The Willing Exiles

[Harvali]

So I wrote another Kanohi story because of course I did. This one takes place in the core universe and the kingdom, a little before the two timelines split. The premise for this is the hurt some Matoran feel as the Turaga reveal the true history of their people, as well as the disconnect some of the
Matoran have with the so-called city of legends. So this is a story about the fallout of the Turaga revealing the truth about the 2004-2005 storyline. Anyway, without further ado, enjoy. 
 

The Willing Exiles

…

”You … you sure we should go?” Ramaka asked, looking at the two Ga-Matoran. The sun was beginning to set, and the tent they were taking shelter in was rustling in the wind.

“We have to. Those stories the Turaga shared, they aren’t us. Maybe there were once, maybe they never were. We don’t belong in some underground ruin, working like cogs in a lifeless machine.” Gajaga spat, as she packed her satchel. It was woven of faded plant fibers, contrasting against her blue metal chassis.

“Maybe the rest of the stories will—”

“—Tell us just how much they lied?” Gajaga sighed, “no. I prefer to have at least some fond memories of Turaga Nokama.” She began to wrap up her sleeping bag.

“She’s right,” Cemahri reached over, grasping Gajaga’s hand, and the other Ga-Matoran blushed beneath her mask, “I … to know the Turaga lied for over a thousand years, about the most basic things. No, we cannot go with them. And … it’s better we don’t come. We don’t belong with the other Matoran. This is a chance for us.”

Ramaka nodded, though did not match her eye contact. The two Ga-Matoran pushed aside their bags then, before embracing their companion.

“Hey, we will get through this together,” Gajaga said, “we spent centuries on this island, we know it by heart. We can flourish in our beloved island home.”

“We … we do have our unity to each other,” Ramaka smiled nervously, “okay, sisters, let us return to our real home.”

The three Matoran picked up their bamboo disks and slug their satchels over their shoulders, before slipping out into the jungle. Their long arms pushed aside the ferns and branches, their big feet waded through the swamp. They would not leave Mata-Nui, not for some underground ruin that was likely infested by spiders the size of Toa. This was their home, not some broken city.

…

Kanohi held his lighter to his right arm, softening the orange and black metal. The lighter was infused with the element of Fire, probably a relic from when Turaga Vakama was a Toa. Because apparently Kanohi’s mentor had lied to him about everything.

“There,” Nuparu said, “it should be almost in place now.” Kanohi was welding a Volo Lutu Launcher to his arm, as Nuparu fitted the tool’s machinery to mesh with his biomechanical body. The left arm was already complete, now was just the right.

The two of them were in a tent this night, the stars mostly shone in the sky despite the many torches around Kini-Nui. Thousands of Matoran were camping in the jungle, as they built ships to sail though the underground Silver Sea. The sounds of hammers pounded under the stars, as the Matoran prepared to return to their home. A home only the Turaga remembered,

As Kanohi welded the tool to his arm, Nuparu spoke up, “So, did the Turaga ever tell you—”

“—No.” Kanohi answered quickly, and his breath became harsher. His foot began to thump against the floor, and his fingers began to drum against his lighter.

The Fe-Matoran’s face was hidden, he wore wooden masks all over his body, as a sort of armor. Each mask was carved to resemble a Ruru, the Noble Mask of Night Vision. And his true mask was a Great Ruru, though he could not use it. Still both were appropriate, his power allowed him to light the darkness of the future.

But clearly his visions were helpless to the past.

“It’s … frustrating, isn’t it? If we had been able to use the technology of Metru-Nui to help us, our time in exile could have been so much easier. Just having Kanoka instead of bamboo disks…”

“There are many reasons the truth is frustrating.” Kanohi stared deeply into his lighter, trying not to think too hard about Vakama. The fire swirled and lifted about, as he looked the flames cracked and turned to embers, and those sparks became the stars in the sky. As he stared at those stars he heard and noise and turned to see an utterly barren island of rock. The rocky crag towered above him, before shattering into an avalanche. Each tumbling rock splashed into the sea, before rising as a fleet of hovercrafts. Kanohi hooked a cabin and grappled over to a hovercraft, flinging above the waves as Matoran wearing linen clothes waved.

“You okay? You seemed a bit dazed?”

