecauseThe truth isI am Iron ManHaha that line is so greatTony Stark is best AvengerHahaLook over at the rest of my stuffDark red shirt and pants, got ‘em cheapBottle of gold paint, for if I decide to do this, actuallyAnd some light blue, tooObviouslyLook at the mask againI mean most people I know are just staying homePassing out candySome are going out, sureBut they’re all going with a bunch of peopleFriendsAll planned out and everythingNo one invited me to do anythingSoI guess I’ll justStay here butLikeIt doesn’t seem rightSomehowI’ve been doing thisTrick-or-treating, I meanAs long as I’ve been aliveSo to justStopIsWeird, I guessKnock on my doorIt’s my mom“Are you going”“Dunno yet”“You should decide soon”Yeah, I knowLook back downIron Man’s eye sockets stare backEmptySoullessWell no duhHe’s a maskSo should I go orHmThink of last year and the few before thatHouse on the end of the street gives out full-size SnickersAnd I meanUsually there’s plenty of Crunch bars to go aroundThings are amazingYou like, can’t get those anywhere anymoreExcept that one drugstore I never go toButStillAnother knockLittle sister“You going”Look at Iron Man again“Dunno”“Please”Back to Iron ManTip the mask a littleHe smiles a littleSort of, if you squint“Yeah whatever”Screw it, I’m goingAnd by God I’m gonna have fun with it ---------------------------------- Entry #9: "Three Forms of the Mask" Once, in three different cities, there lived three brothers, who all had become superheroes. They each took their own approach to the problem of a secret identity.The eldest brother was named Lawdog. He performed his heroic deeds unmasked and under his own name, scorning any secret identity. Man and hero were both Lawdog, with no separation of personality. The second brother was named Tyrannis. When he had moved to the city he protected, he had changed his name, and constructed a quiet, average life as James Blackwell, salesman. But when he donned his black and deep red mask, he became the hero Tyrannis, guardian of the city, and his true self.The youngest brother was named Cosmas. He had developed a civilian life under his true name and as the person he truly was, and did his duty as a hero under the name and silvery mask of the Protector. In this guise he spoke as little as possible and suppressed all individual character. Each of them thought his own solution best. None of their solutions were perfect. --- Cosmas considered his best, for no criminals would be able to gain a personal advantage over such a characterless adversary, and in his own time he could simply be himself.Of course, he felt stifled whenever he wore his mask, and it was only when he took it off that he considered himself free. And even unmasked and himself, he carried the secret of the Protector with him. Tyrannis considered his best, for he had his secret home to retreat to when life as Tyrannis became too much, but formed no attachments while living the lie of normality. His "normal" persona led a solitary and uneventful life, while, as a hero, he showed his personality freely, concealing nothing about himself. However, his method meant any true friends he made could be targets for his enemies. Also, he loathed his bland, dull life as a salesman with all his heart. He could never be himself then. It was only when wearing his mask that he felt without disguise. Lawdog considered his best, for he had refused to live two lives and make either a lie. He had said, when he first revealed himself to the world, "I refuse to wear a mask."But in that move he had lost privacy. He had a secure base, but every robber and hitman knew its location, and he was too exposed to risk many friendships. Moreover, in the attempt to live his entire life as a crime-fighter, some aspects of himself were inevitably lost, sacrificed to the necessities of being a hero. The suppression of these traits was a mask he could never remove, but must wear permanently. --- And so, though all the brothers tried to live honestly, it seemed none of them could entirely avoid the mask. ---------------------------------- Entry #10: "Dr. Acula" I halted before the entrance to the dentist's office. I don't know, something about it just gave me the creeps. Maybe it was the old and rickety-looking wooden door, maybe it was the little cracks in the window-glass, or even the faint, eerie light that emanated from within. Something just didn't feel quite right. Dr. Acula had just recently arrived in town. He came from a European country, I had forgotten which, but the reputation he had brought with him was phenomenal. People had been flocking to see him during the short few weeks that he had been here, and people were always ranting about the fantastic work he did. Thus despite my trepidations, I boldly stepped forward and through the door. If I had been a little spooked before, now I was downright nervous. Cobwebs hung from every corner of the room, and all the furniture was of an old Victorian-style, while the light I had seen from before came from from various candles around the room. There weren't any electric devices of any kind, as far as I could tell. On one side was a door, which assumably led to the operating room. To one side sat a receptionist behind a desk. I must admit I found it strange to see that instead of a computer, a long piece of parchment sat before her, along with a quill pen and ink bottle. Her physical appearance seemed normal enough, her clothes seemed respectable and all, and she wore a nice pair of glasses. But did I only imagine that she looked a little pale? It was hard enough to see clearly by the candle-light, much less through the obscurity of recollected memory. "You have an appointment?" she asked with a smile. Her voice bore a heavy accent, though I couldn't quite identify it. Dutch? Bulgarian? "Y-yes," I replied. Something about the way she was smiling at me put me off a bit. "My name is Norville." "Norville. . . Ah, yes, here ve are." She nodded to me and then directed me to a couch. "The doctor shall be with you shortly." I hesitated for a moment, my eyes darting unwarrented towards the door, before I obediently retreated to the indicated seat. It was old and uncomfortably soft, and a spring stuck into me, but whether by good manners or something else I didn't complain. As I sat, I continued to find my eyes darting intermittently towards the door, almost without my consent and awareness. When the door of the inner room finally opened, I must admit that I jumped. "Vell vell, our next victim has arrived?" As the man entered the room, I finally recognized the accent. It was Transylvanian. He stood tall but thin, and had a somewhat antiquated taste in clothing. The black pants and the jacket with its tails; the stiff, clean undershirt; the ruffed collar; and the high society shoes completed an outfit that I felt would look quite at home in a museum exhibit. Although I had to admit that it fit the atmosphere. But strangest of all was his face. The high cheek bones and wrinkled forehead looked almost unnatural, somehow. It looked a bit stiff and artificial, to be completely honest. I also imagined that his hairstylist must be very well-paid, to put up with a man who wanted such an elegant and triangular cut, not to mention how much work and hair-gel must have been involved. Somehow I managed to find enough of my voice to offer a greeting and extend a hand. "Dr. Acula, I am here for my appointment. It is a pleasure to meet you, sir." Somehow I felt obligated to apply my highest manners. It was when he shook my hand that I got a close look at his eyes. Strong and penetrating, and was it just my imagination that made them look a little bloodshot? I hoped so. "Yes," he replied. "Vell, the public will exaggerate. They vere probably 'under my spell' as it vere." With that he laughed, and the receptionist and I laughed with him, although after a moment I wasn't sure if I was laughing or crying. As he led me into the operating room, I couldn't help but notice a small sliver of white skin on the back of his neck, as if the outer skin had been cut through to reveal a different skin underneath. In that moment I wondered what in the world I had gotten myself in for. ---------------------------------- Entry #11: "Truth Behind Lies" When you think of the word “mask,” you’re more often than not thinking of an object to be worn on your face. Whether for protection, for veiling, or even for the purpose of being annoying, more often than not we conjure up images of these faces on top of our faces. When you think of those masks, you’re thinking of the kind we see every now and then. Every day, we walk around other people, each one wearing a mask of his or her own. We’re all filled with lies and secrets, with horrors and terrors, with things we’d rather not reveal to the outside world. Our masks never truly come off. Oh, we’ll carve slits for eyes and noses, maybe a few cuts here and there to unveil some things. Best friends, lovers, and family are often allowed access to these areas, but as with a real mask, you can’t really determine someone’s identity just by looking through one or two holes. No matter how hard we try, no matter how much strength we believe we have, we will never take off the masks we don. We will never unmask our true selves, the selves that are who we really are. We never come out in the open, we don’t dare reveal ourselves. What the world sees is a boy wearing a mask, a girl wearing a mask, a man wearing a mask, a woman wearing a mask. All we do is fake, all we see is fake, and all we share is fake. We’re never real. Nothing we do, nothing we see, nothing we share is real. All of it is a lie, some way or another. We lie with our masks, too afraid to unveil the sinister truths hidden behind them. So it’s really a simple question, then: who can you trust in this world where everyone wears a mask, but no one dares take it off?

Theme #7: The Order Any interpretation is valid. Remember that this is an Bionicle theme, and your story must comply with the contest rules.Deadline: July 4th, 11:59PM PST. Note: The deadlines are now midnight PST (3am EST), giving you three more hours. Edit: The Find the Power Polls have been posted! Still time to vote in the Character Story polls as well.

Vote here for your favorite Find the Power story; entries have been randomized. Please MAKE SURE YOU READ ALL ENTRIES BEFORE VOTING.Voting begins now and will end on July 4th at 11:59 PM EST. Entries that do well will move on to the Find the Power Final Poll, which will be posted at the conclusion of the 10th round preliminary poll. Choice #1: "Awakening" “Well that guy was a bust, typical,” I groaned to my sole companion, a small hapaka, I had named Winter, based off when we first met, since then he’d always been by my side. Lately we’d been off a journey of sorts to find someone who could help out my village after a terrible drought. However nothing had been working, all the people we ran across tended to be mercenaries we couldn’t afford to hire. It left me wondering where the brave Toa Heroes of old had vanished to. Foolishly, I thought this last guy was going to be different, but the Turaga only mumbled some nonsense about the power to save my village resting within. I’d think I’d know if I had any sort of abilities to save my people, thanks for nothing you old hag. However if that hadn’t been odd enough he’d also thrown an odd blue rock my way, he said something about its power lying deep within, just like my own, and that it would awaken when I was ready. Another load of nonsense, but I figured I might be able to sell it at the very least, perhaps making a quick widget or two off it. “Hey Winter, what do you think,” I asked the Rahi while rubbing it behind the ears, “Think there’s someplace we can stop by to find some help?” He merely barked in response, but it was comforting none the less, at least I knew he wouldn’t turn his back on someone in need. That’s when I noticed a small tavern on the edge of the horizon, I figured stopping might be a good idea considering my throat was rather parched. So Winter and I began making our way over there, kicking up dust and sand as we walked across the barren lands. I hoped that this region hadn’t also been badly affected by the drought would have at least a couple drinks available. Yelling and loud laughter were the first things I heard when I neared the tavern, obviously the people inside were having a good time, I hoped that meant they’d be good people as well. However, the moment I opened the door everyone in the room went dead silent, it was rather unnerving to have all their glares focused on me and Winter. I noticed that in the entire Tavern there wasn’t a single Matoran, just Skakdi and other vile Piraka. Gulping, I nervously made my way towards the counter, planning for Winter and I to quickly get a drink and then be on our merry way. However the bartender‘s face just exuded obvious displeasure at my presence. “Um, I’d just like to buy some water for me and my Hapaka?” I asked meekly. My question was just answered by laughter emanating from the Skakdi sitting next to me, “Hear that boys, the kid wants a drink, doesn’t he realize there’s a drought going ‘round, we ain’t got nothing for useless pieces of trash,” his eyes then darted towards Winter, who had started baring his teeth, the Skakdi merely responded in kind. “Or his pet for that matter.” Then without warning his clawed hands grabbed my neck and brutally shoved me against the wall. His large teeth then twisted into a sickening grin. “So boy, you know there being a drought and all we just can’t afford to let everyone have what they want now can we. Don’t be so selfish, in fact I don’t think there’s enough water to go around for your pet to have some too.” I watched in horror as his hand then reached down for gun resting on his hip, I tried to scream out for him to stop, I begged and I pleaded, but he wouldn’t listen. He aimed his gun at Winter and fired. I screamed, and time suddenly seemed to slow down as large glow came from the stone in my pack. Then a large surge of energy occurred and sent the Skakdi flying off of me. His face contorted in rage and then shock as he laid eyes upon me. Then I noticed my image in the reflection of one of the glasses, only it wasn’t me, in my place stood a brilliant warrior in blue armor. I felt my Kakama working and dashed off towards Winter, healing the poor Rahi with my new found powers. Then my eyes turned back towards the Skakdi, “Guess what buddy, the drinks are on me.” Water then enveloped them all. ------------------------------------- Choice #2: "The Toa Stone" Everyone wants to be a Toa, to have a mask and pursue great things. I guess that throws me in with everyone else: only I’m a little more adventurous and successful than the rest. The others wait around for Destiny, play the good citizen and worship their Toa. Me? I don’t worship my Toa. I kill him. Toa are easy to kill, so despicably easy. They walk around in their bright armor with those impractical Toa Tools and their fancy Great Kanohi, basking in the adoration of the crowds. Have you ever seen it? Ever felt like vomiting at their pride? Because that’s all a Toa is. A buffoon who plays a demigod to us powerless shrimps. They don’t have to scrape about to survive, many don’t even get into a real battle their entire course. Or maybe once one presents itself they decide that their ‘Destiny’ is complete and that they should send out some innocent new Toa to get slaughtered. They tell me I’m too cynical about it: that my almost fanatical hatred of Toa makes me worse than the heroes themselves. I never answer them, I just give a sneer. Because I don’t care, and because my accusers are usually too stupid to even tell me what a Toa is. Toa are easy to kill. Anyone who studies the Toa dark Hunter war can tell you how lousy a fighting force they are. They want their foe to fight fair, they can’t even fathom them acting otherwise. A swift assassination they can never handle. A good knife is all I need, and I have it. Short little me, a flimsy Ta-Matoran. Tonight I’m going to be a Toa. I don’t need an alibi story. This village is never going to see me again after tonight. Unless I decide to torch the place to test my power. That might be fun. I leave my house in the early morning, before anyone can notice me. A note on my door to tell anyone who passes that I’ve gone hunting. I don’t think I would have planned it like this but for the fact that this is the last day of my Toa’s Destiny. Tomorrow he is a Turaga. Already the Toa Stone is prepared. I could leave him as a Turaga. But I won't. His house is bigger than the rest, but I force open a back window as easily as in any other house. The inside is comfortably furnished, better than most in the village. I’ll definitely torch this. There’s not much to do, so I hide myself away comfortably and wait, dagger in hand. It’s really no different than hunting. Hours pass my half opened eyes, and it’s almost evening before I hear the door opening. My eyes are certainly wide open now as I watch the Toa walk in, his black armor making him a dark figure in the waning light. He throws his short spear down by the door. Clearly very tired. Good. He comes closer. Killing him isn’t enough. I leap out in perfect timing, stabbing him deep in his leg. He gasps, falling to the ground even as I climb on top of him, stabbing him again. I let him see me for a moment as I raise my blade up, dripping with his blood. His eyes show fear and I drink it it. Then my knife puts out his heartlight. I search him, and give a soft shout of triumph as I grasp the black stone. Tonight my hunt is done, my search complete. I grasp the Toa Stone, feeling its energy coursing through me. I have found my power. ------------------------------------- Choice #3: "Desperate strength" He landed the wrong way when the rubble collapsed on him. His body slammed on the floor, whiplash from the fall knocking his mask somewhere into the dust. It was impossible to see anything beyond the debris, and his dazed condition made it even worse now. Pinned and winded, he lay limp on the concrete floor. “What happened? Are you still there?” a panic laced voice screamed. The pinned victim clamped his eyes tightly shut, the stimuli too much for his weakened condition. “Trapped...” the word moaned meekly from his mouth. “I got clear! I’m going for help!” Footsteps scuffled as the owner of the voice ran off, leaving him alone. Coughing, he sagged under the slab of concrete that pinned him, its weight practically unbearable. There was something pressing- probably impaling- his shoulder and tears of pain dripped down his smudged face as he struggled to free himself. Up above, he could hear the roof shake. The sound of rocks falling reached his ears from afar, and he shut his eyes, praying he would not die here. Fear of death made him squirm, wiggling only to feel the beam in his shoulder bury itself deeper. Gritting his teeth he abandoned all hope of comfort, and jerked his shoulder away. The pain was excruciating, and he felt the slab shift to another mighty pressure point on his body. A yell of agony rang from his lips. He gasped heavily as dust entered his lungs. As he jerked from the episode, however, he realized that he could move his torso. Very little it was able to maneuver, but he could still shift a little. Opening his eyes, he could see the beam directly above him, and tried not to think of the end that was snapped off. Above that in the grey shaft of light, the concrete that pinned his legs slanted away. He pushed on the beam, feeling the weight of the room working against him. His shoulder was on fire, but he shoved harder and harder against it, feeling it shift. Please don’t let anything fall on me, please don’t let anything fall on me... he silently begged. Using his weakened strength, he painfully pushed until he could no longer reach the wood. There was a metal barb ahead of him, across the floor, some steel that had snapped in the collapse, and now jutted out. His fingers were teased as he reached for it, struggling for excruciating minutes until his hands wrapped around it. His strength was failing as he pulled, and he desperately wished for his mask. It was a useless power, but if he could focus... little did he know, however, was that his panic was propelling him more than any mask ever would. There was something in his back that cracked as his legs were freed from under the slab. Maybe his spine was separated. He curled up and silently wept, as he felt all of his body parts still intact. Peering around after those few minutes of pain and relief at the same time, he looked for holes in the rubble to climb through. A noise. His attention snapped to the ceiling, but it was no sound of rubble shifting. A voice was not far away. “He got me free, but trapped himself in there, said he was pinned...” He needed not to be called. Urgency flooded his broken body, giving one last surge of willpower, and he miraculously picked himself up. He was definitely broken. But the hole there just needed a little pry so he could wiggle through... **** As a crowd gathered to see the collapsed building, he emerged. Disfigured and maskless, mangled in countless places and mangled, he stumbled out. Down the debris he tumbled as his body finally collapsed, but he needed not worry any longer, as he fell into the arms of a rescuer. ------------------------------------- Choice #4: "Choices and the World" He stumbled into the chamber, falling to his knees at the entrance, overwhelmed by the power residing within. A light shone on him, and he looked at it almost in awe. Before him on a pillar rested a golden Kanohi, the Ignika itself. Was it truly glowing, or was that merely the immense power flowing from it? It seemed to him that in another moment the power would overwhelm him, destroying the intruder of its sanctuary - but then it retreated into itself, merely resting before him. He could till sense its presence, but now it seemed...inviting? Hesitantly, the Toa reached out and touched it. Instantly, his mind was flooded with images and sensations - so many, many memories of things now gone. Its creation, the tests of its power, all its experiences of the Great Beings and their doings around it - things alien, breathtaking to the Toa passed into his mind in an instant, up to the moment the mask had been left in its chamber. It showed him all its purpose and its power, and then stopped. Then he felt a clear thought from it. Its purpose was to save the Toa's world. But it knew nothing of that world, and it was curious. In exchange for its memories, it wanted the Toa to share his own. Then it would accomplish its destiny and his. Very well, he thought. A small enough price to pay for the life of the universe. He opened up his memories. First came his days as a Matoran, in his little village surrounded by the wilderness. Tending the village herd of Mukau. Solitary walks in the forest. Friendly conversations in the square. Calm, peaceful memories filled with contentment and appreciation of the beauties of the world. Then he was made a Toa, and things changed. His village did not need him, so he began traveling. Wandering, helping anyone he could, never settling down. He had begun to see more of the world then, but those were lonely memories, and he was glad they only spanned a few years.After that, he met Jovan, a Toa of Magnetism, and his team, and was invited to join them. Traveling and adventure as a group; protecting the Matoran and each other from all dangers; forging bonds that could never be broken. That filled a thousand years, and he showed it all - every joy, every fear, every sorrow- until he reached their present mission. It was during the Civil War in Metru Nui that the world began changing. Plant life was dying, Rahi were decreasing and weakening. And then the stars began fading. Fear. Everyone afraid, afraid because the world is going wrong and they can't fix it. Even Jovan shows it. And Jovan had decided to do something about it, researching, tracking down rumors, legends...anything their team could find. The team called together, told for the first time about the Ignika. Hope. Finally, something to be done to save the world. Traveling to the site of the legend. Searching for any sort of clue - and then running into Axonn and Brutaka. Being told the whole, complete truth -being told one of the team would die. The Toa relived all the battles and traps as they descended the stairs, every one. Finding the Chamber of Life. At last. At last the power that will save our world is found. But...which one of us will it take? Let it be me, don't let it be me let it be me don't let it be- And then they felt the power, reaching out, evaluating them, and it settled on the Toa. It's me.The Toa left his memories, reaching the present. Is that enough, Kanohi Ignika? He asked. Are you satisfied with my world? The mask was...intrigued. There was so much in his world, so much good and evil mixed, so much life. And he sensed it also found him intriguing. It had seen throughout his memories that he had a strong fear of death, and yet here he was asking to use it. He knew the consequences... He flinched. Yes.It's because of my world. I love it too much to want to leave it, but I also love it too much to let it die. Dying is my best choice, but still a bad one. He paused. Does that satisfy you? The mask decided that it did. The Toa was granted permission to use its power for his beloved world. -------------------------------------

