Nuju Metru

IC: After a long while, the great sandstorm abated, leaving behind many damages. Notable among these were the ruin of the radios and the burial of the Iron Mahi tracks close to the Koro. Merchandise, buildings, statues, and anything else that'd been left outside during the storm had been damaged somehow, too. Wearily, the people of the Koro began to repair that which the storm had disheveled. OOC: Sandstorm is officially over!

The Endless Sky. Well, 'endless' was a bit of a misnomer... you never saw it happen, but the people that fell down into the Endless Sky didn't actually fall forever, since that would've been impossible. What really happened is that they fell for so long that they eventually fell full circle and landed back onto the top of Derrum's domes. Of course, the sky hadn't done much to slow their falls; needless to say, the floating city had a topside splatter cleanup crew. I thought this was common knowledge...?

IC: Zaktan raised the Zamor Launcher so that its sphere was aimed point-blank at the Toa's head. The Toa froze, midway through retrieving a second crystal. "Whoa, there, buster, what's the deal!?" the Toa spluttered. "Didn't you just see that? Don't you see the... light-hole-thing? Can't you tell that I was telling the truth?" "About some things, perhaps," Zaktan replied tersely. "Slowly set down your bag and your sword." With a weapon trained on his head, and four Rahkshi around besides, the Toa had no choice but to do as he was told, unbuckling both sword and scabbard from his person before slipping his bag off his shoulder. He bent carefully to lay them on the ground. "Straighten and face me," Zaktan commanded; the Toa did so, and the Zamor Launcher was aimed at the bridge of his nose. Mildly cross-eyed, the Toa took stock of it. "Okay," he said, doing his best to keep up his debonair act. "Okay there, boss, you got me cornered. What do you want?" "An answer to a question," Zaktan replied. "Are you Dorian?" "Yeah!" the Toa said, rolling his eyes the same way for the umpteenth time. "What, d'you need to see me seduce a few ladies and commit a few crimes to believe me?" "I believe that you're lying," Zaktan informed him. He watched the subtlest shiver ricochet up and down the Toa's spine. "Do you know what's in this sphere?" The Toa crossed his eyes again to stare down the swirling black-green fluid in the projectile. "Err, no... doesn't look pleasant, though." This remark made the corners of Zaktan's wide mouth twitch (moreso than usual). The memory of green fire, eating him from the inside out. "It isn't pleasant. This sphere is filled with Antidermis, a powerful corrosive substance." "So it's, what, gonna melt my face?" "Along with the rest of you, potentially," Zaktan informed him levelly. "The Antidermis is not only powerful; it's also intelligent, economical. It destroys in the most efficient way possible." "What does that even mean?" "If you'd let me continue," Zaktan hissed with the sort of venom that disallowed more snide interjections. The Toa got the message and shut up. Thereafter, only Zaktan's buzzing voice bounced off the walls of the Vault. "What that means is that the Antidermis chooses to react differently every time it encounters a being. If a being will be useless to the Antidermis' mission of obliteration - if the being is foolishly predisposed to fighting entropy and doing good in the world - then the Antidermis simply eliminates them from it... 'Melts their face,' as you so guessed." With these words, Zaktan consciously allowed his own ever-shifting face to droop, run, dribble before the Toa's mesmerized eyes. It was a grotesque display that he reversed a second later. Face again fighting with its normal fervor to stay intact, the Piraka went on. "But if the Antidermis senses that the life it has come into contact with will be useful towards achieving its ultimate end - if the being in question stands to be corrupted towards doing ill, or already does it - then the Antidermis holds the power to take control of that life, and even augment its strength. The Antidermis grants the wicked of heart tremendous, dangerous, and bizarre abilities, abilities with which they become more effective destroyers of the world around them. "You see, this sphere full of Antidermis will act as a sort of test: depending on how it reacts to you, Toa I will know who you truly are. If you are Dorian, as you still claim to be, you've little to fear... at worst, the Antidermis will bind your soul forever to the execution of the sorts of deeds you already sell yourself to do, and at best, it will arm you with new power. But if you've been lying, then the Antidermis will melt your face, and then the rest of your body. It clings to you when it does; it feels like acid, fire, accelerated decay as it eats you. Though the Antidermis is fast, it's not nearly fast enough for you not to scream. "If the Antidermis proves you to be who you say you are, I lose nothing; I may even gain a new ally. If it proves you right, then we will continue to arm this mysterious device of yours, and thereafter reap its benefits. If it proves you to be a liar, I still lose nothing; I will have eliminated another would-be hero from this island, and I will have stopped you from activating a device that probably does something to hinder my forces and me. Whatever happens, I win; it's only you that stands to perish... and you already know whether or not that will happen." Zaktan fired the sphere.