Kanohi startled as Nuparu’s voice cut through the blaze, and he looked away, “Just had a vision,” he answered, “maybe of us sailing to Metru-Nui.”

“At least a Vakama didn’t lie to us about that,” Nuparu offered, but Kanohi could not crack a smile, “your visions are real, just like the Turaga’s was. And incredible gift.”

“He lied to me plenty about my visions,” muttered Kanohi, “though I do know why. It doesn’t make things easier however.”

Then there was a shriek from outside the tent, as a Ga-Matoran called out, “Kraata!”

Immediately Kanohi turned off his lighter, and stowed it away. “Is my arm ready?”

“Left one is for sure, but the right one isn’t done.”

“We will continue it later,” nodded Kanohi, before sprinting out of the tent, his large feet stomping vines and roots, as he hurried out he raised his left arm, and from the Volo Lutu Launcher built into his forearm he fired a strange rippling sphere. A ball of pure gravity. It latched onto a tree before ripping him from the ground and hurling him towards it.

Kanohi hurtled through the air, landing on a tree. From there he fired his launcher again, flinging himself after the ball of gravity. In this way he grappled through the jungle, searching among the tents and Matoran. As he flew his armor clattered together, like branches singing in a thunderstorm.

A number of Matoran were fleeing from the northern part of the jungle, the Kraata might be there. As Kanohi grappled above, Matoran pointed and marveled. A few began to cheer, and he smiled warily as he hurtled through the sky. He was glad that they could feel some relief from him still.

And as he came upon the scene, he spied a Ga-Matoran backing up as a bright green slug squirmed towards her. The Kraata oozed a trail of sickly slime, which wilted every plant that it passed by. The Matoran of Water was backed up against a tree, swinging her bamboo disk wildly at it.

Quickly Kanohi fired past her, and launched through the air. As he hurtled towards her he outstretched his right arm, hooking her waist. He strained as he dragged her through the air, before the two of them smacked into the ground in a tumble, his armor rattling with each collision with the earth.

As they rolled to a halt, Kanohi shoved himself up, drawing his lighter. He held it out to the Kraata, it’s elemental flame cracking. The slug hissed and flinched from the glow, before slithering away deep into the jungle.

“Are you alright?” Kanohi asked her as he pulled her to her feet.

“Better swimmer than a fighter,” she laughed nervously, then swallowed, “How … how can there still be Kraata? The Makuta is dead, isn’t he?”

He looked away, “In the Turaga’s stories of Metru-Nui, Rahkshi go feral when the Makuta does not need them. This might have just been a wild Kraata-Ye.”

“Of … of course. I should have know.”

“There was little way you could have,” he muttered, looking at the trail of withering plants from where the Kraata had left, “the Turaga did not tell many about the plants.”

“Th-there you are,” a voice called out. Kanohi turned to see a Ko-Matoran running towards them, his body sand-blue and white. The Matoran of Ice waved to him, but Kanohi did not wave back.

“What do you want, Matoro?” asked Kanohi, folding his arms. His wooden armor clattered against each other at the motion, each collision a harsh thud, like drums beating.

“Three Matoran were seen headed into the jungle, two Ga-Matoran and a Le-Matoran. Some of the Toa are looking but Le-Wahi is big. Well, you know that, you have patrolled it for centuries. So if you could help look…”

“Fine,” he said, “once Nuparu finishes upgrading my arm.”

“Listen,” the Matoran of Ice shuffled, “we have been friends for a long time—”

“You were Turaga Nuju’s aide, I was the vigilante protector of Mata-Nui. That was all.”

“I … I know it’s awkward knowing that the Turaga lied to you—”

“—Did they tell you the truth?” Kanohi said quietly, his breath whistling through the holes in his mask like a faint breeze. His fingers began to wiggle on his sides with an anxious energy.

“I-I … yes.”

Kanohi huffed, but said nothing more.

“Listen, they needed Metru-Nui to be kept a secret. If the Matoran knew about it they would try to return, and the Makuta would have just enslaved them—”

“I understand why they hid truth. It might have even been necessary. But it was still wrong,” Kanohi said firmly, “simplifying our world only hurt cross-wired freaks like Midas, Takua, and me.”

“…I know. You … you know they didn’t mean to hurt you, right? Vakama wouldn’t want that.”