Vote here for your favorite Find the Power story; entries have been randomized. Please MAKE SURE YOU READ ALL ENTRIES BEFORE VOTING.Voting begins now and will end on July 4th at 11:59 PM EST. Entries that do well will move on to the Find the Power Final Poll, which will be posted at the conclusion of the 10th round preliminary poll. Choice #1: "Find the Power" Just yesterday, I was a handsome Av-Matoran. Now, I'm a monster. A small, green and black Matoran thought as he sat down in his cave. What will I do now? Both sides hate me. All I can do is sit here and fight my own battles. "Hello Kranos." A familiar voice said. "Made a decision yet?" "No." Kranos replied flatly. "And it doesn't matter what you think. You're dead." "Oh come on. If I were dead, then how could I be here?" The voice said, stepping out of the shadow. "Zek, you died five weeks ago when the Makuta first attacked. I know because I saw you roll off that cliff and plummet into the swamps below. No one could have survived that." Kranos said. "And yet, I am here." Zek said. "No, you're not." Kranos said, annoyed. "You're just a figment of my imagination." "Oh really? Prove it." Zek said, snickering. How Kranos would love to pick up his sword and stab this ghost. But that was the evil talking. Five weeks ago, the Makuta began their assault on Karda Nui. Zek, Kranos, Kirop, Radiak, and Gavla had all been struck by Shadow Leaches, creatures that sucked the light out of you, leaving nothing but a shell full of darkness, hate, and evil. Zek had rolled off of a cliff in his agony and fallen at least forty-thousand feet into the swamps below, where the beasts that dwell down there would feast on his flesh. Kranos had ripped the leach off of his face before he lost his mind. At least, not all of his mind. Kranos' body had changed, but his mind was in a state where a perpetual conflict existed. A battle between good and evil; light and darkness. How easy it would be to let the evil take over, but Kranos would not allow that to happen. He would fight to find the power to keep the darkness at bay until he could find a cure. "Well? What are you waiting for Kranos. Kill me." Zek said. "I can't kill you. You're not real Zek." Kranos said. "Nice try, Makuta." He finished as Zek disappeared. "You're right, misfit. You can't kill him. But I can kill you." The Makuta said as he dropped from the cave ceiling. "This will be extremely fun. But I'll give you one last chance to side with the Makuta." "Why would I do that after what you did to me?" Kranos said, drawing his sword. 'What I did to you? I made you stronger, faster, deadlier. I made you perfect." The Makuta sneered. "Perfect? I'm anything but perfect." Kranos said, edging closer to the dark entity. "Well then, it's been nice knowing you, Kranos." The Makuta said. It was a fierce battle between Kranos and the Makuta. Kranos would go in for a low blow to the Makuta's legs, but the Makuta parried easily. The batle raged on and on for half an hour, twisting and turning. Both sides determined to win. But in the end, with a sword though his thigh, Kranos fell. "Farewell, Kranos. My work here is done." The Makuta said as he flew away. White was in the edges of Kranos' eyes, he knew that his time had come. Thank you, Makuta. Kranos said, he didn't even think that he would ever say those words. But the Makuta had ended his suffering and helped Kranos find the power to follow the light. As Kranos lay still on the cold, hard ground, he closed his eyes and greeted Zek on the edges of reality. ------------------------------------- Choice #2: "Power Source" Onua rose slowly, feeling the power of his mask flood his limbs as he pushed himself upright. The Pakari had always granted him strength far beyond the normal limits of any being, and even now it continued to do so. In fact, rather than being damaged in any way by… by whatever had just happened, it seemed to have grown in power, if that were possible – he felt as though he could lift the island itself as easily as any of the others could a pebble. He called upon the power of the Miru— He cleared his throat. The power of the Miru— Nothing. So their little bath had destroyed his other masks? Quickly he reached out for his Akaku – nothing. Hau – nope. Kakama – still no. Kaukau? There wasn’t any way to test it here, but he expected the result would be the same. He glanced down at himself for the first time. His form was bulkier, stronger, more powerful even than it had been before, which was certainly saying something. Sleek silver armor covered his body, accentuating every rippling muscle. He tapped the plating on his forearm softly – he doubted anything would be getting through that within the next millennium or three. He examined the hand he’d just used. Minutes ago, powerful claws would have erupted from his fingers at a thought, but this, too, had changed. Simply a hand, he thought, flexing his fingers. How could he protect his koro without— Slowly, instinctively, his hands drifted to his back and were greeted by cold, hard metal. He withdrew the weapons, examining them. Some kind of complex machinery – a long shaft fitted with a belt and dozens of sharp metal blades. Maybe he could… The weapons roared to life, the blades dissolving into a blur and reappearing moments later as he mentally shut them off. Certainly these would be far more efficient at tunneling through the earth than his claws had been. And with practice, they would be deadly in combat. He finally looked up, taking in the dark cavern. His fellow Toa were, like him, mesmerized by their new forms. Tahu had gotten his hands on some new blades, blades which were now engulfed in fire and whirling about in a flurry of flashy maneuvers. Pohatu was repeatedly vanishing and reappearing in another corner of the cavern before Onua could register he’d moved at all. Lewa, like Tahu, had been engrossed by his new weapons, a pair of swords that he was clearly more than eager to learn to use. Kopaka was simply leaning against a wall, looking on in disapproval – typical. Gali had focused her attention on something else. She stood at the center of the cavern, gazing at an object that seemed to hover in the air. It was a cube, a cube carved with odd symbols and glowing with blue light. Onua made his way toward it cautiously, both apprehensive about the object before him and worried that Pohatu might not be watching where he was going and run him over. Within a few moments the rest of the Toa had gathered. Lewa was the first to speak. “So, uh… what’s the deal with the glow-bright cube-thing?” No one had an answer. They stood in silence for a few moments before Kopaka extended his arm. “Wait,” Tahu interjected. “We have no idea what—” The Ice Toa silenced their leader with a glare as cold as his homeland and snapped his arm forward, his hand tapping the cube and then retreating to its place at his side. A brilliant flash of light flooded the cavern and the Toa backed up as one, Lewa aiming his new blades at the cube. Tahu angled his for Kopaka, a curse on his lips. Ah, priorities. A moment later the light had cleared, and, oddly, the cube seemed to be missing a side. A side, Onua realized suddenly, that Kopaka held in his hand. “What—” Pohatu began. Kopaka cut him off. “It’s cold,” he said, gazing at the square of stone. “Cold even to me. It houses power.” He looked up. “My power.” Immediately Tahu stepped forward, touching the cube and claiming a piece as his own. The remaining Toa followed suit, Onua stepping forward last. Reluctantly, he grabbed the only side left. What Kopaka said was true – he could feel his own power emanating from the symbol in his hands. Should something like this really be removed from its proper place? But he said nothing. ------------------------------------- Choice #3: "The Process of Invention" Turaga Dume,As per your request, I'm sending you updates with regard to the Metru Nui mass transportation system you have requested me to design. I've spent the last several weeks contemplating various methods. I've decided that ground based transportation will not do-- the Metrus are far too varied in terrain. Since Matoran are made of metallic components, I've figured we can use that combined with an electromagnetic field can propel ourselves along tracks. I've done small scale testing that this does work. Granted my small scale designs would result in Matoran death and island wide blackouts if I took them to large scale, but I'm still working on it. I move on to large scale modeling next week.-Your humble servant, Tuuri. Turaga Dume,Large scale modeling has proved extremely unsuccessful. My current setup consist of three rings, each containing six electromagnets. The only thing I managed to do was almost start a fire-- too much power is required for the electromagnets. You suggested in your reply that I abandon my ring transportation and instead design new hovercraft. I respectfully disagree that this is more efficient. They will keep Matoran waiting, and they will be slower than my rings. I also feel that this method provides more opportunities for scientific breakthroughs. Anyway, I'm reducing the number of electromagnets to draw less power. I hope it works. Most Noble Turaga Dume,With all due respect, Turaga, I'm not sure why you're so opposed to invention. Without dedicated craftsman we wouldn't have such a luxurious, beautiful city to reside in. Through innovation we can open up doors for future projects. If my system works we can create an entirely new industry! Doesn't that sound better for the city than relying on upgraded existing technology? I apologize if I'm out of line, but I hope I can convince you to let me keep trying the project. Anyway, I've finished constructing the new electromagnets and will test shortly. I will update you soon. Turaga Dume,Reducing the number of electromagnets did indeed draw less power, but it created a much less stable field. Any object I put into the rings has a good chance of flying out, which means Matoran deaths. On a tangent, I've also been thinking about what you said, about innovation versus resourcefulness. I confess I didn't think about the benefits of boosting existing industries rather thank creating new ones, and I concede that you have a point. I'm honestly not sure what to do here. In the meantime, I'm going to investigate the potential for hovercraft I have a meeting with a Protodermis Engineer in Ga-Metru next week and she'll be sure to have some ideas of what materials work best. Turaga,When touring the Ga-Metru refineries I was introduced to purified liquid protodermis. I think I may have solved my problem! My next letter will not come for a while, but when it does it will either have designs for rings or hovercraft! Turaga!I solved the issue! Turns out that pure protodermis has similar properties to metals, as does the substance in liquid form. I won't confuse you with details, but basically by using four electromagnets I was able to create a field between two rings that carried along the protodermis, acting as a barrier, stabilizing the previously unsafe field. With your permission I'd like to build a full scale test model at the Le-Metru racetrack. I will use myself as a test subject. Turaga Dume,Thank you for coming yesterday to oversee the full scale test! I've enclosed the full report of how I felt while riding the chute system, but the important part is that I think this will be an easy system for Matoran to use. With your permission, I will present my idea to formally launch the project at the committee meeting next week. Tuuri,You have accomplished much over the past year, and you have a lot to be proud of! Your report was thorough, and I have no doubt the committees will be satisfied and will approve the project. I heard that Lhikan even took a test run through the test chute and found it an enjoyable experience. I foresee your system greatly improving communication amongst our great city, and I hope that you will continue to use your creativity to better Metru-Nui. For finding the power to persevere beyonds failures and doubts (of even myself!) you have my utmost respect and appreciation.-Dume ------------------------------------- Choice #4: “Isn’t this just the best?” “…” “There’s really nothing better than being under constant threat of death.” “…” “Indeed, this is a fine morning for the suicidal. Why, if I wasn’t having so much fun, I would violently eviscerate myself!” Yrena tried her best to ignore her companion, but her patience was running out. In addition to making her even more nervous than she already was, Wofke wasn’t being particularly quiet (Not that he ever was…), and the danger of being heard was not negligible. “Please be quiet. You’ll get both of us killed!” “Gosh, I sure hope so. This wait itself is just killing me.” “Shut up! Someone will hear you, and we really will get killed.” “Oh darn, I guess I’m not being loud enough HEY PEoporghghg” “Why would you do that?! Do you really want to die?!” “Of course I do! After all, I let you of all people drag me here!” Yrena let go of him. He was being difficult and selfish, and he knew it. “Just…you know just how important this is.” “Yeeees! Finding the artifacts is so important enough that the Turaga thought it apt to offer two healthy Matoran sacrifices to the Great Spirit.” “This wasn’t their choice, and you know it. Toa Nuroka chose us.” “Doesn’t matter. So long as we still get to die, I’m fine.” Yrena sighed. Wofke was being terrible, but she knew it wasn’t fair to blame him for panicking. For as long as they’d known each other, he never once had been interested in heroics. It had always been her who had been most involved in the affairs of the Toa. She was fascinated, and longed for nothing more than to be one. Wofke had been a simple sculptor. His life began and ended with his work in his workshop. He and Yrena were lifelong friends, but their interests were completely dissimilar. When Toa Nuroka disappeared and the Turaga revealed that the two of them were Destined to be the next Toa, Yrena saw all of her dreams fulfilled. Wofke, in turn, saw his peaceful life fall to pieces. His life, as far as he was concerned, was already over. Could he really want to die? Yrena wouldn’t accept that. Unfortunately for them both, the Toa Stones required for their conversion had been stolen and hidden away when the Toa vanished. To receive their future power, they first had to find it. As they found themselves entering the Dark Hunter-infested canyon, it was only natural that their emotions would be on edge. But Wofke was practically delirious. “Say, dear friend, what says the map? The sooner we can find ourselves in as many little pieces as possible, the better.”Yrena had been given a special stone map crafted to detect Nuroka’s energies even if he was gone. Unfortunately, it wasn’t overwhelmingly accurate. “As far as I can see, we’re close. They should be somewhere in that general direction,” she said, pointing. “But chances are high they’ll be hidden and closely guarded. We can’t just walk in” “I don’t see any guards. I better go look for some in that general direction” As he ran rashly into the cave where the Toa Stones were located, Yrena tried to call him back, but decided it was futile. She ran to follow him and found himstanding alone, the surrounding area devoid of any sign of life. “Well, bummer. It doesn’t look like anyone is here to chop off our little Matoran heads. That is one disappointment I could have done without. “Wofke, you’re a moron…but it seems like this was the best opportunity we could have hoped for. Come on, help me look.” Then she noticed him already holding the two stones on his hands, looking at them as if mesmerized. “How odd…they were just barely buried. What a poor digging job.” “You found them! Wofke, this is great. Now we can leave this all behind!” He was looking hard at his stone, his expression unreadable. “I don’t want to die either, Wofke.” “That’s good.” “I don’t want to die,” she repeated, pointing at a mound of sand he now saw concealed the body of Toa Nuroka. “Not like him. Not ever.” “Oh. So he died.” “He died the day he became a Toa.” “And us?” “I guess…we’re going to die soon, too. That’s what finding this power meant.” “Oh, joy.” “But I think it’s fine.” “How can any of this be fine?” “We’ll be together. Just like now.” -------------------------------------

Vote here for your favorite Find the Power story; entries have been randomized. Please MAKE SURE YOU READ ALL ENTRIES BEFORE VOTING.Voting begins now and will end on July 4th at 11:59 PM EST. Entries that do well will move on to the Find the Power Final Poll, which will be posted at the conclusion of the 10th round preliminary poll. Choice #1: "Lesovikk's Mistake" Lesovikk had been searching for days, it seemed. Ever since he had become a water-breather, nothing had gone right for him. After all, nothing hadever gone right for him, especially after the death of his team. As he trudged through the pit, in search of anything that could assist him in his journey to again be an air-breather, he thought that he ought to have died with them. He trudged through the water, each step yielding yet another cold wave of ice cold water. But he couldn't feel it- he was numbed beyond that. The lone Toa of air was about ready to give up for the day and rest, when, nestled against the peak of a rock formation, was it: The mask of life. Immediately bursting off, he tore through the water in the direction of the mask. Just as he reached it, however, it tore loose of its position and began falling. Unfortunately, it was falling right off of a cliff face- he would have to dive further for it. And so he did. Forming his body into an aerodynamic structure, he quickly descending faster than the Ignika. It was nearly in his finger tips, when out of nowhere, it was snatched by a tentacled being. He stopped short, chasing the eight-tentacled beast into its cave. He pulled out his sword, even as they reached a dead end. "That mask will be mine," he said with a mad passion, the cries of a desperate man. He slashed and jabbed until the creature was mince meat, not letting up into he was sure it was dead, and then pulling it out of its cold, dead clutches. With a yell of triumph, he lifted the mask!... ...which was merely a rock carving, holding an egg inside. He had found what he thought to be the power to save him. However, he had merely brought more death to the pit. Indeed. He should've died with his team. ------------------------------------- Choice #2: "Legacy" In a cave far beneath the surface, a spire of crystal glowed. It pulsed slowly in the darkness, a rhythmic sigh of light that cast a pale green glow on the stone and dirt that surrounded it. Twenty thousand years had it pulsed, and twenty thousand more it was willing to, or twenty thousand after that. A hammer swung out of the shadows and shattered it. A thousand fragments hung in the air, as though they were supported by the light that turned them to stars for that single instant, and then they clattered to the ground. The hammer’s owner peered down into the remains of the spire, and a simple green keypad stared back up, its soft glow undeterred by the loss of its casing. “Show-off,” the jungle Agori muttered, and punched in a string of numbers that had not been used since the day his planet had turned to three. Silently, ponderously, the back wall of the cave fell away, and beyond it he saw stacks of machines humming to themselves, carrying out the instructions of a bygone age. Vatomu stepped slowly inside, feeling all around him the energy of a peoples long lost. At the far end of the passage, he found a dais of metal and stone, symbols and circuits etched into it and given life by the same green energy that danced all around him. He approached it silently, waiting for any sort of response. One came. The voice of the Great Being was soft and familiar, recorded long ago but somehow vibrant in a way that made him feel that if he turned he would see the creator before him, ceremonial robes and protosteel mask untouched by time or tempest. If you have come this far, then I am long gone. I know not how, or when, but we have fallen. The fact you gained entrance to this chamber is proof that you were a friend to us. I know not if you are Agori or Glatorian or Matoran or Toa, but you knew us. I will not make false claims. The knowledge stored within here is powerful, but it is merely a fraction of what we learned. I ask that you take it, and build from it what you would. Bring glory to your world. A pedestal rose from the stone before him, a screen and keys sliding out from it. Vatomu stood there a long time, his eyes closed, listening to the quiet buzz of the machines around him, breathing the air that had an edge to it that he hadn’t tasted in years. He thought of the voice that had spoken to him, of its owner, of choices he’d made and words they’d exchanged. Smiling, he opened his eyes. “Was this your way of making amends, Telerus? Or was this what you wanted from the very beginning?” There was no response. Sighing, he stepped forward to the controls and looked at them. Then he raised the hammer high and brought it down, and again, and again, and when there was nothing left he turned to the still-crackling machines and continued his work, pounding and pounding until he felt certain the hammer would shatter, and when it finally did he reached into his pack and drew out another and turned to the next machine. In time, there was a dying whirr, and the lights of the chamber faded away, leaving the Agori alone in the darkness. He stood there, panting; the tool slipped from his hand and clattered to the ground. Shaking his head, he reached into his pack and pulled from it a torch doused in oil and a flint. A few strikes was all it took to illuminate the chamber once more. He smiled sadly at his handiwork. “Wherever you are now, you piece of dirt, I hope you can see this. And I hope it hurts you the way watching us die by the thousands never could.” And then he turned and made for the surface. There was surviving to be done. ------------------------------------- Choice #3: "Fear of Failure" The vista shimmered and shifted in the relentless desert heat. Spreading low across the horizon was an incoming black cloud. Only she knew it wasn't a cloud. Toa Teor felt her knees trembling beneath her. They were coming. They were coming for her, and for the village behind her. Their relentless attacks had never ceased over the last few weeks. Their dead were heaped around the village, but they always came again. They came and they came and only when they were viciously repelled did they cease, only to return the next day. Raw terror gripped her heart. What was a lone Toa of Water to do? The rest of her team had already been killed in the previous battles, and she was left all alone. What if she failed? What if she couldn't stop them? True, they were fewer now, but there were still dozens of them. What if she couldn't do it, what if they reached the village? She nearly buckled in the sweltering heat. What was she to do? She was now the only thing standing between those monsters and the Matoran. And what if she failed? She couldn't blot out that thought, the fear of abject failure. The Matoran were depending on her, they believed in her, and what would happen now? They were all about to die. But no! She could still do this! Weak though she was, she was a brave, strong Toa, and surely if anyone could stop the incoming hoards, it was her! She said this to herself over and over, the words becoming a monotonous drone. You can do this, you can do this. . . Each time the words lost some of their meaning until they became an empty buzz. The Rahi weren't far off now. They would arrive in a few moments. Slowly she dragged her disagreeable legs forward, knowing that strategy demanded meeting them as far from the village as possible. This time she did buckle, before forcing herself to rise again. Who was she fooling? She couldn't do this. She was going to die, and the Matoran with her. She had no real hope. She froze, motionless, as the hoards began to converge upon her. Their gleaming fangs and slavering jaws loomed in on her vision, moving as if in slow motion. Her body felt like stone. Would she even be able to move, she wondered? Would she just stand there as they passed her by, leaving the doomed village to its fate? Her mind ticked down to a standstill. Then, tick by slow tick, the gears of her mind began to move again. They gained speed, and she knew what to do. Without any real conscious thought, she charged forwards with a terrible war cry, raising her scythe and summoning what little water remained in the air. Two of the monsters were dead before they realized that she had actually attacked them. Soon the ground was strewn with their dead. Teor didn't have time to think, she was in a constant state of action and reaction. Twice she narrowly avoided the giant claws, thrice the jaws. But finally she found herself caught between massive incisors. It was then that she saw a great light in the sky, and the cries and the tears broke forth from her before she died. She failed. But she had tried. ------------------------------------- Choice #4: "The Secret of Power" “It was as if someone had taken rage and evil and given those qualities a body to walk around in.” – Legacy of Evil Power . . . Some work their whole lives for it. Some never find it. Some hunger for it. Some lust after it. I need it. I was destined for it. I was shaped and prepared all my life for it. I am only alive because I it is my destiny to become it. Power and I are as one. We are meant to be. Power . . . It gives life. It takes it. It moves mountains or it destroys them. It controls the world. Someday, so will I. I knew what power was since before I can remember. I was once a slave, domineered like all the rest of the lowlife, mortified and humiliated and beat into raw, submissive fear. Every slave knows the existence of power; it is what oppresses them, it is what forces them to their work each day. It is the force they fear. But from the first I recognized power for what it truly is. Strength. The strength I needed to become more than I was. I realized power has always been what I need. I fought for it. I worked and slaved for it. Every day in the mine I worked harder and grew stronger. Because, oh yes, power only comes to those who work for it. And I hunted it. I fought. I killed as many slavedriver as I could get my hands on. If a slave got in my way I would kill him, too. If a Stone Rat crawled by under my feet, I crushed it beneath my heel. That’s strength. That’s power. I was punished—oh! Karzahni! was I punished! I was lashed, and beaten, and starved, and chained, and they worked me harder than ever. Every punishment imaginable, and unimaginable, was inflicted on me in those days. But I never gave up. I always fought back. That’s power. The other slaves began to fear me. Even the slavedrivers feared me. They punished me because they feared my strength and my power. That’s when the Dark Hunters found me, and that’s why they “took me in.” No. I took them in. I took power into my heart and I was never letting it go. I had never tasted true power. I could still do nothing more than dream of it. I wanted more. I needed more. I trained. I fought. I fought harder every day, and I grew stronger. I gained respect and fear. I only needed one thing more. Power. So I seized it. I failed. I will never fail again. I might have died. I should have died. But I didn’t. I gained more power. That was my destiny. It is my destiny still. And now I’ve found it. From the most unlikely source, I’ve found it. Some fool of a Makuta, Tridax or Teridax or one of them, I don’t care which, left his plans lying around. Pure luck that I stumbled upon them. Luck? No. Destiny. This Makuta’s plan may be clever, but that doesn’t make him any less a fool. I was meant to discover his secrets. Power is my destiny. Not his. I will work for it. I will fight for it. It will be mine. My precious power . . . it is meant to be mine! I am Zaktan! I have found the power I need . . . ------------------------------------- Choice #5: "Searching for a Power Source" Nuparu turned the hand crank, which lifted up the mining elevator. He was the engineer stationed at the elevator, and as such it was his job to operate it by hand when the miners needed to get out of the Great Mine. The elevator wasn’t a bad design: Nuparu had been one of the engineers who crafted the system of pulleys which would lift up the cab and get Matoran to different levels quickly. Unfortunately, it had to be powered by a Matoran. They had tried to use Ussal Crabs, but the Rahi were too inconsistent with their pulling, so the job was left to the engineer on duty. Nuparu knew it was inefficient. If he could create some way to power the pulley system, then it would free him up to work on other useful tasks. But where could he find a power source reliable enough? As the elevator reached his level, Nuparu let off the crank and secured it into position. The miners gratefully exited the cab. Nuparu leaned back to rest for a bit, nut then Onepu, Whenua’s right hand Matoran, walked up to him. “Nuparu, I am reassigning you to the scouting team that’s leaving for Le-Wahi,” Onepu said. “But they’re just going to collect fruit,” Nuparu said. “Why do you need me to go with them?” He had been hoping to get home and work on some of his inventions in his spare time. “The tunnel on the way isn’t in the best shape, so your skills might come in handy if there are any issues with the rocks or the cart,” Onepu said. “Besides, we’ve called it a day for the miners, so you don’t need to work the elevator.” Nuparu begrudgingly went to his new position, and before he knew it he was on an Ussal cart heading down a tunnel towards the jungle. Once they got there, the other Matoran insisted that he help pick berries. He approached one tree to grab its bounty, when one of the Matoran stopped him. “Careful there,” he said. “That’s a Vuata Maca tree. Those pieces of Madu fruit are known to be explosive.” “Explosive?” Nuparu asked. “Why are they like that?” The Matoran shrugged. “No clue, but best to be wary around them.” Despite the warning, Nuparu’s interested was piqued. In secret, he carefully collected some of the Madu fruit and brought them back with him. In his hut, he started experimenting with the fruit. Their explosiveness, he learned, was determined by their ripeness, so some were safer to pick than others. But the juices of the fruit contained a large amount of potential energy, and Nuparu wondered if he could harness it in ways other than explosions. He began to fiddle with the fruit by inserting wires into the sides. Over time, he discovered that he could power simple machinery in his hut with the fruit, although only for a limited amount of time. He gathered more fruit and began building circuits, and soon his hut was full of Madu fruit that provided battery power to his many appliances. But Nuparu wasn’t satisfied with just that alone; what if the Madu fruit could be used elsewhere, like in the Great Mines? He made his project official, and got approval from the Turaga to begin harvesting Madu fruit in bulk. Over time, he grew tired of the journeys to the surface to collect the fruit, so he collected seeds from the Vuata Maca tree and planted one underground, where he utilized lightstones to mimic sunlight. It took months for the tree to start to grow, and it was another full year before it began to bear fruit. By then, Nuparu was reaching the limit with what he could power with just the fruit. It would not be enough to help in the mines. But as he watched the tree grow, he realized that the energy in the fruit was also within the tree itself. And then, after two years of hard work and research, Nuparu managed to draw electric energy directly from the Vuata Maca tree. The energy was used to power all of Onu-Koro, including the elevators in the great mines. And soon, the other villages learned about the discovery, and they started planting Vuata Maca trees of their own. Nuparu had indeed found the power he was looking for.

Polling period over; topic closed.

Polling period over; topic closed.

Polling period over; topic closed.