Opening the main door will do all kinds of things you probably don't expect.

Just to clear up any confusion people had about the layout of the place.

IC: Zaktan had grown impatient of the Matoran's interruptions, especially as he sought to focus on the Toa and unraveling his lie. The Skakdi could be extremely patient when he chose to be; but there was no need for patience now. The Matoran's well of information had run dry enough that Zaktan felt no qualms about discarding him; if it weren't for the Matoran's capacity to deliver Zaktan's reply to Echelon, the Piraka wouldn't have exercised restraint. "Seize," Zaktan ordered, pointing at the Matoran. Without hesitation, the nearest Rahkshi stabbed the point of its staff at the Matoran's throat - luckily for the Matoran, it was shaped like a two-pronged pitchfork, with sufficient space between the blades for his neck - and, like a jouster, charged at the wall. The pitchfork staff, held unwaveringly by the Rahkshi, pinned the Matoran by his throat to the wall, his feet dangling in nothing. The Matoran started to choke; the Toa looked on, and though he did his best to maintain a straight face, Zaktan meticulously noted a fleeting expression of shock and disgust on the Toa's face. As soon as the Toa realized that Zaktan had taken a measure of him, and looked back to the Piraka, his face composed again, Zaktan turned from him and strolled, hands behind his back, towards the strangling messenger. He didn't mince words. "Tell Echelon that I will not send him so much as a vial until I have received confirmation of his victory," Zaktan said coolly. At his gesture, the Rahkshi pressed its staff harder against the Matoran's neck, the prongs starting to crack the quartz on either side. "Tell him as well that I would never entrust my valuable resources to as weak a courier as you. Release." The Rahkshi retracted its weapon, allowing the Matoran to slide down the wall. The Matoran gulped and rattled as he ushered air back into his lungs; blessedly, the effort left him speechless for a few seconds, time Zaktan meant not to waste. "Leave," he buzzed, face flaring for a flash into greater entropy. The Rahkshi that'd just suspended the Matoran twirled its staff to reinforce its master's order. Confident that the Matoran would escort himself out, Zaktan at last returned to engaging the Toa before him, who'd had plenty of time to lay his mask of breezy arrogance back on. But before he could ask the Toa for more information about his outlandish claim, a distinct commotion from outside ricocheted through the Abettor's tunnel, into the Vault proper, and to Zaktan's ears. He considered the din. Hakann usually preferred to be much quieter as he disemboweled; it was possible that the visitors were more numerous than he'd anticipated. The shrieks of several of his Rahkshi, pained rather than intimidatory, didn't bode well for the red Piraka either. Zaktan entertained the possibility of letting Hakann deal with the enemies alone - perhaps, in the process, Zaktan would rid himself of a thorn that'd too long stabbed his foot - but a fight this close to the Vault stung Zaktan's proprietary pride. He wanted the enemies dead, and had more than enough Rahkshi to provide support while maintaining control of his own situation. "Darkness, Adaptation, Teleportation, and Poison" he snarled. Zaktan had long ago trained his Rahkshi to answer to their power types. Those four Rahkshi stood at attention. "Join Hakann's forces outside. Act at your own discretion to kill the intruders on our doorstep." The four Rahkshi started on their way out. "And," Zaktan added, the dangerous leer returned to his face, "Take the messenger with you on your way out." The Rahkshi of Adaptation - the one that had pinned him before - now roughly grabbed the Matoran by his upper arm and dragged him along up the stairs with the squadron. Zaktan still held the Zamor Launcher, and he reminded the Toa of this fact by twisting his wrist. "Tell me about this device," the Piraka delved, unveiled skepticism bitterly coloring his words. "This device, to which you claim to hold the only keys, and about which you claim to have the sole knowledge... What does it do, and why should I believe that it exists?" ... As the Rahkshi exited the hole in the Abettor's tunnel, and took their first few steps onto the corkscrew staircase leading into the Vault's atrium, the Rahkshi of Darkness spread a cloud of shadow before them, disguising their entrance from view to those below. The Rahkshi of Adaptation let go of Ishi, and kicked him down, almost launching the stumbling Matoran entirely off the narrow stairs. Its staff - only its pronged tip visible to Ishi through the oppressive cloud of darkness around him - and a barely audible, threatening hiss made the Rahkshi's message very clear to Ishi: you go first.