“I know,” Kanohi sighed as his hands flapped wildly, “But they still hurt many of us. That’s why I became Kanohi. And that is why I will help these Matoran. There are still Kraata squirming around the island, not to mention the Rahi.”

“You know, the two of us both knew about the Kraata when no other Matoran did. We helped the Turaga hunt them, when the others knew nothing. We both shared secrets with the Turaga, hid the truth from our fellow Matoran.” The Ga-Matoran startled at that, and backed away back into the jungle towards the campsite.

“Yes, we did,” Kanohi could see his heartlight speed up beneath his wooden armor, “and our secret left many Matoran vulnerable, none of them knew why masks become infected. If they had known Kraata were not just Rahi, many of them could have be spared the control of the Makuta.”

“But you agreed to be quiet.”

“Yes.” Kanohi’s wrists fluttered like a Nui-Kopen swarm.

“Then why are you so mad at the Turaga?”

“B-because millions suffered underground while we waddled around in paradise. Do you think I never had visions of the people suffering because of the Brotherhood? Do you think when I asked Vakama to explain, he told me the truth? Or do you think he told me those visions were just metaphors, that the only people in danger were the Matoran of this island? He only fed my fears that I was losing my mind. He only isolated me more.”

“Kanohi.”

“It wasn’t that he lied. It’s that his lies h-hurt people, and that the damage he caused did not inspire him to be honest.” The sound of wood smacking against itself echoed as Kanohi stimmed.

“…You know they were Matoran only a year before they became our Turaga,” whispered Matoro, “its not their fault that they were not ready for the role of leadership.”

“Its been a thousand years,” Kanohi said simply, before he waved in dismissal, “I need to get my arm ready. Then I will go rescue these Matoran.” He turned around and grappled away, back towards Nuparu. Matora watched after him with a sigh, his telescopic lens zeroing in on the vigilante as he swung from the jungle. Then finally the Ko-Matoran waddled away, he would need to return to Turaga Nuju.

…

Gajaga walked through the jungle as early morning crept into the sky. She tightly gripped her bamboo disk, ready to hurl it at the first Rahi to barge out of the underbrush. She had once served in the Ga-Koro Guard, before being dismissed from her post.

Her dismissal was for a number of reasons, her anger and her … unusual attachments. ‘Like she thought with the mind of a Rahi,’ the other Matoran of Water would whisper when they thought she couldn’t hear. Oh but she heard.

The point was, she knew how to throw the disk, and how to make it hurt.

Ramaka called from the tree, “I see movement up ahead, and it looks like a number of trees are toppling over. I think it might be a Tarakava.” Le-Matoran were agile in the trees though clumsy on the ground, made Ramaka a better lookout,

“You sure?” Gajaga gripped her disk, even as her free hand reached behind her to pull out a sharpened bamboo pole. Cemahri clung to her own throwing disk as well, though the latter’s eyes were wider, and she clenched her disk like one might dangling off a cliff. Cemahri was no guard, just a weaver with very little training in a fight.

“I seen little of a large teal head poking out of the trees,” Ramaka answered, “and the way the trees topple over, like they are being bludgeoned by a big sledgehammer. I-I am not very familiar with the Rahi of Ga-Wahi, but I think it is one? At least going off what I saw in the Battle of Kini-Nui.”

“We are going to need to move carefully,” Cemahri said, as her free hand shakily reached out and grabbed Gajaga’s wrist.

Gajaga turned to Cemahri and smiled, “it’s okay, we can get through this.” She head-butted Cemahri softly, their masks clinking together. The two Matoran of Water embraced, as they stood in the muddy water of this swamp.

There was a boom, and a number of trees trembled, no longer so far away. Cemahri flinched with each tremor, clutching Gajaga tight. “A single Tarakava devastated Ga-Koro,” she whispered, staring towards the rumbling trees.

“Yes,” admitted Gajaga, “but we can get through this, okay? We aren’t trapped inside a sunken hut this time.” Cemahri nodded, and the two of them wadded through the water, before shuffling behind a tree half-submerged in the water.

As they hung there, Cemahri poked her head around the log, her mask’s telescopic lens adjusting to close up on the beast. She was just a Matoran, she couldn’t use her mask’s power of x-ray vision. But the telescopic lens attached to a Kanohi Akaku could be used by anyone.

