The Kestora shakes his head. He is turned around harshly, and he sets to work frantically: he pulls away the stakes, sews back the organic fibers, closes the chest and stomach, reattaches the joints... The second he is done a white hand grabs him and throws him away - his scuttling across the icy floor as he makes his escape goes unnoticed by the white visage that enters the field of vision, focused as it is on what it looks at with some kind of horrified relief in his blue eye, the other hidden under a battered scope. A mask with a broken visor clicks into place on the unmoving face: its power seeps into the laying frame with a faint tingling sensation. Fingers rest gently on the orange brainstalk.

"Pohatu," the Toa of Ice calls, "Pohatu, please, get up."

The body sits up in complete silence. The Toa looks it over without talking, awfully antsy, checking if the repairs have been done correctly, if there is anything that could cause it pain when it will inevitably stand up and walk; his own armor bears signs of extensive modifications after what probably was a terrifying fight. At last he carefully holds one of the limp hands in his own and pulls towards himself: no reaction.

"Get up," the Toa insists, "I'm taking you home."

The body stands up.

There is a Matoran in the room. Black body, purple Mask of Strength, dim eyes: revived Onu-Matoran. He looks at the figure standing still with a dull expression: "What are you doing?"

"He is my brother," the Toa replies: "I'm taking him with us. I'm taking him home."

The Matoran stares at the silent being and says nothing.

They walk through the winding labyrinthine corridors, through the swarms of Matoran wailing to be allowed to work, the Turaga struggling to herd them in spare rooms, the Toa roaming restlessly through the halls, the Skakdi attacking everything they cannot recognize, the beings crawling along the floors still half mangled as they struggle to function even in such a sorry state for they cannot work otherwise and to work is all they were ever made for, the Kestora chasing anything that moves in a frenzied need to vivisect. Nothing has a mind of its own, not anymore, not so far from the quiet whispered riddles of a god: still the Toa of Ice perseveres deeper into the dedalus curling around him, holding the Matoran in his arms and gripping the mostly limp hand like a lifeline as he drags the silent body behind himself.

The Turaga without a mask, roped into following along, looks at it with a dull expression: "There is no need for that."

"He is my brother," the Toa replies: "I'm taking him home."

The Turaga stares at the silent being and says nothing.

The halls are longer, longer, numbingly long. The Matoran are antsy. They need to work. They need to work. They need to work. They were made to work, and they were repaired to work, but they cannot reach work, so what must they do? The Turaga herd the together, crush them against one another, but they are antsy too. They were made to supervise, they were made to guide, they were made to coordinate, but they cannot do any of it like this. The Turaga tell the Matoran to work: the Matoran, with no other option, dismantle to create.

They dismantle themselves to make Toa. They dismantle Toa to make Turaga. They dismantle Turaga to make themselves. They dismantle Skakdi to make fish. They dismantle Vortixx to make snakes. They dismantle Kestora to make horrors left undescribable. They pick up pieces of broken bretheren to create tools, anything, anything, to busy themselves with work, for there is nothing else they were ever made for except work. They do not fight when they are struck by the Kestora's disabling tools - they go down pliantly, trembling from the shock, allowing themselves to be dragged away to be torn open without any of their siblings to notice or care as the work absorbs their every thought. The only way to escape from the torture awaiting is to be found by a Toa, but Toa are seldom fighting. Most often they are seen standing idly, or laying limp, or wandering aimlessly, devoid of purpose and community and objective: their work was interrupted and their own existence is now incomprehensible to them, and they do not know or feel the prongs stabbing through them or the blades opening their bodies. They retaliate to violence distractedly, without intention behind their automatic movements, strike down to their hearts' content. Nothing is ever dead for long anyways; death left this place long ago anyways.

The sharp-toothed beast that struggles to pull himself upright, let alone teleport successfully, looks at the body dragging its feet numbly while it is pulled along with such impossible affection with a dull expression: "A diversion?"

"He is my brother," the Toa replies: "I'm taking him home."

The sharp-toothed beast stares at the silent being and says nothing.

There are so many he wants to bring along. If he could, he would drag the whole thing down, so they could all breathe in the open air again, learn to be people again: but he can't, and so he brings along only those he can - those he, so desperately selfishly, wants to bring along. The weight in his palm is comforting, it is a promise he has made, an apology, a remedy to something that would have been final, a thread he so desperately wants to collect and spin back into its spool, unraveled and clean and perfect: a good ending, a proper ending, the ending that should have been. He will bring his brother back home and things will be fine. Now that things are a little easier, now that Teridax is gone, he will bring his brother back home and he will understand. They will help him and he will be fine. He will be with them again. Things will be fine again. Like they should have always been, if only he'd spoken a little better, explained a little better, been a little gentler, been a little clearer. He failed his brother twice and he will not fail him again. He will not fail him again. He will save him, this time. He will. He will. He has to. He will. He has to.

The room is crimson, pulsing, buried deep within the structure like a horrifying heart, and the exit is there, right there, just not working, just not working yet. The Toa stands side by side with the dull figure whose hand he refuses to part from, guarding the door, as the smaller beings work on the commands and the large one forces the teleporter wide enough for the four of them through his mere brute force, while the howling shrieks of the Kestora come closer and closer to the only entrance. The bright ends of their tools spark with electricity, crackling madly as they come closer, closer, closer -

A loud buzzing sputter fills the room as the barely functional machine wheezes awake, its intermittent glow slowly picking up the pace. The Matoran jumps into it, the sharp-toothed beast approaches it; the Turaga turns to the remaining two beings, settling his eyes on the quieter warrior.

"Fight them!" he orders.

The body lurches thoughtlessly forward towards its doom. The Toa loses his grasp on the until now unresponsive hand.

He tries to follow in a desperate attempt to pull the figure back, to drag it to the teleporter and leave with him, with him - but a strong arm yanks him away harshly, securing him in the sharp-toothed beast's grasp as he crawls into the pod; the Toa screams, screams, squirming to escape, as he watches powerless his brother seize when a burst of electricity passes through the orange armor and the stocky build falls onto the floor shaking slightly from the charge as though struck by rigor mortis, and he screams and screams and reaches out with both hands, to grasp him, calling, calling, calling desperately: "POHATU!"

He wishes he could see anything in his brother's gaze, he wishes he could hear anything said with his voice; he wishes he would move, reach back, respond, show him anything, any hint of his mind's state, any hint of feeling.

His wailing sob is met by empty eyes like a slaughtered animal.

What do we know about Mavrah? He wears a purple pakari, he loves Godzilla, and Greg doesn't think he should be dead.

Due to a lack of purple parts existing, I decided to make purple into his secondary color and support it with the wealth of black and dark bley parts. Which works for me, because Metru-Nui is full of dark bley.