IC: As soon as I saw Dor draw, I dove to the side and took cover behind the couch. Bullet one grazed my upper arm, leaving a line of ouchie; bullet two almost took off my ear, but settled for popping the drum with its overhead flight; bullet three would've killed me a fraction of a second earlier; bullet four went a weensy bit wide, and into the piano - accompanied by the twangs of several innocent wires snapping, oh the humanity; bullet five followed me to the couch, hitting the furniture and getting pleasantly absorbed by the cooshyness; bullet six was totally superfluous, cracking into the bookshelf a mile over my head. Hadn't quite been the reception I'd expected; but at least he hadn't thrown fruit. I could think of the gunshots as really, really loud clapping, clapping some artistes would die to hear. Heh. It's funny, because death. If 'Dorable was using the same pea shooter as always - which I'd bank on, I mean, karz, look at his place; he hadn't thrown anything away since his pre-scarf (read as; prenatal) days, by the look of it - six shots meant he'd emptied on me, and had nothing left that could zip across the room and make me hurt super quick. Skeedo still had whatever had blown open the door (its bark had been deeper than the pew pew of Dor's gun, so I knew there was a second firearm) but I could bank on her not shooting in time, what with her bestest buddy interrupting a squeaky line of sight. My bag - my own weapon in it - sat on the corner of the couch. I could inch my piggies around and grab it, if I was quick. I was quick (surprise!); man-purse in hand, I got out my Zamor Launcher - ol' reliable, ol' bessie, whoever you wanna call it - and snapped myself with a Containment Sphere. The thick blue orb expanded around me and the bag in a second, pushing the couch towards its other furniture buddies and shoving the poor, beat-up piano into the wall, splintering a few of its parts. In the kind of blissful immunity only a big, blue bouncy bubble could provide, I stood up and faced the still-wet, still-bruised, still-still Dorkian. "I guess ya missed me," I grinned. "...Both in the emotional and target-practicey ways."

That's a good question, Nato. I'd say that yes, enslaved Rahkshi (being exempt from the no recurring NPCs rule) count as weapons and important belongings rather than as normal NPCs; and as such, they can't be done away with on someone else's terms.

IC: Zaktan saw no concrete reason to disbelieve the Matoran's words had come from Echelon. However, he found the heedless overconfidence inherent in a preemptive request for Antidermis and technology, a request that had to have been made before the battle for Ko-Koro had even begun, to be uncharacteristic of the Dark Toa; Echelon was smug and pretentious, but he wasn't stupid; therefore Zaktan regarded the message with suspicion. He would not have been at all surprised to discover that the Matoran had lied about the message's contents, or about even having had a message to deliver. Again, Zaktan got the frustrating, tantalizing whiff of something just out of reach, a falsehood he yearned to reveal. But Zaktan hadn't expected the Matoran's message to do much to help him uncover the untruth that he so craved. The much more lucrative mine of inconsistency thus far had been the Toa, so Zaktan's next inquiry - one he'd been derailed from asking minutes ago by the appearance of Hakann and the Matoran - would be designed to provide him with deeper insight. Again the Skakdi's red eyes bored into the Toa's, and again the Toa could not hold his gaze for more than a few seconds. The Toa looked away, but Zaktan did not. He needed conclusive proof one way or another of the Toa's identity; this was the only way to proceed. As all brilliant thoughts usually came to Zaktan, this one arrived in an instant, fully and elegantly formed. "Bring me a sphere and launcher," Zaktan called to nobody in particular, the eerie hum of his voice echoing through the hexagonal well. The Rahkshi closest to the vat broke its statuesque stillness, setting aside its staff as it picked up a black-green Zamor Sphere in one hand and then Zaktan's well-used Zamor Launcher in the other. The hunched creature handed the tool and its ammunition deferentially to Zaktan, who took the launcher and loaded it with the sphere. The Rahkshi returned to its post and its weapon; Zaktan held the Zamor launcher at his side with a practiced, casual grip. Both Toa and Matoran swallowed; not only had they been reminded of the total obsequiousness of the deadly Rahkshi in the room to Zaktan's will, but they now also faced an armed Piraka with unclear motives. Purely to augment their nervousness, Zaktan let a his serpentine face curl into a sinister leer, and took an ample pause before he addressed the Toa again. "I believe that you, Dorian, said you had come to make a delivery. Tell me, what have you come to deliver?"