Theme #4: Find the Power Entry #1: "Find the Power" Just yesterday, I was a handsome Av-Matoran. Now, I'm a monster. A small, green and black Matoran thought as he sat down in his cave. What will I do now? Both sides hate me. All I can do is sit here and fight my own battles. "Hello Kranos." A familiar voice said. "Made a decision yet?" "No." Kranos replied flatly. "And it doesn't matter what you think. You're dead." "Oh come on. If I were dead, then how could I be here?" The voice said, stepping out of the shadow. "Zek, you died five weeks ago when the Makuta first attacked. I know because I saw you roll off that cliff and plummet into the swamps below. No one could have survived that." Kranos said. "And yet, I am here." Zek said. "No, you're not." Kranos said, annoyed. "You're just a figment of my imagination." "Oh really? Prove it." Zek said, snickering. How Kranos would love to pick up his sword and stab this ghost. But that was the evil talking. Five weeks ago, the Makuta began their assault on Karda Nui. Zek, Kranos, Kirop, Radiak, and Gavla had all been struck by Shadow Leaches, creatures that sucked the light out of you, leaving nothing but a shell full of darkness, hate, and evil. Zek had rolled off of a cliff in his agony and fallen at least forty-thousand feet into the swamps below, where the beasts that dwell down there would feast on his flesh. Kranos had ripped the leach off of his face before he lost his mind. At least, not all of his mind. Kranos' body had changed, but his mind was in a state where a perpetual conflict existed. A battle between good and evil; light and darkness. How easy it would be to let the evil take over, but Kranos would not allow that to happen. He would fight to find the power to keep the darkness at bay until he could find a cure. "Well? What are you waiting for Kranos. Kill me." Zek said. "I can't kill you. You're not real Zek." Kranos said. "Nice try, Makuta." He finished as Zek disappeared. "You're right, misfit. You can't kill him. But I can kill you." The Makuta said as he dropped from the cave ceiling. "This will be extremely fun. But I'll give you one last chance to side with the Makuta." "Why would I do that after what you did to me?" Kranos said, drawing his sword. 'What I did to you? I made you stronger, faster, deadlier. I made you perfect." The Makuta sneered. "Perfect? I'm anything but perfect." Kranos said, edging closer to the dark entity. "Well then, it's been nice knowing you, Kranos." The Makuta said. It was a fierce battle between Kranos and the Makuta. Kranos would go in for a low blow to the Makuta's legs, but the Makuta parried easily. The batle raged on and on for half an hour, twisting and turning. Both sides determined to win. But in the end, with a sword though his thigh, Kranos fell. "Farewell, Kranos. My work here is done." The Makuta said as he flew away. White was in the edges of Kranos' eyes, he knew that his time had come. Thank you, Makuta. Kranos said, he didn't even think that he would ever say those words. But the Makuta had ended his suffering and helped Kranos find the power to follow the light. As Kranos lay still on the cold, hard ground, he closed his eyes and greeted Zek on the edges of reality. ------------------------------------- Entry #2: "The Toa Stone" Everyone wants to be a Toa, to have a mask and pursue great things. I guess that throws me in with everyone else: only I’m a little more adventurous and successful than the rest. The others wait around for Destiny, play the good citizen and worship their Toa. Me? I don’t worship my Toa. I kill him. Toa are easy to kill, so despicably easy. They walk around in their bright armor with those impractical Toa Tools and their fancy Great Kanohi, basking in the adoration of the crowds. Have you ever seen it? Ever felt like vomiting at their pride? Because that’s all a Toa is. A buffoon who plays a demigod to us powerless shrimps. They don’t have to scrape about to survive, many don’t even get into a real battle their entire course. Or maybe once one presents itself they decide that their ‘Destiny’ is complete and that they should send out some innocent new Toa to get slaughtered. They tell me I’m too cynical about it: that my almost fanatical hatred of Toa makes me worse than the heroes themselves. I never answer them, I just give a sneer. Because I don’t care, and because my accusers are usually too stupid to even tell me what a Toa is. Toa are easy to kill. Anyone who studies the Toa dark Hunter war can tell you how lousy a fighting force they are. They want their foe to fight fair, they can’t even fathom them acting otherwise. A swift assassination they can never handle. A good knife is all I need, and I have it. Short little me, a flimsy Ta-Matoran. Tonight I’m going to be a Toa. I don’t need an alibi story. This village is never going to see me again after tonight. Unless I decide to torch the place to test my power. That might be fun. I leave my house in the early morning, before anyone can notice me. A note on my door to tell anyone who passes that I’ve gone hunting. I don’t think I would have planned it like this but for the fact that this is the last day of my Toa’s Destiny. Tomorrow he is a Turaga. Already the Toa Stone is prepared. I could leave him as a Turaga. But I won't. His house is bigger than the rest, but I force open a back window as easily as in any other house. The inside is comfortably furnished, better than most in the village. I’ll definitely torch this. There’s not much to do, so I hide myself away comfortably and wait, dagger in hand. It’s really no different than hunting. Hours pass my half opened eyes, and it’s almost evening before I hear the door opening. My eyes are certainly wide open now as I watch the Toa walk in, his black armor making him a dark figure in the waning light. He throws his short spear down by the door. Clearly very tired. Good. He comes closer. Killing him isn’t enough. I leap out in perfect timing, stabbing him deep in his leg. He gasps, falling to the ground even as I climb on top of him, stabbing him again. I let him see me for a moment as I raise my blade up, dripping with his blood. His eyes show fear and I drink it it. Then my knife puts out his heartlight. I search him, and give a soft shout of triumph as I grasp the black stone. Tonight my hunt is done, my search complete. I grasp the Toa Stone, feeling its energy coursing through me. I have found my power. ------------------------------------- Entry #3: "The Process of Invention" Turaga Dume,As per your request, I'm sending you updates with regard to the Metru Nui mass transportation system you have requested me to design. I've spent the last several weeks contemplating various methods. I've decided that ground based transportation will not do-- the Metrus are far too varied in terrain. Since Matoran are made of metallic components, I've figured we can use that combined with an electromagnetic field can propel ourselves along tracks. I've done small scale testing that this does work. Granted my small scale designs would result in Matoran death and island wide blackouts if I took them to large scale, but I'm still working on it. I move on to large scale modeling next week.-Your humble servant, Tuuri. Turaga Dume,Large scale modeling has proved extremely unsuccessful. My current setup consist of three rings, each containing six electromagnets. The only thing I managed to do was almost start a fire-- too much power is required for the electromagnets. You suggested in your reply that I abandon my ring transportation and instead design new hovercraft. I respectfully disagree that this is more efficient. They will keep Matoran waiting, and they will be slower than my rings. I also feel that this method provides more opportunities for scientific breakthroughs. Anyway, I'm reducing the number of electromagnets to draw less power. I hope it works. Most Noble Turaga Dume,With all due respect, Turaga, I'm not sure why you're so opposed to invention. Without dedicated craftsman we wouldn't have such a luxurious, beautiful city to reside in. Through innovation we can open up doors for future projects. If my system works we can create an entirely new industry! Doesn't that sound better for the city than relying on upgraded existing technology? I apologize if I'm out of line, but I hope I can convince you to let me keep trying the project. Anyway, I've finished constructing the new electromagnets and will test shortly. I will update you soon. Turaga Dume,Reducing the number of electromagnets did indeed draw less power, but it created a much less stable field. Any object I put into the rings has a good chance of flying out, which means Matoran deaths. On a tangent, I've also been thinking about what you said, about innovation versus resourcefulness. I confess I didn't think about the benefits of boosting existing industries rather thank creating new ones, and I concede that you have a point. I'm honestly not sure what to do here. In the meantime, I'm going to investigate the potential for hovercraft I have a meeting with a Protodermis Engineer in Ga-Metru next week and she'll be sure to have some ideas of what materials work best. Turaga,When touring the Ga-Metru refineries I was introduced to purified liquid protodermis. I think I may have solved my problem! My next letter will not come for a while, but when it does it will either have designs for rings or hovercraft! Turaga!I solved the issue! Turns out that pure protodermis has similar properties to metals, as does the substance in liquid form. I won't confuse you with details, but basically by using four electromagnets I was able to create a field between two rings that carried along the protodermis, acting as a barrier, stabilizing the previously unsafe field. With your permission I'd like to build a full scale test model at the Le-Metru racetrack. I will use myself as a test subject. Turaga Dume,Thank you for coming yesterday to oversee the full scale test! I've enclosed the full report of how I felt while riding the chute system, but the important part is that I think this will be an easy system for Matoran to use. With your permission, I will present my idea to formally launch the project at the committee meeting next week. Tuuri,You have accomplished much over the past year, and you have a lot to be proud of! Your report was thorough, and I have no doubt the committees will be satisfied and will approve the project. I heard that Lhikan even took a test run through the test chute and found it an enjoyable experience. I foresee your system greatly improving communication amongst our great city, and I hope that you will continue to use your creativity to better Metru-Nui. For finding the power to persevere beyonds failures and doubts (of even myself!) you have my utmost respect and appreciation.-Dume ------------------------------------- Entry #4: "The Secret of Power" “It was as if someone had taken rage and evil and given those qualities a body to walk around in.” – Legacy of Evil Power . . . Some work their whole lives for it. Some never find it. Some hunger for it. Some lust after it. I need it. I was destined for it. I was shaped and prepared all my life for it. I am only alive because I it is my destiny to become it. Power and I are as one. We are meant to be. Power . . . It gives life. It takes it. It moves mountains or it destroys them. It controls the world. Someday, so will I. I knew what power was since before I can remember. I was once a slave, domineered like all the rest of the lowlife, mortified and humiliated and beat into raw, submissive fear. Every slave knows the existence of power; it is what oppresses them, it is what forces them to their work each day. It is the force they fear. But from the first I recognized power for what it truly is. Strength. The strength I needed to become more than I was. I realized power has always been what I need. I fought for it. I worked and slaved for it. Every day in the mine I worked harder and grew stronger. Because, oh yes, power only comes to those who work for it. And I hunted it. I fought. I killed as many slavedriver as I could get my hands on. If a slave got in my way I would kill him, too. If a Stone Rat crawled by under my feet, I crushed it beneath my heel. That’s strength. That’s power. I was punished—oh! Karzahni! was I punished! I was lashed, and beaten, and starved, and chained, and they worked me harder than ever. Every punishment imaginable, and unimaginable, was inflicted on me in those days. But I never gave up. I always fought back. That’s power. The other slaves began to fear me. Even the slavedrivers feared me. They punished me because they feared my strength and my power. That’s when the Dark Hunters found me, and that’s why they “took me in.” No. I took them in. I took power into my heart and I was never letting it go. I had never tasted true power. I could still do nothing more than dream of it. I wanted more. I needed more. I trained. I fought. I fought harder every day, and I grew stronger. I gained respect and fear. I only needed one thing more. Power. So I seized it. I failed. I will never fail again. I might have died. I should have died. But I didn’t. I gained more power. That was my destiny. It is my destiny still. And now I’ve found it. From the most unlikely source, I’ve found it. Some fool of a Makuta, Tridax or Teridax or one of them, I don’t care which, left his plans lying around. Pure luck that I stumbled upon them. Luck? No. Destiny. This Makuta’s plan may be clever, but that doesn’t make him any less a fool. I was meant to discover his secrets. Power is my destiny. Not his. I will work for it. I will fight for it. It will be mine. My precious power . . . it is meant to be mine! I am Zaktan! I have found the power I need . . . ------------------------------------- Entry #5: "Awakening" “Well that guy was a bust, typical,” I groaned to my sole companion, a small hapaka, I had named Winter, based off when we first met, since then he’d always been by my side. Lately we’d been off a journey of sorts to find someone who could help out my village after a terrible drought. However nothing had been working, all the people we ran across tended to be mercenaries we couldn’t afford to hire. It left me wondering where the brave Toa Heroes of old had vanished to. Foolishly, I thought this last guy was going to be different, but the Turaga only mumbled some nonsense about the power to save my village resting within. I’d think I’d know if I had any sort of abilities to save my people, thanks for nothing you old hag. However if that hadn’t been odd enough he’d also thrown an odd blue rock my way, he said something about its power lying deep within, just like my own, and that it would awaken when I was ready. Another load of nonsense, but I figured I might be able to sell it at the very least, perhaps making a quick widget or two off it. “Hey Winter, what do you think,” I asked the Rahi while rubbing it behind the ears, “Think there’s someplace we can stop by to find some help?” He merely barked in response, but it was comforting none the less, at least I knew he wouldn’t turn his back on someone in need. That’s when I noticed a small tavern on the edge of the horizon, I figured stopping might be a good idea considering my throat was rather parched. So Winter and I began making our way over there, kicking up dust and sand as we walked across the barren lands. I hoped that this region hadn’t also been badly affected by the drought would have at least a couple drinks available. Yelling and loud laughter were the first things I heard when I neared the tavern, obviously the people inside were having a good time, I hoped that meant they’d be good people as well. However, the moment I opened the door everyone in the room went dead silent, it was rather unnerving to have all their glares focused on me and Winter. I noticed that in the entire Tavern there wasn’t a single Matoran, just Skakdi and other vile Piraka. Gulping, I nervously made my way towards the counter, planning for Winter and I to quickly get a drink and then be on our merry way. However the bartender‘s face just exuded obvious displeasure at my presence. “Um, I’d just like to buy some water for me and my Hapaka?” I asked meekly. My question was just answered by laughter emanating from the Skakdi sitting next to me, “Hear that boys, the kid wants a drink, doesn’t he realize there’s a drought going ‘round, we ain’t got nothing for useless pieces of trash,” his eyes then darted towards Winter, who had started baring his teeth, the Skakdi merely responded in kind. “Or his pet for that matter.” Then without warning his clawed hands grabbed my neck and brutally shoved me against the wall. His large teeth then twisted into a sickening grin. “So boy, you know there being a drought and all we just can’t afford to let everyone have what they want now can we. Don’t be so selfish, in fact I don’t think there’s enough water to go around for your pet to have some too.” I watched in horror as his hand then reached down for gun resting on his hip, I tried to scream out for him to stop, I begged and I pleaded, but he wouldn’t listen. He aimed his gun at Winter and fired. I screamed, and time suddenly seemed to slow down as large glow came from the stone in my pack. Then a large surge of energy occurred and sent the Skakdi flying off of me. His face contorted in rage and then shock as he laid eyes upon me. Then I noticed my image in the reflection of one of the glasses, only it wasn’t me, in my place stood a brilliant warrior in blue armor. I felt my Kakama working and dashed off towards Winter, healing the poor Rahi with my new found powers. Then my eyes turned back towards the Skakdi, “Guess what buddy, the drinks are on me.” Water then enveloped them all. ------------------------------------- Entry #6: “Isn’t this just the best?” “…” “There’s really nothing better than being under constant threat of death.” “…” “Indeed, this is a fine morning for the suicidal. Why, if I wasn’t having so much fun, I would violently eviscerate myself!” Yrena tried her best to ignore her companion, but her patience was running out. In addition to making her even more nervous than she already was, Wofke wasn’t being particularly quiet (Not that he ever was…), and the danger of being heard was not negligible. “Please be quiet. You’ll get both of us killed!” “Gosh, I sure hope so. This wait itself is just killing me.” “Shut up! Someone will hear you, and we really will get killed.” “Oh darn, I guess I’m not being loud enough HEY PEoporghghg” “Why would you do that?! Do you really want to die?!” “Of course I do! After all, I let you of all people drag me here!” Yrena let go of him. He was being difficult and selfish, and he knew it. “Just…you know just how important this is.” “Yeeees! Finding the artifacts is so important enough that the Turaga thought it apt to offer two healthy Matoran sacrifices to the Great Spirit.” “This wasn’t their choice, and you know it. Toa Nuroka chose us.” “Doesn’t matter. So long as we still get to die, I’m fine.” Yrena sighed. Wofke was being terrible, but she knew it wasn’t fair to blame him for panicking. For as long as they’d known each other, he never once had been interested in heroics. It had always been her who had been most involved in the affairs of the Toa. She was fascinated, and longed for nothing more than to be one. Wofke had been a simple sculptor. His life began and ended with his work in his workshop. He and Yrena were lifelong friends, but their interests were completely dissimilar. When Toa Nuroka disappeared and the Turaga revealed that the two of them were Destined to be the next Toa, Yrena saw all of her dreams fulfilled. Wofke, in turn, saw his peaceful life fall to pieces. His life, as far as he was concerned, was already over. Could he really want to die? Yrena wouldn’t accept that. Unfortunately for them both, the Toa Stones required for their conversion had been stolen and hidden away when the Toa vanished. To receive their future power, they first had to find it. As they found themselves entering the Dark Hunter-infested canyon, it was only natural that their emotions would be on edge. But Wofke was practically delirious. “Say, dear friend, what says the map? The sooner we can find ourselves in as many little pieces as possible, the better.”Yrena had been given a special stone map crafted to detect Nuroka’s energies even if he was gone. Unfortunately, it wasn’t overwhelmingly accurate. “As far as I can see, we’re close. They should be somewhere in that general direction,” she said, pointing. “But chances are high they’ll be hidden and closely guarded. We can’t just walk in” “I don’t see any guards. I better go look for some in that general direction” As he ran rashly into the cave where the Toa Stones were located, Yrena tried to call him back, but decided it was futile. She ran to follow him and found himstanding alone, the surrounding area devoid of any sign of life. “Well, bummer. It doesn’t look like anyone is here to chop off our little Matoran heads. That is one disappointment I could have done without. “Wofke, you’re a moron…but it seems like this was the best opportunity we could have hoped for. Come on, help me look.” Then she noticed him already holding the two stones on his hands, looking at them as if mesmerized. “How odd…they were just barely buried. What a poor digging job.” “You found them! Wofke, this is great. Now we can leave this all behind!” He was looking hard at his stone, his expression unreadable. “I don’t want to die either, Wofke.” “That’s good.” “I don’t want to die,” she repeated, pointing at a mound of sand he now saw concealed the body of Toa Nuroka. “Not like him. Not ever.” “Oh. So he died.” “He died the day he became a Toa.” “And us?” “I guess…we’re going to die soon, too. That’s what finding this power meant.” “Oh, joy.” “But I think it’s fine.” “How can any of this be fine?” “We’ll be together. Just like now.” ------------------------------------- Entry #7: "Lesovikk's Mistake" Lesovikk had been searching for days, it seemed. Ever since he had become a water-breather, nothing had gone right for him. After all, nothing hadever gone right for him, especially after the death of his team. As he trudged through the pit, in search of anything that could assist him in his journey to again be an air-breather, he thought that he ought to have died with them. He trudged through the water, each step yielding yet another cold wave of ice cold water. But he couldn't feel it- he was numbed beyond that. The lone Toa of air was about ready to give up for the day and rest, when, nestled against the peak of a rock formation, was it: The mask of life. Immediately bursting off, he tore through the water in the direction of the mask. Just as he reached it, however, it tore loose of its position and began falling. Unfortunately, it was falling right off of a cliff face- he would have to dive further for it. And so he did. Forming his body into an aerodynamic structure, he quickly descending faster than the Ignika. It was nearly in his finger tips, when out of nowhere, it was snatched by a tentacled being. He stopped short, chasing the eight-tentacled beast into its cave. He pulled out his sword, even as they reached a dead end. "That mask will be mine," he said with a mad passion, the cries of a desperate man. He slashed and jabbed until the creature was mince meat, not letting up into he was sure it was dead, and then pulling it out of its cold, dead clutches. With a yell of triumph, he lifted the mask!... ...which was merely a rock carving, holding an egg inside. He had found what he thought to be the power to save him. However, he had merely brought more death to the pit. Indeed. He should've died with his team. ------------------------------------- Entry #8: "Fear of Failure" The vista shimmered and shifted in the relentless desert heat. Spreading low across the horizon was an incoming black cloud. Only she knew it wasn't a cloud. Toa Teor felt her knees trembling beneath her. They were coming. They were coming for her, and for the village behind her. Their relentless attacks had never ceased over the last few weeks. Their dead were heaped around the village, but they always came again. They came and they came and only when they were viciously repelled did they cease, only to return the next day. Raw terror gripped her heart. What was a lone Toa of Water to do? The rest of her team had already been killed in the previous battles, and she was left all alone. What if she failed? What if she couldn't stop them? True, they were fewer now, but there were still dozens of them. What if she couldn't do it, what if they reached the village? She nearly buckled in the sweltering heat. What was she to do? She was now the only thing standing between those monsters and the Matoran. And what if she failed? She couldn't blot out that thought, the fear of abject failure. The Matoran were depending on her, they believed in her, and what would happen now? They were all about to die. But no! She could still do this! Weak though she was, she was a brave, strong Toa, and surely if anyone could stop the incoming hoards, it was her! She said this to herself over and over, the words becoming a monotonous drone. You can do this, you can do this. . . Each time the words lost some of their meaning until they became an empty buzz. The Rahi weren't far off now. They would arrive in a few moments. Slowly she dragged her disagreeable legs forward, knowing that strategy demanded meeting them as far from the village as possible. This time she did buckle, before forcing herself to rise again. Who was she fooling? She couldn't do this. She was going to die, and the Matoran with her. She had no real hope. She froze, motionless, as the hoards began to converge upon her. Their gleaming fangs and slavering jaws loomed in on her vision, moving as if in slow motion. Her body felt like stone. Would she even be able to move, she wondered? Would she just stand there as they passed her by, leaving the doomed village to its fate? Her mind ticked down to a standstill. Then, tick by slow tick, the gears of her mind began to move again. They gained speed, and she knew what to do. Without any real conscious thought, she charged forwards with a terrible war cry, raising her scythe and summoning what little water remained in the air. Two of the monsters were dead before they realized that she had actually attacked them. Soon the ground was strewn with their dead. Teor didn't have time to think, she was in a constant state of action and reaction. Twice she narrowly avoided the giant claws, thrice the jaws. But finally she found herself caught between massive incisors. It was then that she saw a great light in the sky, and the cries and the tears broke forth from her before she died. She failed. But she had tried. ------------------------------------- Entry #9: "Desperate strength" He landed the wrong way when the rubble collapsed on him. His body slammed on the floor, whiplash from the fall knocking his mask somewhere into the dust. It was impossible to see anything beyond the debris, and his dazed condition made it even worse now. Pinned and winded, he lay limp on the concrete floor. “What happened? Are you still there?” a panic laced voice screamed. The pinned victim clamped his eyes tightly shut, the stimuli too much for his weakened condition. “Trapped...” the word moaned meekly from his mouth. “I got clear! I’m going for help!” Footsteps scuffled as the owner of the voice ran off, leaving him alone. Coughing, he sagged under the slab of concrete that pinned him, its weight practically unbearable. There was something pressing- probably impaling- his shoulder and tears of pain dripped down his smudged face as he struggled to free himself. Up above, he could hear the roof shake. The sound of rocks falling reached his ears from afar, and he shut his eyes, praying he would not die here. Fear of death made him squirm, wiggling only to feel the beam in his shoulder bury itself deeper. Gritting his teeth he abandoned all hope of comfort, and jerked his shoulder away. The pain was excruciating, and he felt the slab shift to another mighty pressure point on his body. A yell of agony rang from his lips. He gasped heavily as dust entered his lungs. As he jerked from the episode, however, he realized that he could move his torso. Very little it was able to maneuver, but he could still shift a little. Opening his eyes, he could see the beam directly above him, and tried not to think of the end that was snapped off. Above that in the grey shaft of light, the concrete that pinned his legs slanted away. He pushed on the beam, feeling the weight of the room working against him. His shoulder was on fire, but he shoved harder and harder against it, feeling it shift. Please don’t let anything fall on me, please don’t let anything fall on me... he silently begged. Using his weakened strength, he painfully pushed until he could no longer reach the wood. There was a metal barb ahead of him, across the floor, some steel that had snapped in the collapse, and now jutted out. His fingers were teased as he reached for it, struggling for excruciating minutes until his hands wrapped around it. His strength was failing as he pulled, and he desperately wished for his mask. It was a useless power, but if he could focus... little did he know, however, was that his panic was propelling him more than any mask ever would. There was something in his back that cracked as his legs were freed from under the slab. Maybe his spine was separated. He curled up and silently wept, as he felt all of his body parts still intact. Peering around after those few minutes of pain and relief at the same time, he looked for holes in the rubble to climb through. A noise. His attention snapped to the ceiling, but it was no sound of rubble shifting. A voice was not far away. “He got me free, but trapped himself in there, said he was pinned...” He needed not to be called. Urgency flooded his broken body, giving one last surge of willpower, and he miraculously picked himself up. He was definitely broken. But the hole there just needed a little pry so he could wiggle through... **** As a crowd gathered to see the collapsed building, he emerged. Disfigured and maskless, mangled in countless places and mangled, he stumbled out. Down the debris he tumbled as his body finally collapsed, but he needed not worry any longer, as he fell into the arms of a rescuer. ------------------------------------- Entry #10: "Power Source" Onua rose slowly, feeling the power of his mask flood his limbs as he pushed himself upright. The Pakari had always granted him strength far beyond the normal limits of any being, and even now it continued to do so. In fact, rather than being damaged in any way by… by whatever had just happened, it seemed to have grown in power, if that were possible – he felt as though he could lift the island itself as easily as any of the others could a pebble. He called upon the power of the Miru— He cleared his throat. The power of the Miru— Nothing. So their little bath had destroyed his other masks? Quickly he reached out for his Akaku – nothing. Hau – nope. Kakama – still no. Kaukau? There wasn’t any way to test it here, but he expected the result would be the same. He glanced down at himself for the first time. His form was bulkier, stronger, more powerful even than it had been before, which was certainly saying something. Sleek silver armor covered his body, accentuating every rippling muscle. He tapped the plating on his forearm softly – he doubted anything would be getting through that within the next millennium or three. He examined the hand he’d just used. Minutes ago, powerful claws would have erupted from his fingers at a thought, but this, too, had changed. Simply a hand, he thought, flexing his fingers. How could he protect his koro without— Slowly, instinctively, his hands drifted to his back and were greeted by cold, hard metal. He withdrew the weapons, examining them. Some kind of complex machinery – a long shaft fitted with a belt and dozens of sharp metal blades. Maybe he could… The weapons roared to life, the blades dissolving into a blur and reappearing moments later as he mentally shut them off. Certainly these would be far more efficient at tunneling through the earth than his claws had been. And with practice, they would be deadly in combat. He finally looked up, taking in the dark cavern. His fellow Toa were, like him, mesmerized by their new forms. Tahu had gotten his hands on some new blades, blades which were now engulfed in fire and whirling about in a flurry of flashy maneuvers. Pohatu was repeatedly vanishing and reappearing in another corner of the cavern before Onua could register he’d moved at all. Lewa, like Tahu, had been engrossed by his new weapons, a pair of swords that he was clearly more than eager to learn to use. Kopaka was simply leaning against a wall, looking on in disapproval – typical. Gali had focused her attention on something else. She stood at the center of the cavern, gazing at an object that seemed to hover in the air. It was a cube, a cube carved with odd symbols and glowing with blue light. Onua made his way toward it cautiously, both apprehensive about the object before him and worried that Pohatu might not be watching where he was going and run him over. Within a few moments the rest of the Toa had gathered. Lewa was the first to speak. “So, uh… what’s the deal with the glow-bright cube-thing?” No one had an answer. They stood in silence for a few moments before Kopaka extended his arm. “Wait,” Tahu interjected. “We have no idea what—” The Ice Toa silenced their leader with a glare as cold as his homeland and snapped his arm forward, his hand tapping the cube and then retreating to its place at his side. A brilliant flash of light flooded the cavern and the Toa backed up as one, Lewa aiming his new blades at the cube. Tahu angled his for Kopaka, a curse on his lips. Ah, priorities. A moment later the light had cleared, and, oddly, the cube seemed to be missing a side. A side, Onua realized suddenly, that Kopaka held in his hand. “What—” Pohatu began. Kopaka cut him off. “It’s cold,” he said, gazing at the square of stone. “Cold even to me. It houses power.” He looked up. “My power.” Immediately Tahu stepped forward, touching the cube and claiming a piece as his own. The remaining Toa followed suit, Onua stepping forward last. Reluctantly, he grabbed the only side left. What Kopaka said was true – he could feel his own power emanating from the symbol in his hands. Should something like this really be removed from its proper place? But he said nothing. ------------------------------------- Entry #11: "Legacy" In a cave far beneath the surface, a spire of crystal glowed. It pulsed slowly in the darkness, a rhythmic sigh of light that cast a pale green glow on the stone and dirt that surrounded it. Twenty thousand years had it pulsed, and twenty thousand more it was willing to, or twenty thousand after that. A hammer swung out of the shadows and shattered it. A thousand fragments hung in the air, as though they were supported by the light that turned them to stars for that single instant, and then they clattered to the ground. The hammer’s owner peered down into the remains of the spire, and a simple green keypad stared back up, its soft glow undeterred by the loss of its casing. “Show-off,” the jungle Agori muttered, and punched in a string of numbers that had not been used since the day his planet had turned to three. Silently, ponderously, the back wall of the cave fell away, and beyond it he saw stacks of machines humming to themselves, carrying out the instructions of a bygone age. Vatomu stepped slowly inside, feeling all around him the energy of a peoples long lost. At the far end of the passage, he found a dais of metal and stone, symbols and circuits etched into it and given life by the same green energy that danced all around him. He approached it silently, waiting for any sort of response. One came. The voice of the Great Being was soft and familiar, recorded long ago but somehow vibrant in a way that made him feel that if he turned he would see the creator before him, ceremonial robes and protosteel mask untouched by time or tempest. If you have come this far, then I am long gone. I know not how, or when, but we have fallen. The fact you gained entrance to this chamber is proof that you were a friend to us. I know not if you are Agori or Glatorian or Matoran or Toa, but you knew us. I will not make false claims. The knowledge stored within here is powerful, but it is merely a fraction of what we learned. I ask that you take it, and build from it what you would. Bring glory to your world. A pedestal rose from the stone before him, a screen and keys sliding out from it. Vatomu stood there a long time, his eyes closed, listening to the quiet buzz of the machines around him, breathing the air that had an edge to it that he hadn’t tasted in years. He thought of the voice that had spoken to him, of its owner, of choices he’d made and words they’d exchanged. Smiling, he opened his eyes. “Was this your way of making amends, Telerus? Or was this what you wanted from the very beginning?” There was no response. Sighing, he stepped forward to the controls and looked at them. Then he raised the hammer high and brought it down, and again, and again, and when there was nothing left he turned to the still-crackling machines and continued his work, pounding and pounding until he felt certain the hammer would shatter, and when it finally did he reached into his pack and drew out another and turned to the next machine. In time, there was a dying whirr, and the lights of the chamber faded away, leaving the Agori alone in the darkness. He stood there, panting; the tool slipped from his hand and clattered to the ground. Shaking his head, he reached into his pack and pulled from it a torch doused in oil and a flint. A few strikes was all it took to illuminate the chamber once more. He smiled sadly at his handiwork. “Wherever you are now, you piece of dirt, I hope you can see this. And I hope it hurts you the way watching us die by the thousands never could.” And then he turned and made for the surface. There was surviving to be done. ------------------------------------- Entry #12: "Choices and the World" He stumbled into the chamber, falling to his knees at the entrance, overwhelmed by the power residing within. A light shone on him, and he looked at it almost in awe. Before him on a pillar rested a golden Kanohi, the Ignika itself. Was it truly glowing, or was that merely the immense power flowing from it? It seemed to him that in another moment the power would overwhelm him, destroying the intruder of its sanctuary - but then it retreated into itself, merely resting before him. He could till sense its presence, but now it seemed...inviting? Hesitantly, the Toa reached out and touched it. Instantly, his mind was flooded with images and sensations - so many, many memories of things now gone. Its creation, the tests of its power, all its experiences of the Great Beings and their doings around it - things alien, breathtaking to the Toa passed into his mind in an instant, up to the moment the mask had been left in its chamber. It showed him all its purpose and its power, and then stopped. Then he felt a clear thought from it. Its purpose was to save the Toa's world. But it knew nothing of that world, and it was curious. In exchange for its memories, it wanted the Toa to share his own. Then it would accomplish its destiny and his. Very well, he thought. A small enough price to pay for the life of the universe. He opened up his memories. First came his days as a Matoran, in his little village surrounded by the wilderness. Tending the village herd of Mukau. Solitary walks in the forest. Friendly conversations in the square. Calm, peaceful memories filled with contentment and appreciation of the beauties of the world. Then he was made a Toa, and things changed. His village did not need him, so he began traveling. Wandering, helping anyone he could, never settling down. He had begun to see more of the world then, but those were lonely memories, and he was glad they only spanned a few years.After that, he met Jovan, a Toa of Magnetism, and his team, and was invited to join them. Traveling and adventure as a group; protecting the Matoran and each other from all dangers; forging bonds that could never be broken. That filled a thousand years, and he showed it all - every joy, every fear, every sorrow- until he reached their present mission. It was during the Civil War in Metru Nui that the world began changing. Plant life was dying, Rahi were decreasing and weakening. And then the stars began fading. Fear. Everyone afraid, afraid because the world is going wrong and they can't fix it. Even Jovan shows it. And Jovan had decided to do something about it, researching, tracking down rumors, legends...anything their team could find. The team called together, told for the first time about the Ignika. Hope. Finally, something to be done to save the world. Traveling to the site of the legend. Searching for any sort of clue - and then running into Axonn and Brutaka. Being told the whole, complete truth -being told one of the team would die. The Toa relived all the battles and traps as they descended the stairs, every one. Finding the Chamber of Life. At last. At last the power that will save our world is found. But...which one of us will it take? Let it be me, don't let it be me let it be me don't let it be- And then they felt the power, reaching out, evaluating them, and it settled on the Toa. It's me.The Toa left his memories, reaching the present. Is that enough, Kanohi Ignika? He asked. Are you satisfied with my world? The mask was...intrigued. There was so much in his world, so much good and evil mixed, so much life. And he sensed it also found him intriguing. It had seen throughout his memories that he had a strong fear of death, and yet here he was asking to use it. He knew the consequences... He flinched. Yes.It's because of my world. I love it too much to want to leave it, but I also love it too much to let it die. Dying is my best choice, but still a bad one. He paused. Does that satisfy you? The mask decided that it did. The Toa was granted permission to use its power for his beloved world. ------------------------------------- Entry #13: "Searching for a Power Source" Nuparu turned the hand crank, which lifted up the mining elevator. He was the engineer stationed at the elevator, and as such it was his job to operate it by hand when the miners needed to get out of the Great Mine. The elevator wasn’t a bad design: Nuparu had been one of the engineers who crafted the system of pulleys which would lift up the cab and get Matoran to different levels quickly. Unfortunately, it had to be powered by a Matoran. They had tried to use Ussal Crabs, but the Rahi were too inconsistent with their pulling, so the job was left to the engineer on duty. Nuparu knew it was inefficient. If he could create some way to power the pulley system, then it would free him up to work on other useful tasks. But where could he find a power source reliable enough? As the elevator reached his level, Nuparu let off the crank and secured it into position. The miners gratefully exited the cab. Nuparu leaned back to rest for a bit, nut then Onepu, Whenua’s right hand Matoran, walked up to him. “Nuparu, I am reassigning you to the scouting team that’s leaving for Le-Wahi,” Onepu said. “But they’re just going to collect fruit,” Nuparu said. “Why do you need me to go with them?” He had been hoping to get home and work on some of his inventions in his spare time. “The tunnel on the way isn’t in the best shape, so your skills might come in handy if there are any issues with the rocks or the cart,” Onepu said. “Besides, we’ve called it a day for the miners, so you don’t need to work the elevator.” Nuparu begrudgingly went to his new position, and before he knew it he was on an Ussal cart heading down a tunnel towards the jungle. Once they got there, the other Matoran insisted that he help pick berries. He approached one tree to grab its bounty, when one of the Matoran stopped him. “Careful there,” he said. “That’s a Vuata Maca tree. Those pieces of Madu fruit are known to be explosive.” “Explosive?” Nuparu asked. “Why are they like that?” The Matoran shrugged. “No clue, but best to be wary around them.” Despite the warning, Nuparu’s interested was piqued. In secret, he carefully collected some of the Madu fruit and brought them back with him. In his hut, he started experimenting with the fruit. Their explosiveness, he learned, was determined by their ripeness, so some were safer to pick than others. But the juices of the fruit contained a large amount of potential energy, and Nuparu wondered if he could harness it in ways other than explosions. He began to fiddle with the fruit by inserting wires into the sides. Over time, he discovered that he could power simple machinery in his hut with the fruit, although only for a limited amount of time. He gathered more fruit and began building circuits, and soon his hut was full of Madu fruit that provided battery power to his many appliances. But Nuparu wasn’t satisfied with just that alone; what if the Madu fruit could be used elsewhere, like in the Great Mines? He made his project official, and got approval from the Turaga to begin harvesting Madu fruit in bulk. Over time, he grew tired of the journeys to the surface to collect the fruit, so he collected seeds from the Vuata Maca tree and planted one underground, where he utilized lightstones to mimic sunlight. It took months for the tree to start to grow, and it was another full year before it began to bear fruit. By then, Nuparu was reaching the limit with what he could power with just the fruit. It would not be enough to help in the mines. But as he watched the tree grow, he realized that the energy in the fruit was also within the tree itself. And then, after two years of hard work and research, Nuparu managed to draw electric energy directly from the Vuata Maca tree. The energy was used to power all of Onu-Koro, including the elevators in the great mines. And soon, the other villages learned about the discovery, and they started planting Vuata Maca trees of their own. Nuparu had indeed found the power he was looking for.