“It’s a Tarakava,” she whispered. “With an infected mask.”

“You sure?”

“Yes and … and there is a Kraata riding on top of it, a Kraata of Poison I think?”

“Karzahni,” muttered Gajaga, “you are right, we need to be careful.”

“But how can a Kraata … exist without the Makuta?”

“I don’t know. But stay quiet, stay low.” The two other Matoran nodded, waiting as the Tarakava rode past on the treads. As it drove through the water its powerful fists reeled back and punched systematically, knocking over trees with ease. It’s height towered over even the Toa Nuva, let alone three Matoran.

But as the Tarakava rode through the swamp it suddenly halted, its treads grinding to a halt. Its head shifted about as it began to look around, its nostrils sniffing the air. The Matoran drew still, even as the Rahi’s Kraata rider squeaked out a hiss of pleasure.

…

Kanohi grappled through the jungle, firing one Volo Lutu Launcher, then the other. As his balls of gravity hurled him through the canopy he looked about, hearing the birds call, seeing the greenery and fruit. His armor only added to the melody, the wood clanking and striking with each swing like and drum. Mata-Nui was … so alive. While the stories of Metru-Nui sounded cold and lifeless.

Of course, Mata-Nui was dangerous, with many aggressive Rahi. And when the Makuta infected their masks, they became even more dangerous. They became an extension of his will, driven to attack the Matoran. And Kanohi still wasn’t sure that the prophecy of the Bohrok had already been fulfilled. Elements of his visions … were incomplete.

For over a thousand years the Matoran had lived on Mata-Nui, hunted by the Makuta’s Infected Rahi. The Matoran lived apart, Onu-Matoran in the caves, Ta-Matoran by the lava, Le-Matoran in the trees, Ga-Matoran in the water. They weren’t one people, just six tribes isolated from each other, terrified of leaving their Koro because of the beasts. Thinking Mata-Nui was the only island, that there were only six breeds of Matoran, that this was their homeland. That they were not in exile. That the Turaga would be honest about the important stuff.

For the millennia of exile, the Matoran only had themselves to rely on, along with the Turaga he supposed. The Toa were just a legend then. They followed traditions the Turaga made-up, obeyed rules, travel between Koro was forbidden, you stayed with your kind. And if you did not feel comfortable with them, then that was a flaw of your own.

Then a few centuries ago Kanohi grew tired of waiting for the heroes to come, and became a vigilante, grappling through the southern jungles to rescue Matoran from Rahi and disasters.

He was always a cross-wired freak, not only plagued by visions but his brain functioned differently in general, his wiring was different. More musical, but in a different way, always in motion, calmed by seemingly random noses and gestures. Cross-wired.

And his body was strange too. The Turaga said he was Po-Matoran, but he lacked their strength, just had great physical endurance. He knew something was wrong, that he could not be a Matoran of Stone. And of course he wasn’t. It was just another lie, to make the Matoran more unified. Six tribes, six villages. He belonged in Po-Koro. Only it made him more of an outsider. He felt out of place everywhere, and the Matoran had not forgotten to remind him.

As an cross-wired outcast, Kanohi knew just how isolating the island could be. So he resolved to be there for the Matoran, especially the other freaks, instead of waiting for fabled Toa to arrive and save the world. To protect the Matoran, give them hope, and let the outcasts know that they were not alone. Because no matter how much Turaga Vakama said his visions were a gift from the Great Spirit himself, even from the start Kanohi had known it was just a glitch.

He continued to grapple through the jungle, hooking the branches to catapult his way through the trees. Brakas hooted as he went past, the water lapped against the tree trunks; there was a music to Mata-Nui, one he doubted Metru-Nui had.

Kanohi could hear thumping in the distance, maybe a Tarakava? The Rahi usually hunted in pairs, but he did not hear enough sound for there to be two. And it sounded like it was in the shallows, Tarakava preferred to ambush from the depths. That might mean it had an infected mask, and that its will was being overwritten.

The Makuta … the Turaga said he had been killed by Takanuva, but they apparently would lie if they thought it necessary. And if they had told him the truth, a Kraata in a high enough stage would know the Makuta’s will. It might be able to continue the plans of its master.