IC: Zaktan had hardly moved even through the commotion of the last few moments. As the newcomer Toa had refused to give his identity, as Zaktan had heard shouts from the Abettor's tunnel overhead, as Hakann had escorted the source of the shouts - a little Matoran, one of Echelon's - into the Vault, and as that same Matoran had revealed the Toa's - Dorian's - identity, the Piraka had continued to appraise the newcomer, watching keenly for subtle betrayals of body language, tone, and wording. Dorian still lied about something, and Zaktan could feel it, but not identify it. As was his wont, Zaktan processed the information that the situation, as well as his personal observations, had given him. The Toa's name and profession, at least, were reasonable givens; they had been corroborated by an outside source, and the details that the Matoran had rattled off had rung bells for Zaktan. Though the name "Dorian" meant nothing alone to him, the deeds associated with it - the assassinations of the Turaga, the island's leaders before the Piraka's time - were familiar in Zaktan's understanding of the past of Mata Nuian history. This Toa was, then, Dorian, and an assassin. Considering the amorality associated with slaying one of the beloved leaders of the Matoran people, Zaktan could safely eliminate the possibility he'd been entertaining earlier that this Dorian was a hero type. He certainly looked the part of hero - tall, handsome, nearly nauseatingly wholesome - but given Zaktan's experience with mercenaries and sell-swords, looks were oftentimes deceiving, and Zaktan rarely paid them heed. A Toa who had done what Dorian had done wouldn't likely be the sort that the Abettor would let into the Vault. That left the other of Zaktan's theories: Dorian was indeed a shady Toa, and he had been let into the Vault by either Hakann or Reidak on an assigned, as of yet unknown, mission. Zaktan thought Hakann the most likely option given his current, even suspicious, proximity to the scene and his tendencies to scheme. Perhaps the yelling Matoran had been a plant, an excuse for Hakann to descend into the Vault at the same time as Dorian; but if he'd wanted to situate Dorian and himself in the Vault at the same time, why would he have seen the need to complicate the arrangement with the Matoran crier, rather than escorting the Toa inside himself? Perhaps Hakann might not have wished this Toa to appear an ally of his, for any number of reasons; if that was the case, if Dorian had come on Hakann's orders and the Matoran was an accomplice, that could destabilize even the given of the Toa's identity, returning Zaktan to square one. He needed more information, and considering the likelihood of Hakann's involvement - a likelihood derived of uncertain conjecture, maybe; but, given the convoluted schemes Hakann had birthed in the past, uncertain conjecture was close enough to legitimate suspicion for Zaktan's tastes - Zaktan decided to remove him from the situation, first. "Hakann," he hissed. "Without your full complement of Rahkshi... I'm awed by your courage. Here, at home, you're brave enough to bring along three bodyguards instead of six." "Three of my Rahkshi are outside," Hakann drawled. "I noticed somebody in the vicinity of our front door." "Go and offer them our... hospitality," Zaktan sneered. "Your wish is my command, oh insubstantial one," Hakann answered sardonically; Zaktan noted no telltale resentment or resistance in the words, but Hakann was a good liar. The red Piraka gestured to his three Rahkshi, leading them back up the Vault's inner stairs and through the hole in the ceiling, leaving Zaktan and his eight Sons of Makuta with the Toa and Matoran. The Matoran fell under Zaktan's scrutiny, first. "You said," the Piraka leered, placing emphasis on the word as if to chide the Matoran for having shouted so close to his Vault, "that you have a message from Echelon. Give it to me."