~ :: :: ~ July 2: Top Ten Most Intimidating Books Les Miserables, by Victor Hugo. Mostly just because of its size. I absolutely love the story, and really want to read this book, but it is a little daunting. The Count of Monte Cristo, by Alexandre Dumas. Basically the same as above. And, really, also The Three Musketeers. Jack Ryan series, by Tom Clancy. Simply because they're so many, and mostly large books. They're fast reads, though, so not all that intimidating. Ender's Game, by Orson Scott Card. So many people love it and praise it, and as such I feel like I'll be required to love it when I read it. Not necessarily a bad thing, especially if it does turn out great, but I'm not a huge fan of reading things and feeling like I'll have to love it. Many books by Charles Dickens. The writing style, the often large pagecount, etc. The Dark Tower series, by Stephen King. While they're not all that long, it's still a big series with several long books. Moby Dick, by Herman Melville. 87th Precinct series, by Ed Mcbain. This is simply because there's so many of them. Various other Classics, such as Gone With the Wind, War and Peace, and many more that I'm blanking on right now. This also includes things like the 12-volume History of Middle-earth, which would be amazing to read some time, but is a little daunting. Various Non-Fiction Books. Simply because I'm not a huge fan of non-fiction, so any huge non-fiction book is slightly daunting to me (with exceptions).

Assigned to Tolkien. =] And geh, I'm really sorry about that! Tolkien and I were really busy with other projects, and then I just completely forgot. >_< I'll try to talk to Tolkien ASAP and get back to you! Really sorry again about the wait.

Hey guys, only one more day left to enter!

Theme #6: The Mask Any interpretation is valid. Remember that this is an OTC theme, and your story must comply with the contest rules.Deadline: July 3rd, 11:59 PM PST. Also: The Character Story Polls have been posted! Please vote!

Vote here for your favorite Character story; entries have been randomized. Please MAKE SURE YOU READ ALL ENTRIES BEFORE VOTING.Voting begins now and will end on July 3rd at 11:59 PM EST. Entries that do well will move on to the Character Final Poll, which will be posted at the conclusion of the 10th round preliminary poll. Choice #1: "Oranges in a Thunderstorm" I was… oh, I don’t know, eight years old, maybe, kind of a weird kid, didn’t have many friends. It was midway through summer; the few kids my age I got along with were out of town. I was bored, really bored – couldn’t think of anything worth doing inside, and it was way too hot to do anything out in the sun. I figured I might as well head into the woods behind my house, see if I could find anything interesting, a deer, maybe, or a creek or a pond I didn’t know about. The woods went back quite a ways, see; you could spend every afternoon out there for a decade and still find new stuff each day. I grabbed a couple granola bars and a bottle of water and walked off, wandering aimlessly until I found a neat little waterfall sort of thing. I sat there for a while, watching it, and eventually decided to follow it upstream for a while. Somehow, I made it to a road cutting through the trees. The road was narrow, but it was paved, paved with cobblestones, anyway. I started down the it, curious to see where it would lead, and I glanced up at the sky as I did so. It was darkening; storm clouds were gathering above. It would be raining before too long. I’d been on the road a while, never seeing anything but trees and the same cobblestone path, when I realized how hungry I was. I’d finished off my last granola bar a good hour ago already, and trekking through the woods was taking up a lot of energy. What with the rain and the hunger, I was just thinking it would be a good idea to turn around and head back when a dark building loomed into view, a house that was really more a mansion than a simple house. It was on a cliff, and behind it, I could see the ocean churning in the building storm. I walked forward, a bit apprehensively, I guess, but my eight-year-old mind was more concerned with getting indoors before the rain began in earnest (and maybe getting some food in the process) than the potential danger. It wasn’t until I’d banged the wolf-head-shaped knocker against the door a couple times that I remembered the stories the other kids told about the house at the edge of the sea, the house where the witch lived. The witch who cast magic with some weird rock and— The door creaked open, and, well, not that I knew much about witches, but the woman who stood there didn’t seem much like one. I don’t really remember much of what she looked like – she was young, I guess, and pretty. She did have a rock in her hand, I noticed, but it didn’t look very magic to me – just an ordinary chunk of granite. She smiled down at me, somewhat amused. “How’d you get all the way out here, huh?” “I, uh— I walked,” I stammered, more confused than anything. She wanted to know how I’d gotten here, but not my name? “Walked, huh.” She laughed softly, though I wasn’t sure what was so funny. She shook her head. “Never mind. You probably want to get out of the rain, yeah? It’s not looking pretty out there.” As if on cue, a bolt of lightning flashed across the sky, chased a half-second later by an angry roar of thunder. I didn’t need much more invitation than that. “Hungry, too, I bet? Uh, here. Have one of these.” She grabbed an orange out of a bowl resting on a shelf just inside the house and tossed it to me. She turned and walked off, a bit of a weird thing to do when you’ve got a guest, but I didn’t think much of it. I followed, peeling the orange as I did so. Suddenly I stopped – the fruit’s flesh was a deep, dark red. She turned, seeing my surprise, and laughed again. “What are they saying about me these days – the oranges are red from the blood of my victims or something?” I blinked. Actually, I had heard that. “It’s their natural color,” she continued, “and a rather nice color, at that. A genetic mutation.” I cautiously popped a wedge of the orange in my mouth. Tasted fine. The rest of the fruit was gone in seconds. She smiled, pointing a thumb at another bowl of the oranges. “Help yourself.” I did so. -------------------------------- Choice #2: Andrew had always been short-tempered towards his little brother. But this time, the seven year old had run away. He supposed he could've seen it coming- the tension had been growing in the past month or two since their dad had left. Then again, Daniel hadn't displayed this kind of behavior in the past. Andrew climbed into the car and headed off towards the next block where Daniel would probably be. He remembered last week when he yelled at him, telling him to go away and not come back. Evidently, his wish had been granted. Another block, no Daniel. Andrew stopped, stepping out. "Danny! Danny!" There was no sign of the little boy. He stepped a little further, turning the street. "Danny! Danny!" Still no sign of him. Andrew sat down on a nearby park bench. He vowed at that moment that if he saw Daniel again, he would treat him right. He sat there for what felt like days before he heard a voice. "Andrew!" he whipped his head around to see his brother standing there. "I want to go home now." Maybe they had all grown in character that night. -------------------------------- Choice #3: "Days of Strife" My name is Story. It is a strange name. At least, that’s what my friends say. Or maybe what’s strange is that I have a name. That’s never been clear to me. What is clear is that my life is currently pretty terrible. My father, Reality, has explained that this is natural—to me, at least—and that it will continue for as long as I live, which, he says, will be a very long time. Father has always been rather blunt. My mother is Imagination, and she tells me that one day things will be different, that in time my life will change, become more interesting, more complex,different. She never says it will be easier. But it’s hard, living as I am. Every day I go through all these odd phases. I’ve never known why I go through them, but it’s been happening since my birth. Mother, always on the lookout for things new and novel, gives them names. First the “introduction” occurs. Physically it’s the easiest to go through, but it is the slowest, least exciting of all. Mentally I start out too sluggish to carry on my own. Typically it doesn’t take very long, as I slowly gain more and more of my faculties. After that I leave my home for some time and make new friends. Maybe they’re new friends each day or maybe I just forget them at the end, but every day has me met with strangers. My mother calls this the “rising action,” but I think she’s just teasing. I don’t enjoy it much at all. It’s always very tense for me, and I worry to make everything as perfect as possible. The “climax” follows. Invariably, some of my friends will clash, with each other, sometimes even me, my family… Physically this struggle manifests within me as well. My mother calls this “internal conflict,” because she’s just like that. This climax is always resolved, but not always well. Sometimes one of us will be victorious, leaving some parties in defeat. Sometimes we will all, bitterly, leave each other at a stalemate. Rare is the day when we all walk away happy. After the climax comes the resolution, when I regress to a state similar to the introduction. However, this time I have to reflect on what happened before, and it pains me greatly. I wake the next day with no memories of the past, save for the knowledge that it caused me great pain. Every day, I wake in fear. My name is Story, and my life is a wreck. -------------------------------- Choice #4: "A Heart Torn" Elizabeth always carried a pebble in her pocket. It was one of her quirks, she supposed. Her mom had beseeched her to throw it back into the woods or river, “where it belongs.”In Mom’s eyes, it was a weight on Elizabeth’s shoulders.In Elizabeth’s eyes, it was a good luck charm and perhaps the last vestige of her father’s life.Elizabeth had known her father had a bad heart by the tender age of seven. Situations weren’t much harder for her to solve than jigsaw puzzles: She had noticed the pills on Daddy’s bureau and the low-sodium foods he ate and casually asked Dad one night if his blood pressure would continue to rise if he didn’t take precautions.He had given her a what-did-your-mom-tell-you look and had said, “Yea- yes, Ellie. I’ll balloon up and explode if I don’t eat those foods!” He had puffed his cheeks for emphasis.“No, you won’t,” Elizabeth had said.He had paused abashedly before sobering. “And how would you know?”“I looked it up.”“Does your mom know?”“I guess — she could see me.”He had sighed. “Ellie, I’m fine, okay? As long as I follow a strict diet, I can live a life just like anyone else—”“I know that, Daddy.”Daddy had sighed again and turned on the TV.Traipsing along an impromptu path, little more than gaps in the underbrush widened by years of walks out here, Elizabeth took out the rock and admired its surface, worn smooth by years of rushing water. It gleamed faintly.The trees about her were tinted shades of sunset by autumn. The orange vista was calming to her whenever she found herself thinking of Dad.It was odd — on this very path, down near the river, Dad had died of a heart attack right after giving her the pebble she now held.She had been thirteen. She vaguely remembered screaming as he fell and running for the house, but it was blurry. Mostly, she remembered impressions: the humid air, the pounding of her footsteps, the feeling that the world was tipping under her as she had flung open the back door and called 911 before even telling her mother what was happening.But she had known Dad would be dead when she returned. She had told the 911 operator not that her Dad was dying but that he was dead. And he was.Even now, at seventeen, she felt alone.Her cell phone beeped. Mom had texted. Elizabeth looked up at the sky once more before turning back along the path, but she took her time. -------------------------------- Choice #5: "Avoiding That Awkward Moment" Antje was born in the Netherlands and moved over to America when she was eleven. She never truly felt at home there until she went to Dordt College, with its strong Dutch heritage. When people found out where she came from, and that she spoke fluent Dutch, they treated her like royalty. She was their golden girl, their goddess. Everybody loved her. Those were good times. Her only regret was that she let it get to her head when she was a freshman, since she lost her focus on academics. Still – good times. She didn’t think she could have been such a good student in the following years if it wasn’t for how loved she felt. And she earned a triple-major, so she knew it made a difference. She was finishing up on her doctorate in engineering now, feeling as sharp as ever. Many people called her a genius, though she didn’t like that description. It didn’t feel right. She had struggled in high school, and her success came from hard work. Antje sat at a library table pouring over her notes, trying to figure out her latest project. She was almost literally looking at rocket science, and it was beyond her, no matter how hard she worked. She clenched her short blond hair with her hands, taking out her stress and trying to focus, but regardless of catharsis she couldn’t think far enough outside of the box to solve seemingly unsolvable problems. Sometimes genius needed a little help. She thought back to her Dordt friends. Who would understand this stuff? None of her friends went into her particular focus. Antje called Carol. “Hey, how are you doing?” “Antje? Antje! It’s been forever!” “Yeah, you bet,” said Antje. “Carol, I have a question. What do you know about jet engines?” “I haven’t the slightest – but hey, since we’re talking, did you get my wedding invitation? It’s next week and you haven’t responded!” Antje raised an eyebrow. Carol was getting married? It seemed like everyone she knew was getting married nowadays. Meanwhile, she was twenty-five and had still never dated. “I might have,” she said. “Well, you’re invited,” said Carol. “I won’t have the time. Sorry. This doctorate is a monster.” “Well Jack is coming, and he’s super-busy, more than you. If he can come, then you can come. And I know you so much better than him, so it would mean a lot to me if you came to the wedding!” “Jack? Jack who?” “Jack Zilver!” Oh. Antje knew him all too well. Back when she was a freshman, he was a senior and had just come back from a junior semester in the Netherlands. He spoke with her in Dutch for an hour every day to stay fluent, but she could tell he liked her. She liked him back, but they only had one year together, and then he went and joined the Air Force and never had time for the outside world ever since. “And he was an engineering major, too. He works on airplanes, so if there’s anyone qualified to help you, it’s him. Just come, Antje.” Antje bit her lip. Suddenly she wanted to go even less. Jack was the only person she had ever really had feelings for, and she didn’t want those to reemerge after all these years. That would be a heck of a way to appear needy. She packed up her blueprints and headed home. “Moeder!” she cried. “Waar is uw verlovingsring?” One week later, Antje attended Carol’s wedding wearing a blood orange dress. After the ceremony, Carol went into the crowd and pulled out Jack, easily distinguishable in his captain’s uniform, and introduced him to Antje before leaving them along together. “Hello, Jack.” “It’s John, now.” Antje flinched. That was a very handsome name. “How about I just call you Captain?” “For you I can just be ‘Mister.’” It was then that he noticed the ring around her finger. “You’re engaged?” “Yes. He couldn’t make it, but he’s a wonderful man.” “That’s awkward, considering that Carol just made a very obvious attempt to set us up. You’d think she would have noticed if you were carrying an expensive rock around your finger.” “No, I was looking for someone to help me with my engineering doctorate.” “Will I be calling you ‘Doctor’ from now on?” Antje clasped her hands behind her back. She didn’t like the sound of that – not when it came from him. “No, you can call me ‘Mrs.’” Someday. -------------------------------

