IC: The Hatmaster, Po-Koro
It's awfully hot for Ga-Koro, the Fe-Matoran mused to himself. Could be the ocean humidity.
The sweltering air of the desert twisted and rippled above the sand, entrapping said Fe-Matoran in a visage not unlike that of oneself looking at their own reflection in a funhouse mirror at a two-bit carnival.
And here was the clown.
Sitting outside the gates of Po-Koro was Gabe, straw hat atop his head, brim pulled way low, his feet dug beneath the sand. At his side, propped up against his chair were three or four identical straw hats. In his lap was another - or rather, half of one. Gabe's fingers moved lazily, weaving the straw in a crosshatch pattern that could only come so easy for one who had mastered his craft.
He wondered why he could no longer hear the waves crashing against the shore.