IC: Maybe Dor had forgotten his key, and been forced to resort to blasting his own dor (er, heh, sorry, door) to get back in the old place. Yeah, and maybe I was the tooth fairy. But let's step back for a sec. Back in time. Like five minutes ago. Won't take long... but if it does, what're you gonna do about it? Feel the righteous power of the narrator, snitches! It's lucky that Sky-fly left when she did, because as soon as she'd gone, I was alone at last and fi-inally able to prep at a speed to keep up with the ol' intellect. I took the plunge (by climbing a ladder; figurative language, okay?) into our tenant's bedroom and discovered two things: one, even more kitschy kitsch, all neat and tidy - except for the dust, our cleaning pixie hadn't deigned to clean anything except the first floor - and two, half of the room was full of stuff that definitely wasn't Dor-dors. I know feminine articles when I see 'em. Could a female have finally shackled Prettyboy Shaddick?... in the metaphorical sense?... That opened up a new realm of possibility. We could throw a joint "welcome home/welcome to slavery" gala. I'd have Needledee paint banners when he came back-- --Needledum was coming back, and soon. I had to work fast if I wanted to finish his special surprise. Simple was better, but thoroughness was also important (there really are tricks to the trade... I could prolly turn a widget writing an actual guide; note to self, lern how 2 rite gud) I turned around and around in place, taking better stock of the things I had to work with as they flitted before my eyes and I became vaguely dizzy. A few things caught my genius, and I felt that classic smile dart across the pearlies. I knew what to do. I did my prep, and honest to karz it might've been my cleanest execution to date. Luckily for me there'd also been some free time afterwards, time enough for me to have started and finished an arts-and-crafts project. And now we're back in the present - narrated in the past tense, does that make sense? nah - so that little flashback ended up not taking too long. I hope you didn't get bored; halfhearted apologies to those of you that just finished settling in for the long haul... Hey. Wake up. You. In back. You. Hand on your chin, eyelids drooping, I see you. Wakey wakey. Snap snap. C'mon. It's pathetic, some of you have no patience; and some have even less than me, that's actually impressive. But I digress (what can I say, I'm good at it). Finding that the dor-hole (door-hole, I've gotta stop doing that) didn't result in anything besides a big freakin' waste of do(o)r, the beings outside exchanged a few words, as if debating whether or not to give it another whack for good measure. From my hiding spot, I could hear that the two voices were Skeetee... and 'Dorable himself. They'd beaten errand-running Suoirafen back to the loft... I guess my compulsive need to prank whoever next came through that do(o)r - and my inspired arts-n-crafts project, luckily finished early - had paid off. I wasn't caught wholly off guard; a little something'd been prepped and peppered by Chef Grokk. 'Twas far from my best work, but I could live with it; like I said, clean execution. As the door creaked open, I watched from hiding as the beautiful things began to happen like a slo-mo ballet. Cue music. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pn_eS2XFZ5g D-Dude came into the foyer first. As the shell-shocked door swung open, it set off a hair-trigger on a crude device I'd rigged from some household items: a catapult that sent several gallons of ice water (hard to find in the village of fire; somehow I manage) splattering laterally into him. I watched the liquid splash - fittingly, in slo-mo - and my focus drifted artsily to the rebounding, airborne globules, which caught in thousands of transparent planets the luminance of the lightstone lanterns as well as the image of a shocked and stumbling Dor. It's the music pulling my inner poet out. Wait... wait... Oomph, hear that crescendo? Effortless. Mmm-hmmm. This my jam. Anywho, the water-induced stumbling sent his feet right over to a minefield of strategically laid marbles (from a jar next to the bed; it'd been almost too easy), on which, in appropriate cartoon fashion, he slipped. Hands flailing with exaggerated slowness, face smashing (to its comical, momentarily suspended misshapenness) through the air, one eye slightly squintier than the other (splash zone side), Dor-dor fell towards the shelves on one side of the foyer. He caught himself, but the force of his body shook the furniture and set the precarious, half-drunk bottle on top of it to wobbling. The bottle tipped, pouring the last of its contents precisely onto the top of our prankee's head. I couldn't have asked for a better-placed boozefall if I'd tried (though, of course, I had tried). But now it was time to feel the moment and improvise. While prettyboy rubbed his eyes, I jumped out from behind the couch, my arts-n-crafts project all over myself, and grabbed a seat at the piano. When he looked up, I sat at his beloved instrument, my fingers gracing the ivories, the notes of that aria you're hearing gracing my pearlies. I picked up singing exactly where you are right... now. Guess I forgot to mention my extensive opera training. I'm a lyric tenor. I'm getting ahead of myself; I also forgot to mention the art-n-craft, didn't I? Yes, Grokk, you did! I'd wrapped my body, forehead to toes, with long, thin pieces of fabric. Some of them were bona fide scarves - I'd finally found the collection, it was in the safe, the safe! - and others were just ripped from the upstairs sheets and curtains; these, I'd been sure to cut tassels in, so that they too were unmistakable as Dorian's daily nooses. We end with Dorian, bruised, soaked freezing with water and booze, unexpectedly listening to the live performance of a lifetime, a gorgeous tragic operatic aria interpreted by the Scarf Monster, in his own loft. With a broken door and back window. As I plunked out the final notes of the piece, I calmly closed the piano, stood from the bench, turned to him, and solemnly bowed. Not my best work, but pretty close.