Vote here for your favorite Character story; entries have been randomized. Please MAKE SURE YOU READ ALL ENTRIES BEFORE VOTING.Voting begins now and will end on July 3rd at 11:59 PM EST. Entries that do well will move on to the Character Final Poll, which will be posted at the conclusion of the 10th round preliminary poll. Choice #1: "Poetic Assistance" He runs down the street The ground pounds his feet He pushes on without a prayer Shadows are complete My revenge is sweet As I watch him sink into despair My heart he had broke Swept away like smoke When the sky is colored blood orange The devil hath spoke My love I revoke As I chase him and… Malinda paused, and dipped the top of her pen in her mouth as she thought up her next rhyme. She was stumped at how to continue, and looked up at her colleague across the desk. “Penny, I need your help with this poem.” Penny set down her textbook. “Shouldn’t you be studying for our exams tomorrow?” she asked. “What exams should I be studying for, exactly?” Malinda asked, bored. “Well, there’s World History. . .” “I remember all the facts already,” Malinda said with a shrug. “And there’s Advanced Mathematics. . .” “I’ve aced all the assignments, so that shouldn’t be an issue.” “And aren’t you also taking Molecular Physics?” “That class was a bad choice,” Malinda admitted. “I was hoping the professor would have something challenging for us to study, and instead he just covered all the basics.” Penny shook her head. “I don’t know how you do it,” she said. “And if you’re such a genius, why are you bothering with poetry?” “Art knows no genius!” Malinda exclaimed. “Besides, this is for my personal growth and a way to sooth my soul. . .” “Oh, you’re writing angry poems about your exes again, I see,” Penny said with a yawn. “Very well, I’ll take a look at it.” She accepted the piece of paper from Malinda and looked the poem over. “Gee, this is rather dark,” she said. “What did this guy do to you?” “He insulted my stone,” Malinda said simply. “What?” Penny asked, perplexed. Malinda lifted her necklace, which had a dull opal attached to the end of it. “He said that this stone wasn’t very pretty, and now he shall suffer the wrath of my vengeance!” “Look, I know you’re attached to that family heirloom, but you don’t have to go all berserk on him just because. . .” Penny started, but fell silent at the look on Malinda’s face. Quickly changing the subject, she asked, “So, what about this poem do you need help with?” “I am stuck on the last line,” Malinda explained. “I cannot seem to find an adequate rhyme that could describe the horrors that I wish to inflict upon him.” Penny looked down the line. “But that’s because you need to make it rhyme with orange. Nothing rhymes with orange!” “The word ‘nothing’ does not rhyme with orange at all,” Malinda pointed out. “That’s not what I meant,” Penny said, shaking her head. “It’s just. . . orange is almost an impossible word to find a rhyme for, unless you’re willing to make something up.” “Preposterous, there must be something.” “Why not change the wording up a bit?” Penny suggested. “Like blood red instead of blood orange. Red is much easier to find rhymes for.” “No, it has to be blood orange!” Malinda insisted. “It is a very particular color which directly conveys the mood and tone of the poem.” “Okay, okay, calm down,” Penny said. She paused for a moment to think, and then said, “Perhaps you can switch the words around. Instead of ‘When the sky is colored blood orange’ you could say ‘When blood orange colors up the sky.’ That way, you can keep the color reference, but get the rhyme off an easier word.” “That is good thinking,” Malinda mused. “But I still need three syllables for my last line that rhyme with sky. Ah hah, I got it!” And she scribbled down on the paper, “. . .make him die.” Penny frowned as she read it. “That’s morbid! It makes this poem even darker. Do you really want him to die just for insulting your stone?” “Well, die emotionally speaking, of course,” Malinda clarified. “After all, if he can’t appreciate the beauty of my stone, then he’s dead inside already.” She nodded at her friend. “Thank you very much for your assistance.” “Well, I might not be a super genius like you,” Penny said. “But I’m still an English Major.” -------------------------------- Choice #2: "My Hero" I still keep Dwayne the Rock in my pocket. Even when I give speeches or read out reports, his form makes a little bulge in my pants, announcing his existence to all who see me. His aura forms a shield around me which no hurtful words nor thoughts can penetrate, and his mere presence scares away any potential threats. He is my Guardian, my Champion, my Knight on a white steed. Every day, I wake up with him on my bedside table, his Watchful Eye having protected me while the night slipped by. Every day, I put him in my pocket and roam the world without fear or hesitation, knowing that I'm able to conquer any foe with him by my side. Every day, I read with him, write with him, discover with him, laugh with him. And every day, when it's time to go to bed, I put him on my bedside table and let him dutifully stand guard for the eight hours I slumber. It's been routine for as many years as I can remember, albeit not one I'd risk breaking. I still remember, quite vividly in fact, the day that he first arrived to my rescue. Without him, I doubt I could ever have become the young woman I am today. I was five when it happened. See, regardless of what anyone tells you, genius children do end up isolated moreso than the average child. Even gifted, but not genius, children are able to make friends faster than we are. It's Psychology 101. I took that in 6th grade. Anyways, I was this little, isolated five year old girl who just so happened to be “blessed” with the sort of IQ that would make anyone jealous. And like any other genius, I was sitting alone on the playground, minding my own business. Back then I had no one to comfort me, nothing to hold and gain happiness from. I was tiny, shy, and envied. Not a very good combination. My schoolmates also happened to be a bit ruder than your average people. For instance, they formed a clique under the leadership of the boy called Leroy, but whom I referred to as “Savage”. And in this clique, there was a rule that if you stumbled upon anyone wearing orange, you'd make them regret it. As per the course, I wore orange. Not only that, but I adore orange. It's my favorite color. I wouldn't mind having orange everywhere I went. Even the labs I work in need some form of orange in them. And lo and behold, the boy to walk past this poor creature was none other than Savage. Oh, I remember his defining details. The jam smeared across his face, the disgusting food stains on his shirt, his putrid smell and flabby elements, and that sneer. Oh that sneer. I'd already been harassed by this monster before. Multiple times. Not only in class, where I was relatively safe, but also whenever his mother brought him over. Ironic, isn't it? Best friends gave birth to mortal enemies. Their relationship was so opposite ours, it sometimes made me laugh. But he never had to beat me down because I wore orange. Or rather, he couldn't; I usually had some protector around when I did wear that color. That moment, I didn't. “HEY LAURA. DID THE LITTLE BABY NOT HAVE ANY FRIENDS?” Typical lame insults. I let them fly. “LAURA I SAID SOMETHING. YOU KNOW THE RULES ABOUT WEARING ORANGE?” I could feel it coming on. He beat me down before, twice. Both times, I cried. I cried. I still feel the tracks those tears made on my face. “GUESS WHAT LAURA? ORANGE IS STUPID! AND WE DON'T LIKE STUPID PEOPLE!” I looked around for someone, anyone, to save me. And there he was. My knight in shining armor. Dwayne. Savage ran at me, full speed. But as David slew Goliath, so too did Dwayne defeat Savage. The monster fell, tripped over my hero. His face hit the ground, and I heard a crack or two. The monster was slain. Well, figuratively. Savage erupted into tears and started to cry. Cry. Harder than I ever cried. I kept him for company, but I only named him once I found the proper name. My dad always went on about how Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson was an amazing wrestler. And so I knighted my rock Dwayne. And so far, he has never failed to protect his princess. -------------------------------- Choice #3: "The Wishing Rock" When I saw the girl sitting at Wishing Point, gazing out over the valley, I didn't think much of it right away. Then the girl made a jerking movement, flinging something from the outcropping. I paused to watch, curious. She picked up another stone and threw it. Soon she was tearing up piles of pebbles and dirt and hurling them over the precipice. Finally she gave up, fell to her knees, and began crying. I stepped off the path, blending into the dense branches of a pinewood. Half of me wanted to let her be; the other half couldn’t turn away and leave her like that. I watched, and she did nothing. It was one of the pebbles that did it. It flew suddenly back up over the precipice and landed beside the girl, glowing red. It glowed brighter, then stopped. A pool of dark, reddish-orange liquid bled from the rock, pooling on the ground beside the girl. She jumped up, backed away, staring in disbelief as a human woman began to rise from the pool. She was clad in coppery robes that cascaded from her shoulders like a waterfall of fabric. A jeweled turban concealed her hair. "Yes, mistress?" she droned. The girl's mouth hung open, but no sound escaped it. "You have wishes, mistress?" The girl gasped, "You're--a--a genie?" "A genius," the woman corrected. "There is a difference." "And you'll give me three wishes?" "Correct." "Well--I--" "Come, you were wishing yourself silly moments ago. I have not all day." "I wish for--a dog?" Her hearts' greatest desires at her fingertips--and she wishes for a dog! By her tone, however, I guessed she was only testing the water. The genius nodded. "Granted." The girl looked around. "… Where?" "Patience! It will come. Your next wish?" The girl squeaked, "I--I wish my mother were alive." Now we were getting to it. "I cannot bring the dead back, my child," said the genius irritably. "Oh--I--I'm sorry …" "Your next wish?" "There are so many things … A friend?" The simple, childish desperation of this request twisted my heart. "I cannot grant what you have already." "But--but I--" "Broaden your mind and you will see what you do not realize you have. Your next wish?" "I wish for a boyfriend!" "I cannot alter such things as are destined to be." The girl hesitated. "You--you really grant wishes?" "I do." The girl shuffled her feet. "I wish my big sister didn't have cancer." The genius eyed the girl. "Are you certain?" "Of course!" "I am sorry. I cannot grant a wish that is destined to be." The girl looked up. "You mean--she'll be all right?" "Your sister's cancer will not last much longer, my child. I--" The genius hesitated, as if her next words were foreign to her. "I am truly sorry." The girl hugged her shoulders. Voice shaking, she said, "I wish someone would help me!" "I cannot grant what you have already." The genius put a hand on the girl's shoulder. There was a new compassion in her flat tone. "You want help, my child. Let me give you this: You have all the help you need if you look for it." She straightened and went on monotonically, "Your next wish, mistress." The girl looked out over the valley. What she was thinking, I couldn't imagine. Probably the same as me, wondering what the genius meant by what she said. It was a long time before the girl spoke again. "I only have one more." The genius said indifferently, "If that is your wish." "Yes it is." "Will you watch the sunset with me?" There was a pause. The girl, her face unreadable, gazed up into the eyes of the expressionless genius. Finally, the woman spoke. "If it is as you wish." They sat together and watched until the final rays of the sun had faded into the starlit night sky. With the sun's last ray, the genius disappeared. Silently the girl picked up the colorless pebble, put it in her pocket, rose, and left. I followed at an inconspicuous distance until I had seen her safely home. I lingered on the sidewalk across the street, watching her front door, until a tired-looking, poorly-fed puppy padded up to the door and pawed at it, whimpering. I turned and walked away. -------------------------------- Choice #4: "Unusual" A lone figure buries a cardboard box two feet underground. Contents include Mr. Slithers, the family garter snake. An unusual pet for an unusual girl. *** Work. Papers are strewn around a girl’s bedroom; articles, photocopies of textbook pages. A hunk of alabaster sits on a wooden desk. Symbols are painted across the walls, all in orange, finger-applied paint strokes. One of those aforementioned papers details how orange represents illumination in Buddhism. Illumination -- the highest state of perfection. Plus, orange goes with just about everything. Win-win scenario. Enter: a discussion around a dinner table, participants including an unusual girl and an unusual girl’s parents. Questions fly like musket balls -- wild, messy, inaccurate -- regarding her newfound obsession-- Not an obsession; a science project. What about? Geology and stuff. Oh. Good for you, darling. Silence and rapid-fire clinks of metal and ceramic follow. Mom? Dad? Hmm? Can I please get a rock hammer for my birthday? *** Chips of alabaster chase each other down to the floor, abandoning their mother stone to reveal legs, arms, a head, a torso-- Hammer meets fault line. Fault line wins. Chunks of alabaster fly through the air in a cloud of dust and frustration. Bugger. Stephen King made it look so easy. *** Science class. Meticulously crisp notes written on the board, blood-orange symbols scribbled in the notebook. A faceless alabaster figurine watches the unusual girl, head bent down as if in disappointment at her lack of attentiveness. Its mocking nature begs for destruction. The perfection found in crooked lines and jagged edges save it. *** I’m not crazy. No one’s saying your crazy, dear. Then why are you taking me to a psychologist? *** High noon; the perfect time for a little alchemy. Figurine at the ready, standing straight in the center of the desk. Orange, finger-painted sigils circling its feet. Let’s do this. *** Science fair. Papers are sorted neatly on a backboard. Symbols are painted neatly between the white sheets. An alabaster figurine takes center stage. An unusual girl in a lab coat stands just to the side, repressing an excited grin as the first group of students approach, eyeing the display with deeply-ingrained skepticism. Instructions are given: wave to the figurine. Snickers slink through the air, and eyes roll to the tops of their sockets -- the girl is patient.Someone gestures to the figurine. It gestures back. -------------------------------- Choice #5: "My Teacher" Mistress Alethea is dead. My teacher is dead.I don't know how old I was the day I first met her, though I know I was very young. I remember it was a very wet day, and that I had a particular need for another blood orange. That meant stealing it at the marketplace.I was edging away from the orange vendor's stall, clutching my prize, when I felt two hands grasp my shoulders. I tried to wrench away, but she held on and turned me to face her."Give me that orange, little girl." Her voice was firm, but not ungentle. She had a thoughtful, intelligent face. Not that I cared then. "I won't!" I hissed, struggling wildly. "I need it!"She frowned, obviously seeing my sincerity. "Shall we make a deal, then, child? I will buy it and give the fruit to you. I am content with the peel.""But the rind is the part I want!" I protested. "It's the best shade there is for my experiments."Her face changed. "Do you mean to tell me you conduct color-based alchemical experiments? You're a street child, and you can't be more than six."What is your name?""Blood Orange," I said warily, "because I use so many of them."I didn't trust her, but she was the first person I had ever spoken to who showed knowledge of alchemy. And I craved knowledge."What's yours?"She smiled. "Alchemical Mistress Alethea Hartwin." Next day, I became her apprentice.---Some days after, she called me to her side. "Orange?" "Yes, teacher?" I loved having a qualified instructor, even if not all her time was spent teaching me. She had explained my first day that she spent time in a private workshop - off-limits to me - engaged in dangerous experiments.She smiled slightly at my promptness. "I think you ought to have a real name, child. Do you agree?""Yes!""I was thinking Kathy, perhaps. Katherine's a good name.""I like that, teacher."She laughed. "Very well...Kathy."---Over four years after that, we had multiple orders from customers, as well as Mistress Alethea's private research. The orders weren't nearly as interesting, being standard alchemy, but they were time-consuming. I decided to do one myself.Some hours later, I had succeeded. I called my teacher and showed my results to her. Her eyebrows rose at my work "Kathy...I believe you're a genius."---Exactly eight years after I had become Mistress Alethea's apprentice, I had a question to ask her."Good morning, Mistress Alethea." "Good morning, Kathy." She smiled. "What would you like to do today?" It was traditional on this anniversary that I could ask for whatever I wanted.I inhaled deeply. "Mistress...may I see your secret project? "Please, teacher ! I'm fourteen-ish now, old enough to be a full apprentice. And you know I've helped with all the parts you've let me see. I'm intelligent enough to help, teacher."She sighed. "Katherine, do you have any idea what this 'project' is?" "Yes, teacher. I've helped you enough to put together some pieces. It's...some sort of Stone, isn't it?" She looked taken aback. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. Yes, it is a Stone."It has taken generations to bring it this far, and it's still incomplete. When it's finished, it will have unimaginable powers. Even now, it's extremely dangerous." She met my eyes."And extremely dangerous to be associated with." "If you were willing, teacher, then I am too." She smiled proudly. "Good girl."--- Some months after that day, we were both in the private workplace. It was the most fascinating work I had ever done. When I had seen the Stone for the first time, it was a jagged lump of varicolored minerals, but I could see the outlines of its potential. "Teacher, look!" I called to her. "I've bypassed the limitations of the quartz that you were worrying about." "Well done, child."--- Over twelve years after I met Mistress Alethea, we were eating dinner when we heard a commotion in the street. We looked out the window and saw a group of soldiers marching toward our house. "Kathy," she said, "I heard a rumor in the marketplace that makes me fear the worst. This is what I want you to do. "Go into the workroom, take the Stone, and put it around your neck. Don't come in here again unless I tell you to, and if things look bad, go out the trapdoor exit and get away."--- One day after they killed my teacher, I write this in a deserted alley. The Stone is in its pouch around my neck, where I shall keep it always. I am Katherine Blood Orange, and my teacher Alethea Hartwin's death shall not be vain.

Vote here for your favorite Character story; entries have been randomized. Please MAKE SURE YOU READ ALL ENTRIES BEFORE VOTING.Voting begins now and will end on July 3rd at 11:59 PM EST. Entries that do well will move on to the Character Final Poll, which will be posted at the conclusion of the 10th round preliminary poll. Choice #1: "My Little Angel" It was days like these I always missed him the most. My father had always been by my side, always calling me his little Angel and while I couldn’t quite rationalize why someone would believe in something like Angels, I must admit it felt good. We’d come down to our spot on the beach, skipping pebbles along the water, it had always been our little thing, and he’d always beaten me at it. I’d always try and calculate the best angle to throw with, and he’d always beat me, just by throwing it without a care in the world. Whenever I got frustrated, he’d always laugh and say. “My little Angel, brains are good and all, but sometimes you just need a little fate and a little gut.” This of course would only serve to make me angrier and I’d call him a fool, but even still we both cherished our time together. Even as the sun began to set, we’d only sit there marveling as the sky and sea turned a shade of blood orange. Under the beautiful, fading rays of sunlight, we’d slowly begin our walk back home, along the way my father would brag to anyone he knew about how his little girl was the most precious thing in the world. Back then I’d feel mortified, what kind nincompoop has to brag about someone else so much, however now all I could do was tightly clutch a pebble, much like the ones we used to throw, and cry at the memory. Why’d you have to leave me dad. The night it happened a storm was supposed to be coming our way; I had gotten fed up with the constant bullying at school, the kids always calling me out for being smarter than them. So I ran, I ran to our special spot and cried my heart out, I never wanted to go back, what was the point of me being smarter than everyone else if it only brought me so much pain. Then I had felt a hand at my shoulder, my dad’s grinning face was looking down at me. His smile was so warm that night, yet his eyes were filled with a deep sadness at seeing his little Angel crying like this. “Your mother’s been crying her heart out dear. Won’t you come home already?” I only shook my head, muttering about not ever wanting to go back anywhere, that everywhere was terrible. Still my dad only laughed and asked if that included our special spot. The words hit me, deeper than I could have imagined, and I replied that in that case I’d stay here. Once again he laughed and said, “Angel, you’re a smart girl, smarter than your old man. Do the math; if the world is so big, what are the odds that the only good place in this whole big world exists only here? Pretty darn lousy I’d say, of course I’m no genius, but I’d think you’d agree.” He then lifted my sobbing face out of my arms and knelt down in front of me so our eyes met. “Now look, the world can be scary place at times and yes there are some bad people out there, but for every bad person there’s a hundred good people out there waiting to be met, so do your old man a favor and keep your head up high to find them. After all Angels like you came from above, not below.” Sure I found his words irrational at the time, but they managed to cheer me up a bit. So when he asked if I was ready to go home I just nodded my head, unfortunately that was when the storm decided to rear its ugly head. My dad picked me into his two arms and ran as fast as he could towards a nearby shelter, throwing me in and then, my tears began to flow freely down my face as the memories came back, he knew there wasn’t enough time to get in, so he, well, he... shut the door. That was the last time I saw him, and even then he’d been grinning like a maniac. That next morning I awoke to find the storm had died down. The moment my mind started working I rushed out the door, but all I found were some pebbles my dad used to carry when we came to the beach. I’m sorry dad, I’ll hold my head up high from now on. -------------------------------- Choice #2: Laughing, Beatrice ran into the forest after her parents. Finally a holiday from research studies. Plus, she was proud to see the forests her work had helped save. Then Beatrice stopped short as she lost sight of her parents. And caught sight of another girl glowering at her. The girl’s hair flew about her face, dried mud and sunburns caked her arms and her clothes were ragged. The overall contrast between her and Beatrice’s immaculate hair, skin and clothes was stark. Pity welled up in Beatrice’s eyes for an impoverished girl – for such she assumed the interloper to be. She was about to offer some little charity when the girl spoke. “What are you doing in my forest?” “Your forest?” “Yes, mine. You don’t live here.” Beatrice drew herself up – she had every right to be there. More than this ragamuffin did anyway. “No, but you- what’s your name?” “Serafina. You’re Beatrice, I assume.” “How did you know?” Beatrice gaped. Serafina shook her head impatiently. “Your parents woke the whole forest calling your name. Typical city-dwellers, coming and disturbing our peace.” “Disturbing?” Beatrice spluttered. “We just saved your forest.” “From what?” “The men in the village were going to cut it down for wood and the paper mill wanted to plant pine trees instead.” Serafina laughed. “So city-dwellers ‘saved’ a forest from other city-dwellers. Brilliant people, cutting a rainforest down for paper.” The mockery in her voice was obvious. “We’re not all like that!” Beatrice felt rather defensive. “I just spent months working on cheap, cellulose-free paper. I’m an environmentalist.” “Those people who come asking us to sign bits of paper saying the government isn’t doing enough for rainforests?” “Well, yeah, those are environmentalists too.” Beatrice bit her lip – it was obvious Serafina considered the term a poor recommendation. The girl turned her back and began playing with a dark orange stone that she carried in her pocket. “Hey, that’s a nice stone.” Beatrice pulled a similar one from her pocket. “Where’d you find it?” Serafina shrugged. “Mountains. Was following a loro. You?” “I, uh, bought this one. It reminded me of my cat’s eyes.” “You have a cat? How do you keep him?” Finally, Beatrice thought, as a glimmer of respect came into the other girl’s eyes. “Oh, it’s not hard at all.” Beatrice pulled a photo from her wallet. “Oh. That cat. The small one. I thought you meant a puma.” Beatrice laughed. “You can’t keep a puma in a city. Why do you carry the rock?” “Colour like Hawk eyes. Most magnificent beast of prey there is. King of the skies.” Serafina sighed with admiration, looking at a bird circling far above. “What wouldn’t I give to fly like that...” “Me too. The forest must look so amazing up there, so colourful and bright.” “You like it here?” Serafina’s voice held a note of surprise. “Of course. It’s so pure and beautiful.” Serafina glanced at the other girl and laughed slightly. “You’re different from the others. They were so busy talking about climate change and some such, I wondered if they’d ever looked at the forest they said they were protecting. I guess you’re alright.” Beatrice brightened at her words. Clearly this uneducated girl didn’t understand environmental science. Here was a chance for her to teach her. “You don’t know what climate change is?” “Never needed to. I know how to find anything in this forest without book learning.” “Yes, but you see-“ Beatrice spoke for five minutes, explaining about climate change and its dangers to the rainforest (the only part Serafina seemed to listen to). “So it could flood if the outsiders cut more trees. No. I won’t let that happen.” Serafina’s eyes glittered dangerously. “You can’t stop it yourself. That’s why the environmentalists are working to save the planet.” Pride suffused Beatrice’s voice. “Give me a break!” Serafina laughed. “You’re not saving the planet.” “Excuse me?” “This climate change? It’ll kill city-dwellers first, because you don’t have trees. You’re only saving yourselves from a problem you created.” “No, we didn’t, well, industrialization did but it was necessary for world economy. You wouldn’t understand the money involved, you’re just a village-” “Can you eat money?” The question silenced Beatrice. The scales fell from her eyes with the exceptional clarity of Serafina’s question, cutting through familiar political rhetoric. “Beatrice!” Beatrice started, seeing her parents in the distance. She rushed forward. Then the brilliant girl stopped, looking back at the uneducated Serafina with respect at last. -------------------------------- Choice #3: Kylie was a genius, yes. But she was always taken as just another dumb blonde. She saw the nature of rocks, and how they were related to Blood-Oranges (Blood-Orange is her favorite color, so why not her favorite fruit?). When you look past the obvious, everything is connected. Especially rocks and Blood-Oranges. Kylie always carried her favorite rock, Bob, around with her for no apparent reason. She h He was just so smooth, and a little soft, and he also tasted a little like Blood-Orange when you licked him. He was also tinted a little orange-ish, rather than gray. "Oh, Bob, I love you. You're the perfect rock." Kylie said. "Are you the offspring of a Blood-Orange and a regular, everyday rock?" She asked as she sat him down onto a picnic table. "Why yes, I am." A voice said. "Wait, Bob, you talk?" Kylie said. "Well of course I talk, you talk to me, why can't I talk to you?" The voice said, a stifled giggle was heard shortly after. "I've been talking to you for hours and you never talked back." Kylie said. "Oh come on." The voice said. "How thick are you?" Kylie's old frienemy, Katy, said as she stood up from under the table. "Bob is just a Blood-Orange that was painted gray." Katy said as she ground Bob underfoot. "I just proved that you're not a genius, you're just another dumb blonde." Katy said as she walked away laughing. Kylie was now in tears, after being insulted and fooled, what else was she to do? "Kylie..." A voice moaned. "Stop making fun of me, Katy." Kylie said, upset. "I'm... Not... Katy... I'm Bob..." The voice moaned again. Kylie looked around, but no one was in hearing range. She had to believe that it really was Bob who was talking. "Don't believe what others say to you... You really are a genius..." Bob said on his final note. With her self-esteem replenished, Kylie walked back to her flat and found another Blood-Orange to talk to. And even though it didn't talk back to Kylie, it mouthed off to Katy whenever Kylie saw her. -------------------------------- Choice #4: "The Elixir of Youth" The life of an alchemist was not for the weak of heart. But when it worked, when you could take a series of ingredients, focus it through the catalyst and burn it into that sweet-smelling blood orange elixir of youth, it was all worth it. Hanabelle had trained since she was a young girl, when she started on the alchemist’s path by cooking up explosive firepowder using her mother’s common cleaning powders, and burned down her house. She was kicked out of the village for it, but found by a master alchemist. She toiled under him as an apprentice until it was obvious that she outgrew him, that she was grasping concepts faster than he could , that she was making improvements on his formulas, she left him to make her fortune in the larger world, to find herbs and metals from all across the three continents. And when the King of Talisia asked her to become his court alchemist, well, how could she refuse his library? There she studied for the elusive elixir of youth, which alchemists from ages past had dreamed of finding. And all the while she carried the same catalyst she made on the first day she was apprenticed to a proper alchemist. That was always the first thing an alchemist made, a catalyst, which appeared to be a small stone to uneducated eyes, which imbued the mundane of the natural world with the magic that made the alchemist’s trade possible. And she had finally perfected it, the legendary elixir, the secret of immortality, here in her old age. The liquid bubbled and seethed and turned completely clear of all impurities when she dipped her catalyst into the muddy mixture by its chain. She knew all the old books, all her research, all her studies. It was by them that she knew she had reached her goal. She took a sniff of it. It looked and smelled sweet as oranges and was the consistency of blood. But she now had to test it. She had no intention of testing it on herself. She had already tested on the rabbits she captured outside the castle, but it was difficult to tell the age of rabbits. But when they turned into small infant rabbits when she fed it to them in their water, she knew it was working. She’d have to get more tests to perfect it, but she had a good working start. She asked for an audience with the king, and when she told him that she had found the elixir of youth, he was thrilled. He knew long ago not to be skeptical of her abilities. He promised to increase her funding tenfold. She walked away happy, wondering what new possibilities she could follow with all that money. The next time she woke up to go to her laboratory, she found it locked and guarded. “What is this madness?” she asked the guard “This is my lab! Get out before you spill something toxic in your eyes! You’re not even wearing proper protective gear!” “Sorry ma’am,” the guard said. “King’s orders.” The king came out of the laboratory, looking ten years younger, his grey hairs gone and his wrinkles smoothed out. “I had to try it for myself, you know, dear mistress alchemist.” “You scum!” she said. “It’s not complete yet!” “Your little discovery could make this kingdom a target,” he said. “Word gets out, everyone’ll want it, and it belongs to the king. And besides, is that a way to talk to your king? If I wasn’t in such a generous mood I’d have your head chopped off right here for disrespect. But for now, your funding.” “I don’t care about the funding! Only about my work!” “And your work has done great things. But it belongs to me. It always has. Now, I suggest keeping quiet about your little discovery and maybe I’ll let you have some of it.” “Never! You’ll regret this, I swear!” She left that night with nothing but her catalyst and the money he gave her, not knowing where she was to go, now that her greatest work had been stolen from her. But nothing brought joy to Hanabelle’s heart like hearing that the court was in a tizzy, now that the king who had reigned without an heir was now inexplicably an infant babe. -------------------------------- Choice #5: "Uthina" A young woman stood high in a tree upon a wooden platform built upon a thick branch. Her red-orange hair waved in the slight breeze. Her stocky frame was covered with an animal skin dress of similar color to her tresses, with intermittent black stripes. Off in the distance, the sun was setting, casting a plethora of similitude colors that radiated across the heavens. Clouds of pinks and heliotropes drew sluggishly across the vista, in no particular hurry to get anywhere. A small herd of mammoths ambled along across the horizon. The woman slid her hand into a fold in her dress, her fingers lightly enfolding a small stone in their warm embrace. She did this habitually, just to be sure it was still there. Her father, Tiberius, had given her this stone two years ago, just before he had set off on a long journey. "Uthina," he had said. "Our people need to find a new home, but we can't all go traipsing off at once. A few of the other men and myself are off to find this home, and while I'm gone I need you to be brave, to take care of your mother and younger brothers. Here, I want you to have this, so you will never forget to keep watch for our return." He had smiled at her and handed her a small stone, even as the tears were streaming down her face. Uthina now withdrew the stone from the fold for a moment to look at it. It was dark ocher in color, like a stone cast right out of the impact of a sunset, and its ovoid surface was perfectly smooth and symmetrical, though tendrils of various shades of the staple color ran in veins and streaks that criss-crossed across its surface. Somehow just looking at it made her feel warm and safe. When she was feeling particularly imaginative, she would think of it as an egg and wonder what kind of terrible beast had lain it. Ever since her father had left, she had often come to this tree of hers, where she would tinker with her materials and keep watch for his return. Other watchmen were posted farther on, but she had promised her father she would watch, and she intended to keep her promise. Since then the color of the stone had been her favorite of all hues. It was the color of her dress, it was the color of the ferocious striped cat. It was the color of her hair, of the sunset, of her precious stone. It was the color of her father's smile. She gently set the stone back into its fold and returned her gaze to the sunset. Then suddenly her eyes widened and her jaw dropped. A streaking ball of fire was flying high in the sky, heading towards the soil. She watched, motionless, mesmerized. When it landed it made a noise like thunder, and up into the air spread a great fiery cloud. The color of the cloud seemed to speak to her, calling her by name. When the smoke and dust settled, a big hole was left in the ground, and her insatiable curiosity was piqued. Turning from the wooden platform, she stepped onto a smaller one and pulled a lever. A system of ropes and pulleys activated and the platform lowered many feet to the ground. There she stepped off and ran past much of her collection of oddments and inventions, from a wooden wheel to a stick-and-rope device she called a fish-catcher, and out into the grass. On she went, until she finally reached the hole. It formed a broad crater, and at the bottom sat a great silver rock. She marveled at the rock, a perfect symmetrical circle. Its surface was almost completely smooth, sparkling and reflecting in the fading light, more like the surface of a pond than a great rock. In the center protruded a smaller stone, like a great shimmering orange gemstone. With a gasp she retrieved her own small stone. They were nearly the same color, except the gemstone was of a solid color, whereas hers was veined. She started when the great gem suddenly twitched and moved, and a cloud of reddish smoke rose from it as something emerged. . . --------------------------------