He swerved to face the thumping, before grappled towards the sound. If it was an Infected Tarakava he would need to know, to protect the Matoran. Not that the Matoran would going to stay in Mata-Nui for much longer.

…

The Tarakava sniffed about, its nostrils flaring. Its reptilian head pivoted side to side, probing the trees, searching for the Matoran it could smell. Its Kraata had hopped off, sinking underneath the swamp. The sun was rising higher, and a Kraata of its level knew to fear the light.

Gajaga and Cemahri continued to hide, trying not to move. They … they couldn’t win a fight with a Tarakava, the only beings strong enough would be a Toa. And they were no Toa.

Then suddenly Cemahri let out a scream, and began to thrash. Gajaga swerved without hesitation, all but tackling her fellow Ga-Matoran. “What’s wrong?” Gajaga demanded as she looked over her. Before her optics Gajaga could see that green rash had began to burn into Cemahri’s metal leg, spreading like rust. The Kraata.

Gajaga stabbed her spear into the water in a frenzy, only for the tree they hid behind to be battered away by a giant fist. The Matoran were sent hurtling through the swamp, smashing against a tree. Gajaga shakily stood up, as the Tarakava reeled its arm back.

Thump. Ramaka’s bamboo disk thudded against the Infected Tarakava, and the beast shrieked in rage. It swerved towards the Le-Matoran, who shook like a leaf. The Rahi slammed its fist into the tree, Ramaka barely managing to leap to another branch.

In the meantime Gajaga clutched at Cemahri, holding her tight. “Come on, fight this thing, please,” she begged as she pressed Cemahri to her heartlight.

There was a splash a few bios away, as Ramaka’s tree shattered. The Le-Matoran fell like a rock, only for a brown streak to slam into Ramaka mid fall.

Kanohi held Ramaka in his arms as he grappled to another tree. “Ramaka right? She/her?”

“Um, yes, you … you are Kanohi, right?” And he … he knew about Ramaka? He knew that she was … not like other Le-Matoran.

“Yes,” he nodded, reaching into his bag and pulling out a piece of blue shimmering cloth, “listen, Turaga Nokama gave me this centuries ago, it should help reduce poison.”

“You … you know about the Kraata?”

“I can smell the poison,” he said simply, “get it to Cemahri, I will distract the Tarakava. Head to the south, okay?”

“Wh-what about the Kraata?”

“…We will try to do our best.” He grappled away flying right past the Tarakava’s snout. Ashe went past he swung his bamboo disk, thumping it against the Rahi’s nose. It flinched before roaring, and rampaging after him.

Ramaka stared after him briefly, before hearing shouting. Quickly she jumped into the swamp, wadding over to Cemahri. Quickly she pressed the cloth to Cemahri’s infection, and the poison began to flush out of her body, forming a toxic cloud in the water.

“How … how did you…” Gajaga struggled to speak as she held Cemahri tight.

“We don’t have time to think about this, we need to get out of here, that Kraata could still be here, ready to poison her again, or one of us.”

“R-right,” Gajaga nodded, cradling Cemahri in her arms. She began to wade through the swamp, with Ramaka returning to the trees.

…

Only a Toa had the power to fight a Tarakava head on. Their command of their element and their ability to harness their masks gave them the ability to take on the toughest beasts. Even Bohrok and Rahkshi fell before them. Kanohi was no Toa, just a Matoran of Iron who had visions and could grapple around the jungle with ease. Still he had fought again rampaging Rahi for centuries, he knew how to deal with them.

Kanohi hung to a tree, waiting for the Tarakava to swing. As it punched him he grappled away, and its punch shattered the tree. Bits of debris smacking into the reptile, scratching up its chassis.

“O-over here.” He called out, and the beast charged at him, thrusting out its fists. He hooked another tree as it rammed through the swamp, dodging as it hit the tree. The tree fell and smacked into its head, though the blow missed its mask.

Kanohi grappled to another tree, before latching to another and hurtling away as the Tarakava smashed the tree to bits. He grappled besides the Tarakava and immediately launched away, dodging another fist. He grappling around the foe, circling it like a Nui-Rama around a Toa. It shifted through the swamp after him, but its treads could not pivot, and it stumbled on the roots and rocks of the marsh.

He then suddenly hooked the beast and flew at it, smacking it in the head. It staggered and he leapt away right as it thrust its arm out, exploding a tree into splinters.