Unless your being has telepathic powers of her/his own with which she/he can reach into the mind of an enslaved Rahkshi, the most effective way to give them orders is through verbal communication. You could probably train the Rahkshi to obey hand signals or something, too.

IC: "We deny your request," the Abettor told Ishi. ... The Toa, though he seemed not to know it, discredited himself more and more with each word he spoke. Zaktan could tell that the newcomer was nervous; his attempts to be debonair might've been more effective without the heavy-handedness of fear. Fear was something he was accustomed to from his pawns, so the Toa's fear in itself was unremarkable, as was the Toa's consequential would-be machismo posturing. It seemed to the Piraka that this Toa didn't know how to stop talking; even after the first two of his verbal forays had been met with silence - the sort of silence that those who knew Zaktan knew wasn't a good sign; the sort of silence that the Toa, had he been who he was so sloppily pretending to be, would have known was his cue to close his mouth - he couldn't stop himself from blurting out a third time. The silence scared him, and he didn't know better than to let it. The Toa's talkativeness could have meant that the he hadn't been involved with the Piraka and Legacy for very long, or simply that he was stupid... but for the impeaching content of his ejaculations. Zaktan's routine wariness spiked to real suspicion almost as soon as the Toa started to speak. First, the Toa claimed that the Abettor had let him in of its own volition; as nobody could pass the behemoth save the Piraka and their specifically presented guests, this meant either that the Toa was hiding a Piraka sponsor, a precursor for insurrection, or - a possibility Zaktan knew better than to eliminate - this Toa was of the legitimately "worthy" sort, probably a bland hero type. Either way, this Toa was lying to Zaktan about something, and one lie was more than enough to set off the Piraka's internal alarms. Second, the Toa either played dumb or was dumb about the Vault's treasures; and third, he either played dumb or was dumb about Zaktan's identity. His ignorance, feigned or real, created two likely scenarios: one, this Toa had been let into the Vault by Hakann or Reidak (and he probably wouldn't say which, so that if whatever he'd come down into the Vault to try failed, his sponsor could not be implicated; and besides, Zaktan wouldn't have been surprised if Hakann had employed this Toa, all the while calling himself Reidak) on business of rebellion or deceit; or, two, this Toa actually didn't know anything, reinforcing the righteous (albeit naive and tragically uninformed) hero possibility. Whatever the case, this Toa was not who he pretended to be. Zaktan treated all liars as enemies. The Toa met Zaktan's eyes, and Zaktan didn't shy away from the stare. The Toa looked away first, further fracturing his casual facade; either he'd seen Zaktan's dangerous disbelief, or else he'd simply been unnerved by a distinct lack of blinking on Zaktan's part. The shimmering, fizzling Skakdi took a few steps away from the Antidermis vat - a dark patron saint that hovered over him like an unholy octopus - and towards the Toa. Zaktan carried no weapon as he approached; his golden scissor leaned against one of the walls, and the Rahkshi made no moves. As Zaktan approached on his flat feet, he appraised the Toa and took stock of his foe's tools. Kanohi Kakama; sword; fire elemental abilities. Against eight Rahkshi and Zaktan, such a foe was no threat. But before he slew the Toa, Zaktan decided to withdraw certain information. He stopped just a few feet from the intruder. "Tell me who you are," Zaktan commanded, the multifarious tones of his voice alien and deceptively calm.