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Theme #2: Character Story Entry #1: "A Heart Torn" Elizabeth always carried a pebble in her pocket. It was one of her quirks, she supposed. Her mom had beseeched her to throw it back into the woods or river, “where it belongs.”In Mom’s eyes, it was a weight on Elizabeth’s shoulders.In Elizabeth’s eyes, it was a good luck charm and perhaps the last vestige of her father’s life.Elizabeth had known her father had a bad heart by the tender age of seven. Situations weren’t much harder for her to solve than jigsaw puzzles: She had noticed the pills on Daddy’s bureau and the low-sodium foods he ate and casually asked Dad one night if his blood pressure would continue to rise if he didn’t take precautions.He had given her a what-did-your-mom-tell-you look and had said, “Yea- yes, Ellie. I’ll balloon up and explode if I don’t eat those foods!” He had puffed his cheeks for emphasis.“No, you won’t,” Elizabeth had said.He had paused abashedly before sobering. “And how would you know?”“I looked it up.”“Does your mom know?”“I guess — she could see me.”He had sighed. “Ellie, I’m fine, okay? As long as I follow a strict diet, I can live a life just like anyone else—”“I know that, Daddy.”Daddy had sighed again and turned on the TV.Traipsing along an impromptu path, little more than gaps in the underbrush widened by years of walks out here, Elizabeth took out the rock and admired its surface, worn smooth by years of rushing water. It gleamed faintly.The trees about her were tinted shades of sunset by autumn. The orange vista was calming to her whenever she found herself thinking of Dad.It was odd — on this very path, down near the river, Dad had died of a heart attack right after giving her the pebble she now held.She had been thirteen. She vaguely remembered screaming as he fell and running for the house, but it was blurry. Mostly, she remembered impressions: the humid air, the pounding of her footsteps, the feeling that the world was tipping under her as she had flung open the back door and called 911 before even telling her mother what was happening.But she had known Dad would be dead when she returned. She had told the 911 operator not that her Dad was dying but that he was dead. And he was.Even now, at seventeen, she felt alone.Her cell phone beeped. Mom had texted. Elizabeth looked up at the sky once more before turning back along the path, but she took her time. -------------------------------- Entry #2: "The Elixir of Youth" The life of an alchemist was not for the weak of heart. But when it worked, when you could take a series of ingredients, focus it through the catalyst and burn it into that sweet-smelling blood orange elixir of youth, it was all worth it. Hanabelle had trained since she was a young girl, when she started on the alchemist’s path by cooking up explosive firepowder using her mother’s common cleaning powders, and burned down her house. She was kicked out of the village for it, but found by a master alchemist. She toiled under him as an apprentice until it was obvious that she outgrew him, that she was grasping concepts faster than he could , that she was making improvements on his formulas, she left him to make her fortune in the larger world, to find herbs and metals from all across the three continents. And when the King of Talisia asked her to become his court alchemist, well, how could she refuse his library? There she studied for the elusive elixir of youth, which alchemists from ages past had dreamed of finding. And all the while she carried the same catalyst she made on the first day she was apprenticed to a proper alchemist. That was always the first thing an alchemist made, a catalyst, which appeared to be a small stone to uneducated eyes, which imbued the mundane of the natural world with the magic that made the alchemist’s trade possible. And she had finally perfected it, the legendary elixir, the secret of immortality, here in her old age. The liquid bubbled and seethed and turned completely clear of all impurities when she dipped her catalyst into the muddy mixture by its chain. She knew all the old books, all her research, all her studies. It was by them that she knew she had reached her goal. She took a sniff of it. It looked and smelled sweet as oranges and was the consistency of blood. But she now had to test it. She had no intention of testing it on herself. She had already tested on the rabbits she captured outside the castle, but it was difficult to tell the age of rabbits. But when they turned into small infant rabbits when she fed it to them in their water, she knew it was working. She’d have to get more tests to perfect it, but she had a good working start. She asked for an audience with the king, and when she told him that she had found the elixir of youth, he was thrilled. He knew long ago not to be skeptical of her abilities. He promised to increase her funding tenfold. She walked away happy, wondering what new possibilities she could follow with all that money. The next time she woke up to go to her laboratory, she found it locked and guarded. “What is this madness?” she asked the guard “This is my lab! Get out before you spill something toxic in your eyes! You’re not even wearing proper protective gear!” “Sorry ma’am,” the guard said. “King’s orders.” The king came out of the laboratory, looking ten years younger, his grey hairs gone and his wrinkles smoothed out. “I had to try it for myself, you know, dear mistress alchemist.” “You scum!” she said. “It’s not complete yet!” “Your little discovery could make this kingdom a target,” he said. “Word gets out, everyone’ll want it, and it belongs to the king. And besides, is that a way to talk to your king? If I wasn’t in such a generous mood I’d have your head chopped off right here for disrespect. But for now, your funding.” “I don’t care about the funding! Only about my work!” “And your work has done great things. But it belongs to me. It always has. Now, I suggest keeping quiet about your little discovery and maybe I’ll let you have some of it.” “Never! You’ll regret this, I swear!” She left that night with nothing but her catalyst and the money he gave her, not knowing where she was to go, now that her greatest work had been stolen from her. But nothing brought joy to Hanabelle’s heart like hearing that the court was in a tizzy, now that the king who had reigned without an heir was now inexplicably an infant babe. -------------------------------- Entry #3: "Days of Strife" My name is Story. It is a strange name. At least, that’s what my friends say. Or maybe what’s strange is that I have a name. That’s never been clear to me. What is clear is that my life is currently pretty terrible. My father, Reality, has explained that this is natural—to me, at least—and that it will continue for as long as I live, which, he says, will be a very long time. Father has always been rather blunt. My mother is Imagination, and she tells me that one day things will be different, that in time my life will change, become more interesting, more complex,different. She never says it will be easier. But it’s hard, living as I am. Every day I go through all these odd phases. I’ve never known why I go through them, but it’s been happening since my birth. Mother, always on the lookout for things new and novel, gives them names. First the “introduction” occurs. Physically it’s the easiest to go through, but it is the slowest, least exciting of all. Mentally I start out too sluggish to carry on my own. Typically it doesn’t take very long, as I slowly gain more and more of my faculties. After that I leave my home for some time and make new friends. Maybe they’re new friends each day or maybe I just forget them at the end, but every day has me met with strangers. My mother calls this the “rising action,” but I think she’s just teasing. I don’t enjoy it much at all. It’s always very tense for me, and I worry to make everything as perfect as possible. The “climax” follows. Invariably, some of my friends will clash, with each other, sometimes even me, my family… Physically this struggle manifests within me as well. My mother calls this “internal conflict,” because she’s just like that. This climax is always resolved, but not always well. Sometimes one of us will be victorious, leaving some parties in defeat. Sometimes we will all, bitterly, leave each other at a stalemate. Rare is the day when we all walk away happy. After the climax comes the resolution, when I regress to a state similar to the introduction. However, this time I have to reflect on what happened before, and it pains me greatly. I wake the next day with no memories of the past, save for the knowledge that it caused me great pain. Every day, I wake in fear. My name is Story, and my life is a wreck. -------------------------------- Entry #4: "Poetic Assistance" He runs down the street The ground pounds his feet He pushes on without a prayer Shadows are complete My revenge is sweet As I watch him sink into despair My heart he had broke Swept away like smoke When the sky is colored blood orange The devil hath spoke My love I revoke As I chase him and… Malinda paused, and dipped the top of her pen in her mouth as she thought up her next rhyme. She was stumped at how to continue, and looked up at her colleague across the desk. “Penny, I need your help with this poem.” Penny set down her textbook. “Shouldn’t you be studying for our exams tomorrow?” she asked. “What exams should I be studying for, exactly?” Malinda asked, bored. “Well, there’s World History. . .” “I remember all the facts already,” Malinda said with a shrug. “And there’s Advanced Mathematics. . .” “I’ve aced all the assignments, so that shouldn’t be an issue.” “And aren’t you also taking Molecular Physics?” “That class was a bad choice,” Malinda admitted. “I was hoping the professor would have something challenging for us to study, and instead he just covered all the basics.” Penny shook her head. “I don’t know how you do it,” she said. “And if you’re such a genius, why are you bothering with poetry?” “Art knows no genius!” Malinda exclaimed. “Besides, this is for my personal growth and a way to sooth my soul. . .” “Oh, you’re writing angry poems about your exes again, I see,” Penny said with a yawn. “Very well, I’ll take a look at it.” She accepted the piece of paper from Malinda and looked the poem over. “Gee, this is rather dark,” she said. “What did this guy do to you?” “He insulted my stone,” Malinda said simply. “What?” Penny asked, perplexed. Malinda lifted her necklace, which had a dull opal attached to the end of it. “He said that this stone wasn’t very pretty, and now he shall suffer the wrath of my vengeance!” “Look, I know you’re attached to that family heirloom, but you don’t have to go all berserk on him just because. . .” Penny started, but fell silent at the look on Malinda’s face. Quickly changing the subject, she asked, “So, what about this poem do you need help with?” “I am stuck on the last line,” Malinda explained. “I cannot seem to find an adequate rhyme that could describe the horrors that I wish to inflict upon him.” Penny looked down the line. “But that’s because you need to make it rhyme with orange. Nothing rhymes with orange!” “The word ‘nothing’ does not rhyme with orange at all,” Malinda pointed out. “That’s not what I meant,” Penny said, shaking her head. “It’s just. . . orange is almost an impossible word to find a rhyme for, unless you’re willing to make something up.” “Preposterous, there must be something.” “Why not change the wording up a bit?” Penny suggested. “Like blood red instead of blood orange. Red is much easier to find rhymes for.” “No, it has to be blood orange!” Malinda insisted. “It is a very particular color which directly conveys the mood and tone of the poem.” “Okay, okay, calm down,” Penny said. She paused for a moment to think, and then said, “Perhaps you can switch the words around. Instead of ‘When the sky is colored blood orange’ you could say ‘When blood orange colors up the sky.’ That way, you can keep the color reference, but get the rhyme off an easier word.” “That is good thinking,” Malinda mused. “But I still need three syllables for my last line that rhyme with sky. Ah hah, I got it!” And she scribbled down on the paper, “. . .make him die.” Penny frowned as she read it. “That’s morbid! It makes this poem even darker. Do you really want him to die just for insulting your stone?” “Well, die emotionally speaking, of course,” Malinda clarified. “After all, if he can’t appreciate the beauty of my stone, then he’s dead inside already.” She nodded at her friend. “Thank you very much for your assistance.” “Well, I might not be a super genius like you,” Penny said. “But I’m still an English Major.” -------------------------------- Entry #5: Laughing, Beatrice ran into the forest after her parents. Finally a holiday from research studies. Plus, she was proud to see the forests her work had helped save. Then Beatrice stopped short as she lost sight of her parents. And caught sight of another girl glowering at her. The girl’s hair flew about her face, dried mud and sunburns caked her arms and her clothes were ragged. The overall contrast between her and Beatrice’s immaculate hair, skin and clothes was stark. Pity welled up in Beatrice’s eyes for an impoverished girl – for such she assumed the interloper to be. She was about to offer some little charity when the girl spoke. “What are you doing in my forest?” “Your forest?” “Yes, mine. You don’t live here.” Beatrice drew herself up – she had every right to be there. More than this ragamuffin did anyway. “No, but you- what’s your name?” “Serafina. You’re Beatrice, I assume.” “How did you know?” Beatrice gaped. Serafina shook her head impatiently. “Your parents woke the whole forest calling your name. Typical city-dwellers, coming and disturbing our peace.” “Disturbing?” Beatrice spluttered. “We just saved your forest.” “From what?” “The men in the village were going to cut it down for wood and the paper mill wanted to plant pine trees instead.” Serafina laughed. “So city-dwellers ‘saved’ a forest from other city-dwellers. Brilliant people, cutting a rainforest down for paper.” The mockery in her voice was obvious. “We’re not all like that!” Beatrice felt rather defensive. “I just spent months working on cheap, cellulose-free paper. I’m an environmentalist.” “Those people who come asking us to sign bits of paper saying the government isn’t doing enough for rainforests?” “Well, yeah, those are environmentalists too.” Beatrice bit her lip – it was obvious Serafina considered the term a poor recommendation. The girl turned her back and began playing with a dark orange stone that she carried in her pocket. “Hey, that’s a nice stone.” Beatrice pulled a similar one from her pocket. “Where’d you find it?” Serafina shrugged. “Mountains. Was following a loro. You?” “I, uh, bought this one. It reminded me of my cat’s eyes.” “You have a cat? How do you keep him?” Finally, Beatrice thought, as a glimmer of respect came into the other girl’s eyes. “Oh, it’s not hard at all.” Beatrice pulled a photo from her wallet. “Oh. That cat. The small one. I thought you meant a puma.” Beatrice laughed. “You can’t keep a puma in a city. Why do you carry the rock?” “Colour like Hawk eyes. Most magnificent beast of prey there is. King of the skies.” Serafina sighed with admiration, looking at a bird circling far above. “What wouldn’t I give to fly like that...” “Me too. The forest must look so amazing up there, so colourful and bright.” “You like it here?” Serafina’s voice held a note of surprise. “Of course. It’s so pure and beautiful.” Serafina glanced at the other girl and laughed slightly. “You’re different from the others. They were so busy talking about climate change and some such, I wondered if they’d ever looked at the forest they said they were protecting. I guess you’re alright.” Beatrice brightened at her words. Clearly this uneducated girl didn’t understand environmental science. Here was a chance for her to teach her. “You don’t know what climate change is?” “Never needed to. I know how to find anything in this forest without book learning.” “Yes, but you see-“ Beatrice spoke for five minutes, explaining about climate change and its dangers to the rainforest (the only part Serafina seemed to listen to). “So it could flood if the outsiders cut more trees. No. I won’t let that happen.” Serafina’s eyes glittered dangerously. “You can’t stop it yourself. That’s why the environmentalists are working to save the planet.” Pride suffused Beatrice’s voice. “Give me a break!” Serafina laughed. “You’re not saving the planet.” “Excuse me?” “This climate change? It’ll kill city-dwellers first, because you don’t have trees. You’re only saving yourselves from a problem you created.” “No, we didn’t, well, industrialization did but it was necessary for world economy. You wouldn’t understand the money involved, you’re just a village-” “Can you eat money?” The question silenced Beatrice. The scales fell from her eyes with the exceptional clarity of Serafina’s question, cutting through familiar political rhetoric. “Beatrice!” Beatrice started, seeing her parents in the distance. She rushed forward. Then the brilliant girl stopped, looking back at the uneducated Serafina with respect at last. -------------------------------- Entry #6: "Avoiding That Awkward Moment" Antje was born in the Netherlands and moved over to America when she was eleven. She never truly felt at home there until she went to Dordt College, with its strong Dutch heritage. When people found out where she came from, and that she spoke fluent Dutch, they treated her like royalty. She was their golden girl, their goddess. Everybody loved her. Those were good times. Her only regret was that she let it get to her head when she was a freshman, since she lost her focus on academics. Still – good times. She didn’t think she could have been such a good student in the following years if it wasn’t for how loved she felt. And she earned a triple-major, so she knew it made a difference. She was finishing up on her doctorate in engineering now, feeling as sharp as ever. Many people called her a genius, though she didn’t like that description. It didn’t feel right. She had struggled in high school, and her success came from hard work. Antje sat at a library table pouring over her notes, trying to figure out her latest project. She was almost literally looking at rocket science, and it was beyond her, no matter how hard she worked. She clenched her short blond hair with her hands, taking out her stress and trying to focus, but regardless of catharsis she couldn’t think far enough outside of the box to solve seemingly unsolvable problems. Sometimes genius needed a little help. She thought back to her Dordt friends. Who would understand this stuff? None of her friends went into her particular focus. Antje called Carol. “Hey, how are you doing?” “Antje? Antje! It’s been forever!” “Yeah, you bet,” said Antje. “Carol, I have a question. What do you know about jet engines?” “I haven’t the slightest – but hey, since we’re talking, did you get my wedding invitation? It’s next week and you haven’t responded!” Antje raised an eyebrow. Carol was getting married? It seemed like everyone she knew was getting married nowadays. Meanwhile, she was twenty-five and had still never dated. “I might have,” she said. “Well, you’re invited,” said Carol. “I won’t have the time. Sorry. This doctorate is a monster.” “Well Jack is coming, and he’s super-busy, more than you. If he can come, then you can come. And I know you so much better than him, so it would mean a lot to me if you came to the wedding!” “Jack? Jack who?” “Jack Zilver!” Oh. Antje knew him all too well. Back when she was a freshman, he was a senior and had just come back from a junior semester in the Netherlands. He spoke with her in Dutch for an hour every day to stay fluent, but she could tell he liked her. She liked him back, but they only had one year together, and then he went and joined the Air Force and never had time for the outside world ever since. “And he was an engineering major, too. He works on airplanes, so if there’s anyone qualified to help you, it’s him. Just come, Antje.” Antje bit her lip. Suddenly she wanted to go even less. Jack was the only person she had ever really had feelings for, and she didn’t want those to reemerge after all these years. That would be a heck of a way to appear needy. She packed up her blueprints and headed home. “Moeder!” she cried. “Waar is uw verlovingsring?” One week later, Antje attended Carol’s wedding wearing a blood orange dress. After the ceremony, Carol went into the crowd and pulled out Jack, easily distinguishable in his captain’s uniform, and introduced him to Antje before leaving them along together. “Hello, Jack.” “It’s John, now.” Antje flinched. That was a very handsome name. “How about I just call you Captain?” “For you I can just be ‘Mister.’” It was then that he noticed the ring around her finger. “You’re engaged?” “Yes. He couldn’t make it, but he’s a wonderful man.” “That’s awkward, considering that Carol just made a very obvious attempt to set us up. You’d think she would have noticed if you were carrying an expensive rock around your finger.” “No, I was looking for someone to help me with my engineering doctorate.” “Will I be calling you ‘Doctor’ from now on?” Antje clasped her hands behind her back. She didn’t like the sound of that – not when it came from him. “No, you can call me ‘Mrs.’” Someday. -------------------------------- Entry #7: "Unusual" A lone figure buries a cardboard box two feet underground. Contents include Mr. Slithers, the family garter snake. An unusual pet for an unusual girl. *** Work. Papers are strewn around a girl’s bedroom; articles, photocopies of textbook pages. A hunk of alabaster sits on a wooden desk. Symbols are painted across the walls, all in orange, finger-applied paint strokes. One of those aforementioned papers details how orange represents illumination in Buddhism. Illumination -- the highest state of perfection. Plus, orange goes with just about everything. Win-win scenario. Enter: a discussion around a dinner table, participants including an unusual girl and an unusual girl’s parents. Questions fly like musket balls -- wild, messy, inaccurate -- regarding her newfound obsession-- Not an obsession; a science project. What about? Geology and stuff. Oh. Good for you, darling. Silence and rapid-fire clinks of metal and ceramic follow. Mom? Dad? Hmm? Can I please get a rock hammer for my birthday? *** Chips of alabaster chase each other down to the floor, abandoning their mother stone to reveal legs, arms, a head, a torso-- Hammer meets fault line. Fault line wins. Chunks of alabaster fly through the air in a cloud of dust and frustration. Bugger. Stephen King made it look so easy. *** Science class. Meticulously crisp notes written on the board, blood-orange symbols scribbled in the notebook. A faceless alabaster figurine watches the unusual girl, head bent down as if in disappointment at her lack of attentiveness. Its mocking nature begs for destruction. The perfection found in crooked lines and jagged edges save it. *** I’m not crazy. No one’s saying your crazy, dear. Then why are you taking me to a psychologist? *** High noon; the perfect time for a little alchemy. Figurine at the ready, standing straight in the center of the desk. Orange, finger-painted sigils circling its feet. Let’s do this. *** Science fair. Papers are sorted neatly on a backboard. Symbols are painted neatly between the white sheets. An alabaster figurine takes center stage. An unusual girl in a lab coat stands just to the side, repressing an excited grin as the first group of students approach, eyeing the display with deeply-ingrained skepticism. Instructions are given: wave to the figurine. Snickers slink through the air, and eyes roll to the tops of their sockets -- the girl is patient.Someone gestures to the figurine. It gestures back. -------------------------------- Entry #8: Kylie was a genius, yes. But she was always taken as just another dumb blonde. She saw the nature of rocks, and how they were related to Blood-Oranges (Blood-Orange is her favorite color, so why not her favorite fruit?). When you look past the obvious, everything is connected. Especially rocks and Blood-Oranges. Kylie always carried her favorite rock, Bob, around with her for no apparent reason. She h He was just so smooth, and a little soft, and he also tasted a little like Blood-Orange when you licked him. He was also tinted a little orange-ish, rather than gray. "Oh, Bob, I love you. You're the perfect rock." Kylie said. "Are you the offspring of a Blood-Orange and a regular, everyday rock?" She asked as she sat him down onto a picnic table. "Why yes, I am." A voice said. "Wait, Bob, you talk?" Kylie said. "Well of course I talk, you talk to me, why can't I talk to you?" The voice said, a stifled giggle was heard shortly after. "I've been talking to you for hours and you never talked back." Kylie said. "Oh come on." The voice said. "How thick are you?" Kylie's old frienemy, Katy, said as she stood up from under the table. "Bob is just a Blood-Orange that was painted gray." Katy said as she ground Bob underfoot. "I just proved that you're not a genius, you're just another dumb blonde." Katy said as she walked away laughing. Kylie was now in tears, after being insulted and fooled, what else was she to do? "Kylie..." A voice moaned. "Stop making fun of me, Katy." Kylie said, upset. "I'm... Not... Katy... I'm Bob..." The voice moaned again. Kylie looked around, but no one was in hearing range. She had to believe that it really was Bob who was talking. "Don't believe what others say to you... You really are a genius..." Bob said on his final note. With her self-esteem replenished, Kylie walked back to her flat and found another Blood-Orange to talk to. And even though it didn't talk back to Kylie, it mouthed off to Katy whenever Kylie saw her. -------------------------------- Entry #9: Andrew had always been short-tempered towards his little brother. But this time, the seven year old had run away. He supposed he could've seen it coming- the tension had been growing in the past month or two since their dad had left. Then again, Daniel hadn't displayed this kind of behavior in the past. Andrew climbed into the car and headed off towards the next block where Daniel would probably be. He remembered last week when he yelled at him, telling him to go away and not come back. Evidently, his wish had been granted. Another block, no Daniel. Andrew stopped, stepping out. "Danny! Danny!" There was no sign of the little boy. He stepped a little further, turning the street. "Danny! Danny!" Still no sign of him. Andrew sat down on a nearby park bench. He vowed at that moment that if he saw Daniel again, he would treat him right. He sat there for what felt like days before he heard a voice. "Andrew!" he whipped his head around to see his brother standing there. "I want to go home now." Maybe they had all grown in character that night. -------------------------------- Entry #10: "Uthina" A young woman stood high in a tree upon a wooden platform built upon a thick branch. Her red-orange hair waved in the slight breeze. Her stocky frame was covered with an animal skin dress of similar color to her tresses, with intermittent black stripes. Off in the distance, the sun was setting, casting a plethora of similitude colors that radiated across the heavens. Clouds of pinks and heliotropes drew sluggishly across the vista, in no particular hurry to get anywhere. A small herd of mammoths ambled along across the horizon. The woman slid her hand into a fold in her dress, her fingers lightly enfolding a small stone in their warm embrace. She did this habitually, just to be sure it was still there. Her father, Tiberius, had given her this stone two years ago, just before he had set off on a long journey. "Uthina," he had said. "Our people need to find a new home, but we can't all go traipsing off at once. A few of the other men and myself are off to find this home, and while I'm gone I need you to be brave, to take care of your mother and younger brothers. Here, I want you to have this, so you will never forget to keep watch for our return." He had smiled at her and handed her a small stone, even as the tears were streaming down her face. Uthina now withdrew the stone from the fold for a moment to look at it. It was dark ocher in color, like a stone cast right out of the impact of a sunset, and its ovoid surface was perfectly smooth and symmetrical, though tendrils of various shades of the staple color ran in veins and streaks that criss-crossed across its surface. Somehow just looking at it made her feel warm and safe. When she was feeling particularly imaginative, she would think of it as an egg and wonder what kind of terrible beast had lain it. Ever since her father had left, she had often come to this tree of hers, where she would tinker with her materials and keep watch for his return. Other watchmen were posted farther on, but she had promised her father she would watch, and she intended to keep her promise. Since then the color of the stone had been her favorite of all hues. It was the color of her dress, it was the color of the ferocious striped cat. It was the color of her hair, of the sunset, of her precious stone. It was the color of her father's smile. She gently set the stone back into its fold and returned her gaze to the sunset. Then suddenly her eyes widened and her jaw dropped. A streaking ball of fire was flying high in the sky, heading towards the soil. She watched, motionless, mesmerized. When it landed it made a noise like thunder, and up into the air spread a great fiery cloud. The color of the cloud seemed to speak to her, calling her by name. When the smoke and dust settled, a big hole was left in the ground, and her insatiable curiosity was piqued. Turning from the wooden platform, she stepped onto a smaller one and pulled a lever. A system of ropes and pulleys activated and the platform lowered many feet to the ground. There she stepped off and ran past much of her collection of oddments and inventions, from a wooden wheel to a stick-and-rope device she called a fish-catcher, and out into the grass. On she went, until she finally reached the hole. It formed a broad crater, and at the bottom sat a great silver rock. She marveled at the rock, a perfect symmetrical circle. Its surface was almost completely smooth, sparkling and reflecting in the fading light, more like the surface of a pond than a great rock. In the center protruded a smaller stone, like a great shimmering orange gemstone. With a gasp she retrieved her own small stone. They were nearly the same color, except the gemstone was of a solid color, whereas hers was veined. She started when the great gem suddenly twitched and moved, and a cloud of reddish smoke rose from it as something emerged. . . -------------------------------- Entry #11: "The Wishing Rock" When I saw the girl sitting at Wishing Point, gazing out over the valley, I didn't think much of it right away. Then the girl made a jerking movement, flinging something from the outcropping. I paused to watch, curious. She picked up another stone and threw it. Soon she was tearing up piles of pebbles and dirt and hurling them over the precipice. Finally she gave up, fell to her knees, and began crying. I stepped off the path, blending into the dense branches of a pinewood. Half of me wanted to let her be; the other half couldn’t turn away and leave her like that. I watched, and she did nothing. It was one of the pebbles that did it. It flew suddenly back up over the precipice and landed beside the girl, glowing red. It glowed brighter, then stopped. A pool of dark, reddish-orange liquid bled from the rock, pooling on the ground beside the girl. She jumped up, backed away, staring in disbelief as a human woman began to rise from the pool. She was clad in coppery robes that cascaded from her shoulders like a waterfall of fabric. A jeweled turban concealed her hair. "Yes, mistress?" she droned. The girl's mouth hung open, but no sound escaped it. "You have wishes, mistress?" The girl gasped, "You're--a--a genie?" "A genius," the woman corrected. "There is a difference." "And you'll give me three wishes?" "Correct." "Well--I--" "Come, you were wishing yourself silly moments ago. I have not all day." "I wish for--a dog?" Her hearts' greatest desires at her fingertips--and she wishes for a dog! By her tone, however, I guessed she was only testing the water. The genius nodded. "Granted." The girl looked around. "… Where?" "Patience! It will come. Your next wish?" The girl squeaked, "I--I wish my mother were alive." Now we were getting to it. "I cannot bring the dead back, my child," said the genius irritably. "Oh--I--I'm sorry …" "Your next wish?" "There are so many things … A friend?" The simple, childish desperation of this request twisted my heart. "I cannot grant what you have already." "But--but I--" "Broaden your mind and you will see what you do not realize you have. Your next wish?" "I wish for a boyfriend!" "I cannot alter such things as are destined to be." The girl hesitated. "You--you really grant wishes?" "I do." The girl shuffled her feet. "I wish my big sister didn't have cancer." The genius eyed the girl. "Are you certain?" "Of course!" "I am sorry. I cannot grant a wish that is destined to be." The girl looked up. "You mean--she'll be all right?" "Your sister's cancer will not last much longer, my child. I--" The genius hesitated, as if her next words were foreign to her. "I am truly sorry." The girl hugged her shoulders. Voice shaking, she said, "I wish someone would help me!" "I cannot grant what you have already." The genius put a hand on the girl's shoulder. There was a new compassion in her flat tone. "You want help, my child. Let me give you this: You have all the help you need if you look for it." She straightened and went on monotonically, "Your next wish, mistress." The girl looked out over the valley. What she was thinking, I couldn't imagine. Probably the same as me, wondering what the genius meant by what she said. It was a long time before the girl spoke again. "I only have one more." The genius said indifferently, "If that is your wish." "Yes it is." "Will you watch the sunset with me?" There was a pause. The girl, her face unreadable, gazed up into the eyes of the expressionless genius. Finally, the woman spoke. "If it is as you wish." They sat together and watched until the final rays of the sun had faded into the starlit night sky. With the sun's last ray, the genius disappeared. Silently the girl picked up the colorless pebble, put it in her pocket, rose, and left. I followed at an inconspicuous distance until I had seen her safely home. I lingered on the sidewalk across the street, watching her front door, until a tired-looking, poorly-fed puppy padded up to the door and pawed at it, whimpering. I turned and walked away. -------------------------------- Entry #12: "Oranges in a Thunderstorm" I was… oh, I don’t know, eight years old, maybe, kind of a weird kid, didn’t have many friends. It was midway through summer; the few kids my age I got along with were out of town. I was bored, really bored – couldn’t think of anything worth doing inside, and it was way too hot to do anything out in the sun. I figured I might as well head into the woods behind my house, see if I could find anything interesting, a deer, maybe, or a creek or a pond I didn’t know about. The woods went back quite a ways, see; you could spend every afternoon out there for a decade and still find new stuff each day. I grabbed a couple granola bars and a bottle of water and walked off, wandering aimlessly until I found a neat little waterfall sort of thing. I sat there for a while, watching it, and eventually decided to follow it upstream for a while. Somehow, I made it to a road cutting through the trees. The road was narrow, but it was paved, paved with cobblestones, anyway. I started down the it, curious to see where it would lead, and I glanced up at the sky as I did so. It was darkening; storm clouds were gathering above. It would be raining before too long. I’d been on the road a while, never seeing anything but trees and the same cobblestone path, when I realized how hungry I was. I’d finished off my last granola bar a good hour ago already, and trekking through the woods was taking up a lot of energy. What with the rain and the hunger, I was just thinking it would be a good idea to turn around and head back when a dark building loomed into view, a house that was really more a mansion than a simple house. It was on a cliff, and behind it, I could see the ocean churning in the building storm. I walked forward, a bit apprehensively, I guess, but my eight-year-old mind was more concerned with getting indoors before the rain began in earnest (and maybe getting some food in the process) than the potential danger. It wasn’t until I’d banged the wolf-head-shaped knocker against the door a couple times that I remembered the stories the other kids told about the house at the edge of the sea, the house where the witch lived. The witch who cast magic with some weird rock and— The door creaked open, and, well, not that I knew much about witches, but the woman who stood there didn’t seem much like one. I don’t really remember much of what she looked like – she was young, I guess, and pretty. She did have a rock in her hand, I noticed, but it didn’t look very magic to me – just an ordinary chunk of granite. She smiled down at me, somewhat amused. “How’d you get all the way out here, huh?” “I, uh— I walked,” I stammered, more confused than anything. She wanted to know how I’d gotten here, but not my name? “Walked, huh.” She laughed softly, though I wasn’t sure what was so funny. She shook her head. “Never mind. You probably want to get out of the rain, yeah? It’s not looking pretty out there.” As if on cue, a bolt of lightning flashed across the sky, chased a half-second later by an angry roar of thunder. I didn’t need much more invitation than that. “Hungry, too, I bet? Uh, here. Have one of these.” She grabbed an orange out of a bowl resting on a shelf just inside the house and tossed it to me. She turned and walked off, a bit of a weird thing to do when you’ve got a guest, but I didn’t think much of it. I followed, peeling the orange as I did so. Suddenly I stopped – the fruit’s flesh was a deep, dark red. She turned, seeing my surprise, and laughed again. “What are they saying about me these days – the oranges are red from the blood of my victims or something?” I blinked. Actually, I had heard that. “It’s their natural color,” she continued, “and a rather nice color, at that. A genetic mutation.” I cautiously popped a wedge of the orange in my mouth. Tasted fine. The rest of the fruit was gone in seconds. She smiled, pointing a thumb at another bowl of the oranges. “Help yourself.” I did so. -------------------------------- Entry #13: "My Little Angel" It was days like these I always missed him the most. My father had always been by my side, always calling me his little Angel and while I couldn’t quite rationalize why someone would believe in something like Angels, I must admit it felt good. We’d come down to our spot on the beach, skipping pebbles along the water, it had always been our little thing, and he’d always beaten me at it. I’d always try and calculate the best angle to throw with, and he’d always beat me, just by throwing it without a care in the world. Whenever I got frustrated, he’d always laugh and say. “My little Angel, brains are good and all, but sometimes you just need a little fate and a little gut.” This of course would only serve to make me angrier and I’d call him a fool, but even still we both cherished our time together. Even as the sun began to set, we’d only sit there marveling as the sky and sea turned a shade of blood orange. Under the beautiful, fading rays of sunlight, we’d slowly begin our walk back home, along the way my father would brag to anyone he knew about how his little girl was the most precious thing in the world. Back then I’d feel mortified, what kind nincompoop has to brag about someone else so much, however now all I could do was tightly clutch a pebble, much like the ones we used to throw, and cry at the memory. Why’d you have to leave me dad. The night it happened a storm was supposed to be coming our way; I had gotten fed up with the constant bullying at school, the kids always calling me out for being smarter than them. So I ran, I ran to our special spot and cried my heart out, I never wanted to go back, what was the point of me being smarter than everyone else if it only brought me so much pain. Then I had felt a hand at my shoulder, my dad’s grinning face was looking down at me. His smile was so warm that night, yet his eyes were filled with a deep sadness at seeing his little Angel crying like this. “Your mother’s been crying her heart out dear. Won’t you come home already?” I only shook my head, muttering about not ever wanting to go back anywhere, that everywhere was terrible. Still my dad only laughed and asked if that included our special spot. The words hit me, deeper than I could have imagined, and I replied that in that case I’d stay here. Once again he laughed and said, “Angel, you’re a smart girl, smarter than your old man. Do the math; if the world is so big, what are the odds that the only good place in this whole big world exists only here? Pretty darn lousy I’d say, of course I’m no genius, but I’d think you’d agree.” He then lifted my sobbing face out of my arms and knelt down in front of me so our eyes met. “Now look, the world can be scary place at times and yes there are some bad people out there, but for every bad person there’s a hundred good people out there waiting to be met, so do your old man a favor and keep your head up high to find them. After all Angels like you came from above, not below.” Sure I found his words irrational at the time, but they managed to cheer me up a bit. So when he asked if I was ready to go home I just nodded my head, unfortunately that was when the storm decided to rear its ugly head. My dad picked me into his two arms and ran as fast as he could towards a nearby shelter, throwing me in and then, my tears began to flow freely down my face as the memories came back, he knew there wasn’t enough time to get in, so he, well, he... shut the door. That was the last time I saw him, and even then he’d been grinning like a maniac. That next morning I awoke to find the storm had died down. The moment my mind started working I rushed out the door, but all I found were some pebbles my dad used to carry when we came to the beach. I’m sorry dad, I’ll hold my head up high from now on. -------------------------------- Entry #14: "My Hero" I still keep Dwayne the Rock in my pocket. Even when I give speeches or read out reports, his form makes a little bulge in my pants, announcing his existence to all who see me. His aura forms a shield around me which no hurtful words nor thoughts can penetrate, and his mere presence scares away any potential threats. He is my Guardian, my Champion, my Knight on a white steed. Every day, I wake up with him on my bedside table, his Watchful Eye having protected me while the night slipped by. Every day, I put him in my pocket and roam the world without fear or hesitation, knowing that I'm able to conquer any foe with him by my side. Every day, I read with him, write with him, discover with him, laugh with him. And every day, when it's time to go to bed, I put him on my bedside table and let him dutifully stand guard for the eight hours I slumber. It's been routine for as many years as I can remember, albeit not one I'd risk breaking. I still remember, quite vividly in fact, the day that he first arrived to my rescue. Without him, I doubt I could ever have become the young woman I am today. I was five when it happened. See, regardless of what anyone tells you, genius children do end up isolated moreso than the average child. Even gifted, but not genius, children are able to make friends faster than we are. It's Psychology 101. I took that in 6th grade. Anyways, I was this