It swung at him, but his Volo Lutu Launcher first, hurtling him out of reach among the trees. He was baiting it, and with each punch of a tree debris blew back into it.

As it shattered another tree Kanohi launched onto another tree. He hung there, waiting as the beast charged. Infected mask or not, it was still an animal.

The Tarakava punched at him, but he hooked a ball of gravity against its face. He flew over its fist, before wrenching off its infected mask. He hurled it into the swamp, before grappling over and stomping the mask.

The mask cracked, even as the beast stumbled in a daze, its mind was clearing. It lurched about, confused how it had gotten here.

Kanohi grappled away, flinging himself through the jungle canopy. As he tumbled he released a sigh he … he had not expected things to do that smoothly. But then as he slung across the marshland, he heard a cry. He swerved in midair and hooked a tree, heading towards the source of the cry.

…

“Stay back, Makuta-spawn,” demanded Gajaga, thrusting her spear at the Kraata. They were on a patch of mud, solid enough to stand above the water. The Kraata was hissing as the three Matoran stood in a patch of sunlight, enough to ward the Kraata off.

The green slug hissed, the mud around it turning a sickly puke color. It paced about on its patch of shadow, trying to figure out how it could grow closer—

Then there was a tumble as Kanohi landed besides them. He thrust out his lighter, and the slug flinched from the light.

“Burn it, quickly.”

“Not unless I can help it,” he said, waving his arm back and forth, aiming to ward off the beast.

“It hurt Cemahri,” shouted Gajaga, grabbed his wrist and thrusting the vigilante’s lighter forward. Immediately the Kraata ignited, turning into a violent blaze. Noxious green fumes plumed off from it as it burnt to a crisp, and Kanohi kicked the slug away, into the swamp.

“Fire-spitter,” Kanohi growled, before sighing, “now this patch of swamp will become toxic, it will be unsafe to dip your mask in the water for years.”

“It needed to die.”

“It did, but there are better ways to get rid of them,” Kanohi stood up, “you all alright? How is Cemahri holding up?”

“Okay just … hurts,” moaned the Ga-Matoran, clutching her leg.

“We need to get her to Toa Gali, she could cure the poison.”

“But … of course,” Gajaga said, hoisting Cemahri onto her back.

“Why did you leave into the swamp?” It looked like they packed heavy, tools, sleeping bags, maps, there was a lot of camping gear.

“B-because this is our home. We don’t remember Metru-Nui, it’s just a story. Mata-Nui was our home, where we meet each other, where we grew. Where we … meet each other. We don’t know the first thing about the city, or living underground. It’s … it’s not our destiny.”

He nodded, looking away, “I understand.” He said, and his wrists began to flap, his arms held out like a Tarakava ready to punch. But his posture wasn’t aggressive just … anxious.

“You do?”

“Of course. And does it hurt me that the Turaga lied for centuries. That the lies they used to keep most Matoran safe hurt the rest, and they found it acceptable. That when we came to them in confusion and fear, they lied more, to protect the rest. I … I had thought they thought higher of us.”

“Would you want to stay here too?”

“…What I want and what will happen are very different,” Kanohi sighed, “Duty calls us elsewhere, to the underground.”

“But … that is the Duty the Turaga claim we have. What if they are lying?”

“They mean to do what’s best for us.”

“But you kn-know very well that’s what is best for the Matoran is not what is best for every Matoran. We are not just a monolithic people.” Ramaka stumbled, shrinking under his gaze, “some … some of us are broken. We don’t belong in Metru-Nui.”

“…I understand,” he sighed, “I feel out of place in any Koro, let alone in some city I never traveled too. But first, let us return to Kini-Nui. Cemahri needs help recovering from the poison. And the other Matoran will need to know to avoid this stretch of swamp.

The three other Matoran nodded, even Cemahri, and together they began to make their way through the tree, Kanohi grappling overhead.

…

Kanohi grappled across the camped village of Voka-Koro, reaching down to swipe up a fallen bamboo disk. “Um, over here,” a Ta-Matoran called out, avoiding his gaze.

Kanohi hooked the ground besides the Matoran and landed besides the m, before handing over the disk. They curtsied in thanks, before reeling their arm back and throwing the disk again, aiming for a target dummy shaped like a Kraata.