Thesaurus and dictionary on my lap, you say? I didn't know it was anatomically possible for my brain to sit down there! *the crowd hisses; this is low humor, even from him* Give yourself some credit, Tucky - I learned all the tricks from you (well, almost all...). And hey, I leave my GM powers at the door on this one. Both Zaktan and Joske are such "important" characters that their conflicting plot armor (which doesn't exist anyway, sillies!) cancels out. It'll be a fair fight... er, as fair as it can be when I've got eight Rahkshi and the home field advantage, that is. So don't lose hope! Joske isn't dead... yet. I intend to make those of you banking on the, ahem, winning side a little bit richer. [/staffsmacktalk]

IC: The Abettor took its longest pause so far, facing Joske directly. Joske almost felt compelled to take a step backwards; he had become acutely aware that nothing but a few feet of air separated him from this titanic guardian. The Abettor's hollow eye sockets, magnetic to Joske as he faced their sightless scrutiny, seeming skeletal in the bouncing light that came from the senseless characters scrawled all over its body. The letter light throbbed and flickered, turned a brilliant blue for a moment, and then warped back to sickly green. "You are not without your secrets, Not-Toa Joske," the behemoth stated, its words blades slithering upon each other. "You may enter." Hardly daring to believe his luck, and a little bemused - why had the Abettor let him enter? could it have been so easy? - Joske walked forward, almost flinching at the suddenness with which the Abettor turned aside to allow him passage. Joske tried his best to be quiet, even as he illuminated the crystal flamberge; Ishi had told him that the Vault had already been breached through the Abettor's entrance, so Joske could very easily encounter foes inside. Unfortunately, the acoustics of the tunnel robbed him of the element of surprise; Joske's footfalls on the smooth stone, no matter how soft he landed them, inevitably echoed down the length of the tunnel. At the end of the Abettor's passage Joske discovered another hole in the floor, very much like the one he'd entered through, but for the fact that this one opened on a quartz staircase. Cautiously, Joske peeked his head through the aperture and examined the chamber beneath him. He saw a deep hexagonal chamber, also wrought in quartz. Across from the staircase (which hugged one wall), the inside of the Vault's main door towered over its own little patch of floor, both floor and door distinct from the rest of the room by an absence of lithographs. The other notable features of the room had not been constructed with it: a small mountain of technological items and parts, somewhat diminished by the Piraka's recent bargains but still immense; a little stack of masks in one naked corner of the room; and the ugly vat of Antidermis that clung with tar-like ropes high up on the wall, its spigots at the end of pipes like tentacles. Eight Rahkshi stood sentinel around the chamber, their eyes glowing the same wicked green that seeped out the Abettor's sigils, their staffs held diagonally across their chests in postures of readiness. Two other beings were also inside: a female Vortixx with spiked armor, and a green Skakdi whose form was oddly fuzzy at its edges, like an image on a flickering screen. Despite the fact that the Skakdi was shorter than the Vortixx - shorter than average even for one of his species - the Vortixx's body language and attentive eyes, juxtaposed against the casual demeanor and disregarding gaze of the Skakdi, clearly defined her as deferential to him. The Skakdi handed her a freshly stoppered vial of Antidermis, and his voice was like a swarm of bees speaking in tandem. "You've gotten what you asked for," Zaktan buzzed. "Now, Lash, it is your turn to uphold your end of our arrangement." "What if I don't want to attack Onu-Koro with the rest of your cronies?" the Vortixx purred, her voice simultaneously dulcet and ridged. "I know how to find you," Zaktan replied simply, one finger playing over the empty vials stored below the vat. For an instant, Lash's shivering was more pronounced than Zaktan's. "This concludes our business. Get out; it seems that someone else has come to meet with me." Lash nodded, and took long steps across the room. As she ascended the staircase, Joske descended, and the two exchanged a once-over look before Lash continued on her way out. Joske stopped in the middle of the staircase, and watched as Zaktan turned around to face him. The Piraka's leader's face melted subtly, and righted itself again, as his leering red eyes took in the Toa before them. "Welcome, Toa," Zaktan hissed. "Who let you in?"

...Or, you could just stick to one of the specially staff-ordained names from the list I so kindly provided above?

