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So, this is one of my first posts here. Have at me! I thrive from criticism.
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*please critique* With the advent of a return, and a possible reboot to bionicle, I've been thinking about doing my own little complete re-telling and re-imagining (since Greg mucked up the feel and the lore after 2003, in my opinion). If y'all like this, I'll post the rest when I'm done with it. This story follows a matured Matoran, a Toanga, on his journey to defeat the enigmatic Makuta that has plagued the island of Mata Nui for countless centuries. Mata Nui has been without Toa for several millennia, so all that this Matoran has on his side is sheer willpower, and those who wish to fight beside him. Chapter One, "Christening of Fools" . . “You’ve spent your time hunting for that near-life experience; something that’ll make you feel…. Something. But along the way you’ve caused hurt, shattered dreams. Sometimes the forces of life conspire to make a man build dreams on promises, promises which one cannot deliver. A cheat, someone violent, someone meek… “ Onewa turns to face me, and gestures something with his hands. “I’ve seen others like you. One of them was me.. You’re hoping for a dramatic, poetic end to your life of adventure?” I chime in, after removing my mask out of respect for the old Turaga. My opaque, protodermis facial tissue moves in tandem with the mechanical plates of my masseter, my under-face. “I hope to end with dignity, Onewa. Not to be held in any high regard, or with fame at all. I wish to live my life for me.” “Good, because a Tuakana like you seldom gets one. One like you, with a death wish, hunting a Makuta’s thrall who has allegedly drawn its proverbial line in the rock of Onu-Koro, far away from your home territory, I might add, has little chance of a dignified death. You won’t go out triumphantly. I can tell you that much.” Says the Turaga. I raise my eyes to his, and retort. “I have not a death wish, Onewa. Just a wish for death upon the evil that has overtaken the minds of my entire village.” My voice becomes more hostile as I talk. One must have restraint in front of a Turaga at all times, I tell myself. Onewa tilts his head, his mask shifting slightly. I can see his eyes behind it, I think he’s raising an eyebrow. “So you wish for death, eh? And you dare to tell that to me? You know me, and what I have been through.” He stares me down for a good few seconds. Enough seconds to pass a few seasons, it feels. Onewa turns and walks over to the portal overlooking the deserts of Po-Koro, and breaks the silence. “I made a death pact long ago, in a land far different from this one. Metru, I believe you were a pilgrim from there, yes? I have been cursed with the title of Kommundau for three hundred-some years... Do you know what that word means?” “No, sir, I do not.” After another pause he states, “It means ‘one who takes’. The label, the journey, both will overtake you until you become but an exterminator. You will do good work, and people will feel safer because of it. However, you will get strange looks, and be given a strange room from entire villages. They will fear you, Dushka. Do you really want that?” He says with great weight to his words. I sigh, and invite myself to sit on a bench by the wall. “There is no village, and no Matoran or Tuakana left on this island that I wish to revere me. All have been… Reduced to braindead husks by the infernal Makuta. If I could do only one thing with my life, it would be to spare others the same emptiness in my heart.” “That is quite a pitch, Dushka. Quite a pitch. That’s miles more noble than the reason for my pact.” Says Onewa. “I won’t ask, Onewa.” I state. “Good, I wouldn’t give you a straight answer even if you did.” There is a slight pause between us, as Onewa walks over to an elaborate woodcut on the wall, and gestures to it. “As you know, when the great spirit Mata Nui lends his soul to one of the machines in a sleep shell floating beyond the barrier reef, they exit the shell living and sentient, once the shell beaches itself. Wherever they land dictates whether they become of water, earth, air, fire, stone, or ice. They are then given a mask to ward off the Makuta’s influence once they reach a village, and thus become a Matoran. They’re smaller at that time, but they quickly grow, like you did. But time does not make one an upper-class, artisan Tuakana like you are, action does.” Onewa, turns to me, and removes his mask, bristling with wires and vents. His face is average, though the protodermis on his eggshell white face is distended and wrinkly in a manner I’ve never seen before. A large, grey crevasse dominates the right side of his face, his eye socket narrowly dodging whatever blow caused such a scar. “And once one becomes a Tuakana, their path back to Mata Nui becomes jagged, and distended. Your path leads you to become Kommundau, I believe. None can speak for the great spirit’s will, but I firmly believe you and I are one in the same.” He then traces the scar down his face with two fingers, scraping off some “dead”, drained protodermis flecks and shows them to me. “See these?” He asks. “It’s called pouko, death sand. If you’ve never had it on your face before, you wouldn’t know they hurt like the sting of a dillwasp. They do, so don’t wince.” He then runs his index and middle fingers down my face, beneath my eyes. I try my best not to contort my face in pain. He then repeats the process with the other side of my face, giving me three vertical lines, tracing down from my eyes to my jaw. He draws on a fourth, a wavy line, on my furthest left side. I feel it stinging, eating away at the living liquid that makes up my face. It burns, down a few millimeters until my face has been scarred. “These scars,” He begins. “These scars are sacred, Dushka. They are the tears of Mata Nui himself. This ugliness that I have bestowed upon you signifies the ugliness in your heart, the detestable fixation on death and murder that you have inherited when your village, your friends, your family have perished at the hands of the Makuta.” Onewa fits his mask back on his face. “The long stripe, on your right side, that is the tear of Unity. It will dissapear should you open your heart to another. The shorter one, to the left of Unity, that is the tear of Duty. That will disappear when you complete your journey, and slay the Makuta. The third is Destiny. Only you know when that one will dissipate.” “And the fourth?” I ask, after a slight pause. “It will disappear when you’re ready for what is to come.” he says. End part 1