The small village held thirty seven Matoran, with Kanohi acting as their protector. In the treetops Matoran grappled with Volo Lutu Launchers they held in their hands, foraging food and resources from the jungle. Some wove flax into cloth, others cut bamboo into tools. A few worked to repair their hovercraft, which were made with large cabins to live in.

Voya-Koro was mobile, hence the name. For the past month they have traveled about, foraging supplies from the old abandoned villages, having a tour of the island. He could hear laughter as Matoran discovered old adventures, old victories. As they traveled their hovercrafts were frequently rebuilt, the fleet’s ships growing bigger and bolder.

“Your village is coming along quite nicely,” a shaky voice offered. Kanohi tensed up like a coiled spring, and did not answer.

“I know you are still mad,” Turaga Vakama said as he appeared besides him. A Turaga could only use Noble masks like a Huna, but the Mask of Concealment still had its uses. The Turaga was using his Firestaff as a cane, though it’s flames were dwarfed by sunlight.

“I understand why you did what you did. I might have even done the same in your position, though I would have been a very different Matoran then. But maybe I even would have been such a Matoran, before I lost my memories. And I know that had I known, I may have ventured below to help the Matoran underground. Could have enraged the Makuta, or just died. I understand. But all of that doesn’t undo that keeping our truths from us wasn’t cruel.”

“We thought that if the Matoran were more organized, if things were simpler, they would be happier. And safer. We did not know how many would fall in the cracks.”

“Least you don’t need to worry about us anymore.” He gestured to the nomadic village. Many of them had been outcasts in the old villages, considered freaks by their people. Some were the ‘wrong’ gender for their breed, some of them had strange urges for companionship, some had eccentricities, some were cross-wired. Few of them had ever belonged in their Koro, and now that the world was changing, they had clung to the only people who had been there for them.

“I did not know our gulf was so deep.”

“…I would not have stayed here if they did not need me.” And that was true.

“…You and I do not always seem the exact same thing in our visions, but you must know, I have witnessed a new prophecy.”

“The Bohrok?” Kanohi said simply. Instinctually his hand reached to his side, where one of his wooden masks covered his lighter. He winced at the gesture, and pulled his hand back, its wrist flapping with discomfort.

“Yes. They will destroy Mata-Nui. Our war against them had only delayed the inevitable destruction of this island.”

“I know. It’s why we travel in hovercraft. It’s not just to see the whole island, or to flee from Rahi. We will sail away from the island of Mata-Nui when that time of doom comes, we will find refuge in the open ocean.”

“Are you so enrage at us that you would condemn yourself and these Matoran you protect to an eternity on the Endless Ocean?” Vakama’s voice trembled with exhaustion, and Kanohi’s fingers began to wiggle, an anxious energy sinking in.

“No, but I have foreseen what happens when the Great Spirit will awaken. Only suffering will follow for the Matoran below. And the Matoran of Voka-Koro will stay here whether I stay or not, I know as much. All I can do is protect them, maybe guide them. And the Matoran suffering below … I could not protect them. I … a Brotherhood of Makuta is beyond me, I know that now.”

“How could the Great Spirit awakening be anything but glad?”

“…I see a giant machine towering above the Endless Ocean, eyes crimson with arrogance. I see the Matoran ruled by Rahkshi, the Turaga imprisoned in the Coluseum itself, and even the Toa Nuva forced to flee for their lives.”

“How is it possible?”

“I only tell you what my visions said. It may just be a metaphor.” He winced. He regretted that he had said that dig, deserved or not.

“…I couldn’t tell you the truth. But … maybe I could have been less dismissive.”

“I know many of the problems I faced you did too once,” Kanohi sighed, “for better or worse, the truth makes you seem less unreachable.”

“Yes. I suppose I viewed Turaga Dume the same once,” he laughed, “I never fully learned the lessons I should have, even after a thousand years. And after the trouble we had with the fake disks, I inflected that kind of pain onto you? I failed you.”

“…From the sounds of your stories, you did better that Turaga Dume and Lhikan. As long as we continue to do better for the next generation, we haven’t failed.”

“Perhaps,” Vakama smiled wearily, “Maybe if we peer into the fire together, like old times, we could learn more.”