IC: Joske had told the truth, in a fashion, so he'd had little to fear; nevertheless, not seeing that eerie crystal raised in his direction again came as a relief. The behemoth guardian shifted a little, though, with the hiss of pistons, and took another ponderous pause before it spoke again. "We do not know how to open the Vault's true door," the Abettor replied, something close to smugness in its metal tones. "You have come to the wrong place for information, Not-Toa Joske."

The staff and I actually brainstormed on this front. We didn't settle on just one, but we came up with a few ideas, the least pretentious of which were: [title of group]Foe-Drinkers AnonymousThe Really Really Bad CompanyEchelon and the PirakettesThe Piraka Pain PosseInsidious IncorporatedThe SuperfriendsKingz of PainThe Height of Pretension

IC: The Abettor kept its crystalline arm raised as it seemed to mull in silence over Joske's words. Joske hardly dared to breathe as it did so. At last, the giant robot spoke again. "Hero and Toa are not interchangeable titles," it said. "Not all Toa are heroes, and not all heroes are Toa... For one who speaks so much, you are not very careful with your words." To Joske's immense relief, the Abettor's crystal fist lowered, and with another click-scrape-scrape-click (the extra scrape when the wheel of masks turned one way, and then switched directions, almost as if the Abettor had changed its mind) the Kanohi in its chest swapped out for a Rode. "Why are you here," the guardian asked, making the inquiry a statement.

IC: The details of the Abettor came to Joske in bits and pieces as his eyes adjusted. First came fuzzy definition to the green symbols that covered its form; then the outline of the shape, a barrel-chested machine with no head; then, after a while, clarity enough to see the hollow-eyed Kanohi Sanok, its forehead bearing an in a deep-set notch in the cylindrical portion of the behemoth's torso. Joske didn't like the look of the Abettor's fingers, which were as thick around as his wrists, and something about the crystal on its other forearm made him extremely nervous. The guardian sat on its haunches as it examined - or seemed to examine; how could it be seeing Joske with those empty eye sockets? - the latest being that had come to pass it. "You lie already, one who calls himself Joske," the echoing voice retorted finally, a challenge undeniable in its mechanical rasp. "Toa wield the forces of nature... and you do not. Therefore you are not a Toa. We do not accept lies." With speed that belied its size, the Abettor raised its crystal fist towards Joske, and held it there like a primed weapon.

IC: The moment Joske moved, the dark maw of the circular passage he'd pulled himself up into sprang into blinding luminance, as had happened for every one of those that had presumed to visit the Abettor. Light - cast principally by the dozens of random letters all over the behemoth's body, refracted through the exposed guts of quartz geodes in the walls and reflected off the stony walls so that it seemed to come from everywhere - ruthlessly assaulted Joske's dark-accustomed vision, forcing the Toa to cover his eyes and turn into the wall of the tunnel. Joske, having never seen an Abettor before in his life, could not have been aware that the virulent green hue of the light that seared through his eyelids was a very bad sign. A click like a gun's hammer down a deep well, a scrape like a sword drawn across cobblestones, and another resounding click; the sequence of noises that accompanied the Abettor's rotation of masks was slower than usual. The metallic sounds, in their duration, seemed almost taunting, even self-satisfied; to the light-blind and unacquainted Joske, of course, the unfamiliar sequence, which belonged to a machine he couldn't yet see, sounded like the armament of a strange and powerful weapon. In some ways, he wasn't wrong. "Identify... yourself," slowly clacked an ocean-deep, canned voice, with a slight slur.

There's only one way to find out.

The presence/status of seconds-in-command, and other such hierarchies, varies from Akiri to Akiri. The best way to figure out what's what underneath an Akiri power-wise is to PM the Akiri's player and ask.

So now I've gotten two news articles in a row, both with red dragon thumbnails... Nice.

Gonna assume you meant to say "robotic," and tell you that the Abettors are entirely robotic. However, to quote myself from the Vault Loot post: This is the key: Antidermis only affects sentient beings, organic or otherwise. The level of processing that the Abettors are capable of is definitely close enough to sentience for them to be corruptible. Antidermis isn't designed to have any effect on the purely inorganic or unthinking, such as the vials/Zamors/vat it's held in, as those objects are amoral in the most literal sense, and so outside the fluid's "programmed" interest.