Vote here for your favorite Chronicler story; entries have been randomized. Please MAKE SURE YOU READ ALL ENTRIES BEFORE VOTING.Voting begins now and will end on July 2nd at 11:59 PM EST. Entries that do well will move on to the Chronicler Final Poll, which will be posted at the conclusion of the 10th round preliminary poll. Choice #1: "Burdens Upon My Soul" 1… 2… 3… 4… Four skips before the pebble finally sank into the ocean. The Toa responded by throwing another stone, watching it cut through the water in a straight line. This one managed three skips. In frustration the Toa released a gust of air with the next pebble, accomplishing only the drowning of the pebble. Zero, just like me. This latest war between the Toa and the Glatorian had been just as bloody as the previous three; even now the Toa could only take out his frustrations on rocks and lakes. Everything had become so terrible, so fast. For a short while there had been some semblance of peace and harmony after Mata Nui had died. This was thanks in large part to the Mata and the Glatorian Mata Nui had befriended. Then the horror crept in as a devastating creature had been unleashed upon the Toa. Three skips. The Toa of Air still remembered those days, despite being a rookie Toa at the time. One by one the Toa heroes of old fell, alongside Mata Nui’s friends who attempted to help the Toa. It wasn’t long before only the Mata and a handful of Toa were left alive. The Toa often felt guilty for surviving. Two skips. Eventually Tahu and the Mata set out, hoping to rid the land of this scourge. Though they accomplished their task, they never returned. The news that their greatest heroes had been wiped out devastated all of the surviving Matoran and Toa, but soon their despair became hatred when they realized the monster never targeted a single Glatorian. One skip. Of course the Glatorian were just as angry at the loss of many of the heroes they had sent to aid the Toa. They blamed the Toa, for the arrival of this beast and so they too sought revenge. That was when all Karz broke loose. Zero skips. A gust of wind managed to fling sand into the Toa’s face causing him to drop the pebble. The sand only gave the Toa of yet another reason to hate this place. The small band of Toa accompanying him didn’t even have the luxury of being assigned to one of the more temperate climates. However even that wasn’t always the best option, the Jungles just meant more chances of an ambush. Everything about this place was terrible. This time the Toa kicked the pebble, silently watching as it arced into the air. The pebble somehow managed six skips leaving the Toa swearing at fate for being such a cruel mistress. Why would she aid him when he did something wrong? Picking up another pebble he let it fly. Eight skips. Perhaps fate wasn’t always so cruel, but it certainly hadn’t been kind in the past few hundred years. He still remembered how wide-eyed the Toa had gone into the war, only to have their idealistic hopes of a bloodless war vanquished. On Spherus Magna it was kill or be killed. Seven skips. He still remembered his first kill. It had been a terrible experience that still shook his very core. Toa don’t kill. That had been the fundamental rule, the one driven into him since his early days as a Matoran, however on Spherus Magna none of that mattered. Six skips. Unfortunately the pain of killing only faded as time went by. Soon all of the Toa were laying waste to legion of Glatorian every day, and yet they kept losing. For every ten Glatorian they killed by day, the Glatorian killed fifteen of them at night. Five skips. His brothers and sisters hadn’t been spared from this fate either. One by one each Toa of his former team perished. Eventually only he was left. He had nothing but sympathy for the Chronicler. His own memories weighed so deeply upon his soul, he couldn’t imagine the pain of a Chronicler who had to deal with everyone’s memories. Four skips. “Brother!” A voice rang out from across the camp, alerting the Toa of Air. “The Glatorian are attacking!” Three skips. The news only served to further ruin the Toa’s mood as he lethargically grabbed another rock. However this one was different from the others, it was covered in blood. Picking it up he let it fly out towards the enemy. Two lives. However this time things it was his turn and so he could only resign his head as the counter attack was launched his way. One life. He was finally free from his memories. -------------------------------------- Choice #2: "Easy Shadows" There are not many stories that are fully true. This is because most stories are old, and time twists tales in such a way that nobody can really be sure what happened or not. So many things happen over such a short period of time that the strings are bound to get tangled and there are so many discrepancies that someone has to sort them all out. It is the job of a Chronicler to learn all they they can about the history of their assigned location or people. In such a vast world, to make sure that all the details of their history are correct and never too far-fetched. This is quite difficult when you have to talk to a pathological liar. The Vortixx's claw-like fingers drummed on the wooden table as she held her face in her other hand. Her name was Roodaka, and though her weapons had been removed, she was still deemed dangerous enough for the Chronicler to have guards assigned to her. However, when they realised that she wouldn't be talking to anyone other than the small Vo-Matoran, they had left the cell and locked the door. "So, you probably want to know my motives for turning the Toa into Hordika first," she purred. The Chronicler shivered, but didn't let this deter her until she realised that she was too scared to speak. She nodded, knowing that if she shook her head then she would have to say something. The Vortixx smirked knowingly and looked at her with her right eye. "Their corpses would have been useful, and it was also my way of testing Sidorak. If he had accepted the idea, he would be again proved to me that he was unworthy of my time. If he had disagreed and mutated them - for almost no good reason I may add - then he had succeeded for once. Needless to say, this was yet another of my tests that he had failed." As she finished the sentence in a harsher tone than before, she scraped her fingers down on the wood, tearing out a small chunk and throwing it at the wall. "However, I had many plans for what happened next. If they had died, then I could have used their corpses for brokering deals and for a little thing that you know nothing of called power. But as they lived, I could use their new mental state for my own good." The Chronicler leaned in, still scrawling on a piece of parchment given to her by an Agori of the Fire Tribe. Roodaka observed her haughtily before continuing. "My first choice was actually Matau. He had darkness - so much that it was a shame to waste it. Nokama would have been a better choice to destroy their precious unity, but she was stubborn and unyielding. The others could have done the job, but Vakama was willing to walk straight into my web." She chuckled. "Just like a Toa should." The Chronicler blinked. She should not have been surprised - Turaga Vakama had admitted it, after all - but to hear these words spoken by a known villain, and to be told how foolish their leader had been, brought a small chill to the Chronicler's soul. "You know everything that happened in Metru Nui. I will not deny this, nor shall I add anything such as personal motives. I know that you want to hear about my weaknesses, so all of your new Orders and Federations can find some way to punish me. "I have some advice for you, little Matoran. Rules, such as those that you live and breathe every day by, are nothing but restrictions placed on you so you don't usurp those who placed themselves in power." She stood up and walked to the cell door. There, she picked the lock and opened the door. "Come, little Matoran. I will teach you about the benefits of the places that your Turaga tell you are shadows. You will never be powerless again, and wouldn't it be wonderful to not be looking over our shoulder every day to make sure that I am not there with my knife to your throat?" The Vo-Matoran looked up from the parchment, before nodding and following the Vortixx out of the door. -------------------------------------- Choice #3: "Preserving the Past" Hey, uh. I don’t have much time to talk, so I guess I’d better make the most of it. Oh, yeah. Guess I’d better introduce myself, sorry. Name’s Greil. Not a Toa, no – I look like one, yeah, but I come from a species native to the Southern Islands. Which isn’t really that important, I guess. What matters more is what I do; I’m a… historian, I guess you’d say. The Matoran call me a Chronicler, or at least most of them do. I’ve been a lot of places, seen a lot of things. All of it’s recorded in that book over there, or at least the parts that aren’t in that one. Or any of those in that stack. Or… yeah, you get the idea. That’s not really what I’m trying to tell you about, though. Yeah, adventures are cool. Watching history unfold before your eyes is something that never gets. But, see, it’s all there. All in those books. Feel free to read about any of it, if you like. Just bear with me for a few minutes here, all right? See, as you can probably tell, I’ve got a thing for the past. Recording it, documenting it. Crafting a chronicle of our existence so the deeds we do won’t be forgotten. Like, uh… hang on a second, let me just… Yeah, here it is. Volume Six, chapter forty-three – “The Deeds of Toa Hydrac.” His exploits were the stuff of legends while he was alive. Now, though? You ask the people of his village about him, and all they have is vague recollections of a Bo-Toa who protected the island a while back, “or something like that.” A piece of the past lost. Events that may as well not have happened for all the thought they’re given. See how fragile the past is? The mere passage of time destroys it, melts it from our memory. So yeah. That’s what I do. Preserve the past. Guard it, protect it. If I don’t, it’ll just vanish, and we’ll never recover it. Wait, wait, I’m not done. ‘Cause, see, that’s not all there is to the past. Tell me – what’s the point of preserving it, huh? Why do we try to remember everything that happened before now? To honor the heroic deeds of those who came before us? Just for completeness, to have a full record? Both of those have some merit, yeah. That’s what I had in mind when I set out on this quest, this endless, lifelong journey to record what’s happened in this world we call our home. But see, there’s something else that I realized. Ultimately, the past is gone. I mean, think about that, really think about it for a minute. The past means a lot of things to a lot of people. Some recall the deeds of their heroes, wishing they could someday mirror such feats. But the thing is, you’ve got your own life to live – you can’t live it if you focus on the past. Many live in regret of the decisions they’ve made, wishing they had done things differently. Wishing things had turned out better. But the things you’ve done – they’re gone! Because they’re in the past. When it comes down to it, living in regret doesn’t really make sense at all, does it? ‘Cause really, since you can’t change the choices you’ve made, what’s left to do but go out there and make better ones, yeah? I guess what I’m trying to say is this: It’s good to remember the past, but don’t let it distract you from the present. Well, uh. Looks like that’s all the time I’ve got. Like I said, feel free to check out those books. Or maybe you could go out there and live your life. I don’t really mind either way; I’ve got some things to take care of… It’s up to you. -------------------------------------- Choice #4: "Words by Kopeke" I have never been one to do much speaking. I never had to. I let others talk their throats hoarse if they wanted. I let them discharge their views, right or wrong, whether I agreed or not, to their hearts' contents. Words never solved anything. I listened when I thought it was worth while, but what good would it have been to answer? I stood by and did what I had to do. For many years it was my job to listen and observe. It wasn't my own story I was chronicling. It was the story of the universe. I was just watching. That was my duty and I stuck to it. Words are useless, idle things. Now, so am I. The time of my usefulness is past. My destiny as a chronicler was fulfilled when I became a Toa. During those centuries I spoke even less. I did my duty and I wasted no time talking. My deeds have passed into legend alongside the feats of the many great heroes in our history. Still I was only an observer. Only I had become an observer of my own destiny. That was a long time ago. We live in more peaceable times now. The world has little use for Toa, and even less for quiet Turaga. My destiny is over. My chronicles are written. I spend my days now in tranquil seclusion. There is not much here for me to observe. Only memories. I have lost my purpose. I am now useless, idle. In losing my purpose I have found it. Idleness need not be useless if it is worthily devoted. If words are worthless, if I am idle, let us unite and find a destiny for us both. Now I have a new gift to give the universe. My time has been well spent observing our world. I have done much, and seen more. I may have nothing tot tell that has not been told, but that does not mean my mind is empty. In an idle chair, with words and stylus, I will create new legends. For the first time I open my mouth to speak. After millennia of silence, I have a lot to say. -------------------------------------- Choice #5: "The Eternal Silence of A Bitter Man" I never thought I would be tasked with this; I never imagined I would be asked to record the history of an entire universe. And yet, here I am, parchment in my hand, and ink stains tainting my snow-white fingers. I watched as my friends grew into heroes, becoming characters in the legend I humbly wrote down. I watched others aspire for greatness, achieve greatness and become something that ascended beyond mere mortality, as I merely sat and watched, content to be the recorder. I could have been a hero; I could have welcomed the Toa Mata, become one of the Toa Inika, doing wondrous things, and feeling such great rushes of emotion. Yet I do nothing but carry stone tablets, and I feel nothing but the rough wood of a chisel’s handle, scraping my once-delicate hands into a callous mass of bone, muscle and protodermis. Am I a fool for letting them do such things? Should I have seized the day, should I have spoken when I was silent, and acted when I was frozen in my own lethargy? Should I have dared to not only dream, but to act? I do not know. I merely write down the doings of Destiny; I have no knowledge of the force that sets the universe in motion, giving each of us a meaning and a task. There are so many that think my life is a glorious one. They think of me not as a slave to an unseen master, but as a loyal and hardy squire, recording the doings of a brave warrior. They do not see the apparent sadness, but only the absent glory. I am a bitter man, having lived far too long for my own good. I have never seen the golden light of glory, but only the crimson and shadowy stain of suffering. It is said that the Chronicler’s occupation is a post to be respected, but I am unable to see why. I am little more than a glorified clerk, working for a cruel, enigmatic master, at best mysterious, at worst treacherous. And yet I find myself unable to stop. The cruel, heartless force known as Duty has become the sword of Destiny, striking down any attempt to rebel. I write, I record, and I listen, but I never act or think. I am a husk of a being, forged by my job, and hollow inside, an automaton, born to serve an unseen Lord by performing an unclear task. Only one of the Three Virtues I can claim to disown, for my role in society demands my ignorance of it. Unity, the principle that drives both Rahi and sapient beings into a stupidly gregarious mindset, is as foreign to me as the feeling of accomplishment. I can only watch as my peers work together, uniting to complete a task impossible for the lone worker, as I feel nothing but confusion. Even before I was appointed this accursed office, I worked unaccompanied, relying on only myself to carve beauty out of the blocks of heartless, biting ice. I was always silent, for I saw the idiocy of my brethren to be unworthy of notice. But I am naught but a bitter, cruel man. My intelligence may be tempered by cynicism, but it also tainted by a certain lack of empathy. My name is forgotten, replaced by my title. Perhaps if I hear the word one more time, some component of my soul will return. Kopeke. A rather nice name that belongs to a rather disagreeable man. Perhaps “Chronicler” is my proper name; I have chronicled and recorded enough to earn it. I suppose it can’t be argued; it has been given to me by Destiny, reinforced by Duty, and strengthened by a lack of Unity. I’m naught but a bitter man, with ink-stained hands, worn rough by the days of carving stone. I am the Chronicler of Spherus Magna, the recorder for not one, but two entire universes. I am a bitter writer, my words tainted with my scorn, my once delicate, beauty-crafting hands now as hard and callous as my heart. Recording the sins of a universe has done this to me. I have watched false hope after false hope die; I have seen a universe in its death throes, and I have tilled salted ground. But I am unable to feel. I am unable to think. I can only record, writing down these things in eternal silence. -------------------------------------- Choice #6: "Uniform" I’ll never fit in… Hielo thought Every time I have an adventure, everyone stares at me quizzically. As if they’re judging if I really am a Ko-Matoran. Hielo wandered into his flat in Ko-Ouda. He’d never applied for a job, he never wanted one. After all, who wants to sit around all day studying or working? Oh wait, that’s right; Everybody else. Hielo thought as he sat down. He flicked on his television and watched it halfheartedly. He was distraught to say the least. No one liked him, no one appreciated his company, and no one thought that he was worth anything. Not even him. Hielo got up to go to bed when something of interest caught his attention: the chief chronicler of Ouda-Nui had been connected to a crime ring in Onu-Ouda and the Turaga was now seeking a replacement! I’m the guy for the job. Hielo thought as he grabbed his bag and set out for the central city of Ouda-Nui. “Hey! Watch it!” A Matoran driver yelled as he jerked to a stop. “Sorry!” Hielo yelled back. Getting through the city was hard. There were too many side streets and roads that intersected, and the traffic signals being out of sync only made it worse. One had to have sharp wits and reflexes to make it out of here with a few cuts. Here I am; the Tower. Hielo thought. The Tower was the very center of Ouda-Nui. Only the rich, the famous, and the officials lived here. After a week’s journey, Hielo had finally made it. Now to get inside… “Wow, they don’t like guest.” Hielo said. He didn’t make it past the lobby. Apparently you needed a visitor’s pass, which Hielo did not possess, to get inside. Well, so much for plan A. Hielo thought. “Time for plan B” He said as he gazed upward towards the top of the Tower. In hindsight, this was most definitely NOT a good idea. Hielo thought as he looked down. He was thirty stories in the air and still had twenty stories to go before he reached the Turaga’s private flat at the top. By now, a large crowd of Matoran had amassed in front of the building. Great, just what I needed; extra attention. The Turaga of Ouda-Nui was just waking up from his afternoon nap when Hielo tumbled through a window. “What’s this?” The Turaga said, “An adventurous Matoran, I don’t come across many of those.” “Forgive my entrance, Turaga.” Hielo said, exhausted. “I’ve come to apply for the job of chief Chronicler.” Hielo said. “What is your name?” The Turaga asked. “My name is Hielo, Turaga.” Hielo replied. "Well then, Hielo, the title of Chronicler is not one that is given away freely. One must earn it by traveling throughout Ouda-Nui and keeping a detailed history of such an adventure.” The Turaga said. “Very well, Turaga. I will return in one month with the stories of my journey.” Hielo said with a slight bow as he climbed out of the window. “I would recommend that you use the lift.” The Turaga said. “Nah, the welcome desk attendant doesn’t like me very much.” Hielo said as he jumped through the window. The Turaga chuckled a little. He’s the one. I can feel it. The Turaga thought. “Every Matoran has His or Her place. Hielos does not; he must be terminated” An ominous voice said. “Or have you forgotten, my dear Turaga, that every Matoran must be uniform. Have you forgotten you place? Must you be terminated?” “No, master, I am making the call now." The Turaga said as he keyed in a com code. I’m really glad that the parachute worked. Hielo thought as he walked away from the Tower. Now it’s time to head off to Le-Ouda. “He’s on his way toward Le-Ouda” A voice crackled through the intercom. “Make sure he doesn’t make it into the city, Korvux.” “Sure thing boss, but Hielo isn’t a Matoran that’s so easily killed.” Korvux said as he assumed his sniping position in a nearby tree. He’ll have no idea what hit him. Korvux thought as he activated his camouflage. --------------------------------------