“…Alright,” Kanohi nodded. If it would help the Matoran, that was most important. And he … he hated that he no longer could trust Vakama like he once had. He could still remember Naming Day, being honored that Vakama had appointed Kanohi his truth name, instead of just his masked identity.

“Do you ever think you can forgive us?”

“I have forgiven you. But there is a wall between us now, and there always will be. We will never be as close as we once were.”

“I understand.”

“How are things in Metru-Nui?”

“Rebuilding continues. You could be a great help down there.”

“I would, but the Matoran of Metru-Nui have seven Toa and seven Turaga. I can make a bigger difference here, among the Matoran who need it most.”

“If the giant does rise, what then?”

“I get my people to safety, then try to help all of you. Thank of us as a backup group of heroes, who will be there to save you in a ‘great rescue.’”

Vakama smiler, “I noticed you listened to all my stories.”

“Yes. And for the record, I have foreseen that our hovercrafts will make landfall one day. We will not wander the ocean forever.”

“…We can send some supplies to you before then, masks and tools. Once we can make Kanoka again, we can send some your way. Dume would be resistant, he is not comfortable with you being out here, he wants to have the guards bring you back to Metru-Nui.”

“I see why the Matoran bristle under him.”

“Yes he … Metru-Nui was very different that Mata-Nui. More distant. And Dume would rather us Turaga maintain that distance.”

Kanohi glanced at the Turaga. “Meaning?”

“Turaga Dume … is used to announcing his decrees, and the Matoran listening. He has more experience that us, much more, but he has not lived among Matoran for a long time, and has not walked among them for millennia before the Makuta captured him.”

The Fe-Matoran looked away, “Thank you, Turaga Vakama. If you can send us Kanoka, focus on disks of regeneration, freezing, and remove poison. Those should satisfy our needs. But don’t worry about powered masks, they would be wasted on us. The Toa Nuva and Takanuva, and your Turaga could use them more.”

“I know, do not fear,” Vakama laughed, “And just in case your people ever need to know, a Kiril can be made with a regeneration disk. It’s fairly simple to make. Level seven is a Noble Kiril. Level eight would become a Great Mask.”

“That’s good. If you can gives us tablets on how to make Kanoka and masks, it might be good to have that knowledge, just in case.”

“Yes. Forming a Kanoka is not easy, they were only invented fairly recently. Well, recently in the history of Metru-Nui. But I would be happy to share that with you, late though it would be.”

Kanohi looked up as drums began to pound. He looked towards the source of the beating, listening in. “A Rahi is approaching from the west,” he said as the thunder of music continued, “I need to handle this.”

“Very well. Good luck.”

Kanohi nodded before hooking a tree, and hurtling through the air. He grappling through the trees, launching himself among the branches past the parked convoy. In the distance he could hear a roar, maybe a Muaka? Their jaws were powerful, their claws too, but he knew how to tire one out.

The vigilante protector of Voya-Koro hurtling forward, passing the waving Matoran of the village. He catapulted through the forest of Le-Wahi, hurtling through the many trees of Mata-Nui, his beloved island home.

Edited April 25, 2020 by Harvali

[That Matoran with a Vahi]

I just want to say that I really, really like this ^^ After the days of MNOG, canon so often deprived the Matoran of any individual focus, or responses to the things that happened, that it's a truly refreshing change to see some of them having their own negative reactions and independent streaks. The idea of them being so hurt by the Turaga's hiding of their history is a really fascinating idea, and the way you've explored that here is very well achieved; I particularly like the ending, with so many of them staying behind to form their own village in the world they love

And the hints of what is to come, and how they will ultimately survive canon, are very well placed too ^^

Edited May 7, 2020 by That Matoran with a Vahi

[Harvali]

@That Matoran with a Vahi thank you so much for your kind words, I actually was left speechless when I read your comment. I have a real fondness for the Matoran, and love to explore their struggles, as well as their issues grappling with the lies the Turaga told them, albeit for a good reason. The villagers and their personalities were a big part of G1, and its why G2 did not grab me the same way. 

Hopefully I didn’t demonize the Turaga though, I genuinely love that the Mata-Nui Turaga were so close to their Matoran compared to Dume, makes it feel like they were trying to be better elders than how they were raised. And maybe one day the “Turaga Mahri” will continue to improve. Making each generation a little kinder.