Vote here for your favorite Chronicler story; entries have been randomized. Please MAKE SURE YOU READ ALL ENTRIES BEFORE VOTING.Voting begins now and will end on July 2nd at 11:59 PM EST. Entries that do well will move on to the Chronicler Final Poll, which will be posted at the conclusion of the 10th round preliminary poll. Choice #1: "Kodan's Last Chronicle" Kodan’s Log, 34-18 We left early in the morning from the Coliseum to the northernmost of the sea gates that surrounded Metru Nui. For a very long time, they had been open to allow trade ships and refugees from less stable lands in. However, Turaga Dume has ordered they all be closed, as a threat against our city has been discovered. This is the last gate to close. I travel with Toa Sesho, Toa of Psionics, and Toa Hetilus, Toa of Iron. I do not know why two Toa are required for a task as menial as closing gates; I, or any Matoran, could easily operate the controls alone, but Turaga Dume knows what is best. We can only hope that he will Kodan put down his log book as the boat came to a stop. The three passengers disembarked and began for the machinery that closed a large door over the gate, and did so without word. As they finished, a shadowy figure emerged from the depths of the sea. He performed his task as silently as he did efficiently. Toa Hetilus’s Kanohi Kakama was knocked into the sea during the battle, and Kodan’s log entry was never completed. -------------------------------------- Choice #2: "But Never Fun" “Why?” “Now, that’s too simple a question to too complex a situation.” “I don’t think you believe that. You did it because you could.” “There is some truth to that. But if you thought that was all it was, you wouldn’t have asked anything at all.” “Enlighten me, then. Why?” “Well, it all started when—well, you should know yourself. You were there at the battle of the Rotting Gorge, were you not?” “Not close enough to know what you’re referring to, and that was an enormous battle to begin with. My account was written based off other’s, too.” “That seems to be how most of your work is done.” “Indeed. Which makes our present situation most awkward.” “I suppose. But then, a coward would be expected to think that.” “I prefer not to think of myself that way. I am simply not openly suicidal.” “Then why won’t you come closer? Do you really think I could hurt you in my state?” “I don’t know if you could or couldn’t. As it is, I’m trying to figure out if you would.” “Be a little more trusting.” “I would rather not.” “Do you remember what happened at the Gorge?” “A lot of things happened at the Gorge. Be a little more specific.” “I mean the Nova.” “You should have just said that.” “You should have known that’s what I was talking about.” “I’m not a mind reader. You should know that, at least.” “…Do you remember the Nova?” “Of course I remember the Nova. That’s all anyone talks about when the Gorge is brought up.” “Yes…And for good reason. That devastated both sides and killed both Toa and Skakdi. It would be irresponsible not to discuss it.” “Don’t make me laugh. You never had any intentions of discussing it. You probably made up your mind the second you saw it.” “Oh? And what is it that I decided?” “You decided it was awesome.” “It was probably awe inspiring. But then, that’s your opinion as well.” “Sure. But that doesn’t mean I would want to repeat it.” “Empty words, Matoran. You do not have the power required to do it even if you wanted. Perhaps if you did, it would be a different story.” “Perhaps. But maybe that’s why I am not a Toa, and why no fools like me should be, either.” “You haven’t heard all I have to say yet.” “I doubt your situation will improve either way.” “Anyway, as you well know, that Nova ended the conflict. Our commander had been the one that detonated, while he was battling the Skakdi warlord. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much of either left after the blast (Or of a few dozen others), and the front ranks were left in disarray. Truly a messy situation.” “What’s your point?” “Well, one of the commander’s main aides, one the casualties of the Nova, was a very close friend of mine. According to another mutual acquaintance, she had sensed the commander’s intent before battle, but did not warn anybody.” “Then she was a fool.” “I thought so at first. But then I wondered why she would keep quiet about something like that. Then it struck me that none of us had ever seen anything like a Nova before. It is the grandest demonstration of a Toa’s power possible. Wouldn’t you be curious to see how much power you really had, even if the marker was only the extent of destruction you caused?” “Not at all, but that aside, my question remains. You were there. So why again?” “Because I wasn’t. The Rotting Gorge is enormous. All I saw was some smoke out in the distance. I only learned later that my friend had been killed.” “And because you weren’t present, you felt you needed to repeat the Nova.” “Yes.” “Then you are also a fool.” “Yes. And now I am sure, so was she.” “Her foolishness cost dozens their lives. Why would you do this?” “Well, only one life is ending today, and it’s the life of a fool. I don’t see it as a great loss.” “Then you are a greater fool than I thought.” “Why?” “You are a Toa. Without you here to protect us, how many more will fall?” “That’s why you’re here, Chronicler. Tell others the story of this fool. Warn them of my stupidity. It should be fun.” “It is true that that is my Duty. But if you think I will enjoy it, you truly understand nothing.” -------------------------------------- Choice #3: "Stars and Memoirs" An elderly Turaga sat at his desk, tablet, pen, and ink before him. His white-and-orange armor glinted in the dim light. He dipped his pen in the ink and began to write. "I've lived a long life and a full life. I actually don't remember most of my life, thanks to the Makuta Teridax. But of the life I do remember-- Oh, such things as I have seen and done." He set down his pen and gazed out the window at the moon rising over the ocean. Thousands of memories floated behind his eyes. He lightly touched the upper portion of his Kanohi, the Noble Vahi. After a moment he returned to the tablet. "Before I pass among the stars, I have decided to create this Chronicle of my life and adventures. Heed, dear reader, within this volume lay many untold tales and once well-hidden secrets. But before I begin, let me give an introduction. "I once lived on an island paradise we called Mata Nui. From there my people crossed the Silver Sea to reunite with our ancestral home, and before long I was dragged along on a string of other adventures, finally ending up in a strange and marvelous world. It was a place which I had never known existed, and one whom few even now know to exist. A time of great strife was passing over that forgotten land, and it was at this time that I found my destiny. As a Toa I devoted my entire energies to the task of caring for and leading my new people. From there things got even stranger, but I've already said too much on that subject for the time being." He glanced out the window again, in reflection. So many adventures he had had, and the next would soon begin. "The world of Spherus Magna has been at peace for many a year now, and I feel that it is the time for a change. My old components are itching to be traveling again, and there are many a younger being keeping watch over Natoro, the city for which I am Head Turaga. I have always had a love for exploration and adventure. Natoro is beautiful, it is true, and there are many here for whom I care, but they will do fine without me. Indeed, I have already explored much of Spherus Magna and encountered many beings, old and new, friendly and not-so-friendly. Now it is time for me to move on to the next chapter." He paused again. His people, along with many hundreds of Spherus Magna's best engineers, had been hard at work for the last few months, working on a major new project. "You see, I have recently discovered an old volume, one ancient in origin. Indeed, it seems that this tale is older than the Matoran Universe itself. It tells the tale of a brave band who, under the orders of those Ancients, the Element Lords, took command of a machine which the Elementals had invented, and set off among the stars themselves. There they encountered entire new worlds and great perils, worlds of paradise and worlds kept under iron fist. Indeed, they remained on this long quest, and never did stop reaching for that last, unreachable star, as it were. "This tale has so inspired me that I took it upon myself to reinvent this old machine, the likes of which had never been seen or heard of before besides from the tale itself, so far as I am aware. The city of Natoro agreed with me, and indeed, so did many a city among the broad expanse of the United Cities of S.M., that in this time of long-lasting peace this oppurtunity to forge new frontiers and expand horizons will be more than worth it. They have agreed with me, and I am overjoyed that they have also agreed to let me take part in this mission myself. I shall be the Chronicler, a title which pleases me to no end. My people have been hard at work, and in just a few short weeks the new Star Explorer shall be complete. "I am overjoyed at this new prospect. I could hope for nothing preferable before I pass into those realms of which only Mata Nui knows for sure. But now, dear reader, before this new chapter begins, let me consign to you these tales of the past. If you are brave, then press on into the depths." -------------------------------------- Choice #4: "How to Be a Chronicler" You want to be a Chronicler? You can’t just walk up, tell the Turaga you want to be a Chronicler, and get your badge just like that. For one, you go to the Turaga and ask for an application form, and secondly you need to follow certain qualifications. Luckily, we’re here to help! Here’s a list of 17 simple steps for any aspiring Chronicler-to-be. 1. Be a Matoran. Toa, Turaga, Agori, Glatorian, Skakdi, Vortixx, Makuta, Visorak, Takea, Gadunka, Great Spirits, Great Beings, and whatever Sidorak’s species are called cannot apply. No, this is not species-ism in the slightest. It’s a story requirement. You think Takua kept his position after he became a Toa? Nope, he got ousted ASAP and Hahli took his place. And she got ousted when she became a Toa. In short, DON’T BE ANYTHING OTHER THAN A MATORAN. 2. Be stupidly courageous, stupidly adventurous, and stupidly stupid. Do stuff that would make any daredevil cringe. I mean, come on, who wants a Chronicler that just sits down and writes? Go out and get yourself blasted into amnesiac status because of a few glowy stones. Go and chase a certain weird-looking rock even though you’re going to die unless a random Toa appears out of nowhere. 3. Give up and just go mad. It would help a ton. Trust me. 4. Bend the truth. No one wants to hear about how a random Le-Matoran ate a Bula Berry. That Le-Matoran did NOT eat a Bula Berry. He ate a whole bushel of EXPLOSIVE Bula Berries, while swinging on a vine, while fighting flying Takea mutations, while staring into Makuta’s eyes, without his mask, Gukko birds chasing him, all before he lets go of the vine, flips in the air, and hijacks one of the birds to engage in a daring dogfight. Now THAT’S a story. Did it happen? Yes it did. 5. Look for loopholes. The above story happened…in my mind. There. 6. Never go into specifics. They’ll be the death of you. I’m not even exaggerating. 7. Exaggerate. This is different from bending the truth. Bending the truth is adding details. Exaggerating is amplifying them. The Gukko Birds in the above story were poised to self-destruct if the Le-Matoran even touched them, but he did and he lived. That’s exaggeration. 8. ALWAYS ALWAYS ALWAYS italicize and/OR capitalize EVERYTHING you SAY. IT ADDS A TON of emphasis and makes STORIES so much MORE INTERESTING. WE want INTERESTING NOT BORING. ALSO BREAK YOUR CAPS LOCK SO IT’S ALWAYS ON. IT SOUNDS LIKE YOU’RESCREAMING THEN. WE LOVE SCREAMING. 9. TABLET AND CHISEL ONLY. PENS ARE EVIL AND WERE THE REASON ELIMINATOR KILLED KODAN. HE USED A PEN FOR A STORY SO HE DIED. ALTHOUGH HE RODE A VINE WHILE EATING A BUSHEL OF EXPLOSIVE BULA BERRIES. BUT THEY EXPLODED BECAUSE OF ELIMINATOR. DON'T MAKE THE SAME MISTAKE HE DID. 10. EXPLOSIONS EXPLOSIONS EXPLOSIONS EXPLOSIONS EXPLOSIONS EXPLOSIONS EXPLOSIONS EXPLOSIONS. 11. GET INTO TROUBLE WITH YOUR LOCAL TURAGA. PUT A DISK LAUNCHER AGAINST HIS HEAD OR SOMETHING. OR BURN DOWN A VILLAGE. TELL EVERYONE THAT THIS IS A DREAM AND MAKE THEM WONDER WHOSE IT IS AND IF THEY’RE ENJOYING IT. ALSO EXPLOSIONS EXPLOSIONS EXPLOSIONS. 12. DO NOT TALK ABOUT HOW TO BE A CHRONICLER. 13. DO NOT TALK ABOUT HOW TO BE A CHRONICLER. 14. EXPLOSIONS. 15. BE YOURSELF? YEAH, THAT SEEMS RIGHT. THAT’S WHAT EVERY HOW TO GUIDE ENDS WITH. BE YOUR MAD, INSANE, TROUBLESOME, EXPLOSIONY, EXAGGERATING, TRUTH-BENDER SELF. 16. FIND AN IMPORTANT RELIC. MAYBE, SAY, SOMETHING LIKE A MASK OF LIFE? IT MIGHT BE IN A CAVERN WITH A POOL OF LAVA AND NO WAY OUT. 17. OBEY AND SERVE ME. ADVANCE THE PLAN. After these 17 simple steps, you should be ready to go out and apply for the job with no fear! Good luck, and may Mata Nui be with you always! Sincerely, By Katuma Xedirat -------------------------------------- Choice #5: "The Close of the Civil War" Any good Chronicler knows that a story is no more than a sum of other stories.If a worthy Chronicler happened upon the Makuta-led massacre of civil war leaders in the Archives, that Chronicler ought not to think of only the heres and nows — the bodies strewn across the floor, the bloodstains on Teridax’s blade, the morbid satisfaction betrayed by his grin — but of the befores and afters.Such a Chronicler might say: There lies Odipheus the Po-Matoran, his right arm separated from the rest of his body, his eyes open in an empty gaze: Odipheus, who had pleaded in his prayers for the chance to face he who dared to incarcerate him, now free from bodily pain; who had asked that blood be shed and received his wish in more ways than one. And there lies Ta-Matoran Karhi, whose fiery temper ignited the hopes and fears of his kin, intimidating in death as he was in life: who drew his sword only to serve his friends and, in the end, gave up his life for them.That Chronicler might continue and note the Ga-Matoran Kokora, who courted Odipheus for a time before being repulsed by his rebellious streak and, for the duration of the Matoran Civil War, served only as healer and assistant. He may remark in brief about the passing of Ko-Matoran Irhu, perhaps the most pragmatic among those of the coldest Metru, who preached for cool heads and was rewarded being flung into battle with the opposite.But there was no Chronicler here.Teridax was cunning. As he had determined the war would end on his terms, so end it would — along with the talks of rebellion and the songs of heroes wrongly apotheosized and villains improperly labeled, of the very essence and hubris that had caused the conflict in the first place.Oh, Miserix would be furious if he discovered, and the Matoran would cry foul.But — and here lay the inherent pulchritude, the beautiful simplicity of his plot — Teridax would have cleaned the blood off his blade by then, and he would speak with squared shoulders and somber eyes of how he had been offered no other options. He would speak of a defender backed against a wall and forced to strike out against those he had sworn to protect. And no one would correct him.For he had made certain that he, and no virtuous individual, no Matoran or Toa — only he would write the chronicle of how the civil war came to its close. -------------------------------------- Choice #6: "Treasure" Takua's hut was a mess. But he liked it that way. Everyone told him he needed to organize, throw things out. But he liked all of his possessions, and knew where all of them where located. Need a five inch wrench for an air tube? Look in the pile by the northeast corner. Need a leash for an Ussal Crab? Hanging on the wall right next to a Mahi horn. Sure it wasn't professionally curated, but that was a job for the archivists. He wasn't an archivist, he was an adventurer. And today he was going to have an adventure. He'd heard rumors of a valuable object floating around Ko-Metru. And if there's one thing Takua loved, it was valuable objects. His first stop was to talk to a Matron named Kapura. He was supposed to be on duty, but Takua knew he preferred the company of the junk piles. He made his way over to the Ta-Metru dump, and sure enough, Kapura was there digging as usual. "Hey, Kapura!" Takua called. "I need you to--" Kapura brought his fingers to his lips, halting Takua's speech. "Quiet!" He whispered. "Spies could be anywhere." "Sorry," Takua whispered back. "I've heard rumors of a valuable object hidden in Ko-Metru. I know you have an ear in every rumor mill of Metru-Nui and was wondering what you've heard" Kapura leaned in close and whispered in Takua's ear. "They say there's something embedded in the very top of Tower 43," he said. "Nobody wants to go after it, though. Vahki guard that place like it's a widget reserve." Kapura stopped talking, his eyes looking around panicked. "We're being watched!" he exclaimed, "Run!" And with that he took off. Takua looked around, but he didn't see anything. He carefully slunk off toward the nearest tube station. - He shortly arrived in Ko-Metru, and quickly made his way toward the Knowledge Towers. He noted from a map that Tower 43 was located below a cliff. Approaching from the cliff, he noticed about the tower. Unlike the rest, which ended in points, this one didn't. Instead it was capped with a flat platform. There must be something there. He went into his backpack and took out rope, stake, and hammer. Pounding the stake into the cliffside, he tied the rope around himself and made a makeshift rappel line. He breathed slowly, gathering his courage, before jumping from the cliff. He climbed down quickly. The Vahki would see this. He jumped three feet from the top and immediately started to search. It didn't take long. He saw an object embedded in the ice, and without thinking grabbed his hammer and smacked the ice. The ice cracked. The object fell out. He threw it in his backpack without looking at it. He knew Keerakh were coming. He climbed the rope as fast as he could. When he got to the top he just ran. The nearest tube station was a quarter kio away. Looking back he didn't see any Keerakh. But you never saw Keerakh until it was too late. - The tube station was in sight! Takua's lungs were burning, but he didn't dare stop. When he got to 22 bio away, he turned back. Nothing. He looked ahead. There was a Keerakh. He sprinted. The Keerakh ran toward Takua, it's staff glowing. It swung. Takua lifted his legs, plopping to the ground like a wingless bird, and slid on the ice right under the staff. That move would have never worked anywhere else. Getting up, he continued to sprint, and at what he figured was the last second, jumped into the tube. Takua was out of breath. He was choking on the protoermis, but he had to leave the Vahki behind. Right before he passed out, he jumped out of the tub. He landed hard, but the breath he took was heavenly. And as the green trees indicated, he was out of Ko-Metru. - Takua took a relaxing trip back home. When he was finally in his favorite chair, he opened his backpack and looked at his find. His jaw dropped. He couldn't breath. In his hand was the ultimate treasure: a gearbox from the original Vahki model! They should have all been destroyed, but here was one right in his hand! He guessed that it accidentally got stuck in the tower during growth. He put the gearbox on his wall of fame. It sat right beside a Ga-Metru temple stone and an iron ingot. --------------------------------------