This is the first REAL Bionicle story I've written. The first one I wrote I did like three years ago, and it was so Mary Sue I gagged when I reread it, so it doesn't count. I also currently stink at writing canon characters, so this is all OCs. (i.e., If you don't like OCs, don't read this.)

Be nice when you review, please. If you must flame, at lease have the courtesy to leave it anonymously so I can delete it. Constructive criticism is much welcomed.

Disclaimer: I do not own Bionicle. Thank God for that, because I would have totally messed up the plotline. :)

The first thing I notice when I wake up is the feeling of woven straw on my bare back. Actually, all over my bare body. Oh, snap. Did somebody put something in my Sprite? I knew going to that Mardi Gras party was a bad idea!

Wait. Who would have straw mats? I sit up with a jolt, clutching the blanket-weight mat on top of me to my chest. Looking around, I see that I am most definitely not where I remember being. Instead of a penthouse apartment in New Orleans, I'm in some kind of straw-and-mud-pack hut. Or rather, it used to be mud. Now the dirt holding the walls up is so dry and fragile-looking that it looks like I could poke the wall next to me and the whole place would come tumbling down.

I look up, and see that it's a good thing I haven't stood up yet. The roof is maybe a foot above my head sitting down, so I would have put a hole through the straw roof. As I look closer, even that is crackly and dry. The air almost hurts to breathe here. In fact, I think the only things I can see that aren't completely dried out are the little mats that comprise my bedding. They look hastily sewn together, like they'd originally been meant for another purpose.

Okay, I'm pretty sure this is too vivid to be a hallucination, and there is no way I ended up in the middle of Africa after getting drunk without at least the evidence of a hangover, so maybe this is a dream? I go to pinch myself, and hear a slight metallic "tink" as my fingers hit my forearm. For the first time, I take a good look at my body, and my eyes widen in shock. I am covered from head to toe in metal plating of various shades of rust orange and gray. (At least I think it's orange; it's rather difficult to tell and this lighting.) This isn't any ordinary plating, either. I can feel with it, and the style looks awfully like—nuh-uh. There is no way.

I hear someone clearing their throat in the next room, and decide to put my little theory to the test. Crawling over, unlatching the little door and poking my head around the incredibly short doorframe, I see a bunch of what are clearly Matoran lying on more of those little bitty mats. Okay, so maybe I am a Bionicle. Either that or somebody put something way more potent than a little alcohol in that Sprite. My hair falls in my face, and I see that it's straightened out and turned a shiny, almost iridescent light yellow blond, as opposed to my original curly, smokey-brown hair. Whatever. It matches my armor better anyway.

One of the Matoran clears his/her throat again, then coughs. The coughing fit grows more violent, and another Matoran rushes in, propping up the coughing one (which proves to be a guy, now that I can see which one he is) and patting him gently but firmly one the back. The second Matoran is a girl, and her aura practically screams "nurse." Maybe I'm in a hospital of some kind? The poor guy's coughing fit eventually subsides, although I'm sure his throat has to be incredibly sore after that, and I can see that he's shivering. Come to think of it, it is pretty cool in here.

I back up out of the doorway and crawl back to my mat. It and the blanket are so wide you could comfortably fit two of me in there with plenty of room to spare, and I'm not small in the width department. Think the girl version of a slightly chubby linebacker. Well, what now, Morgan? If you're here, you're here. If you're dreaming, you're dreaming. One way or another, you can't do anything about it, so you may as well do something decent while you're here.

I gently pry the "stitching"—more straw—out of two rows of the blanket and mat, giving me eight (!) of each version of the little mats. I'm sure that if one of them has a fever, then there's got to be at least a couple more, and I'm reasonably certain a couple Matoran didn't have mats at all. If they can give up their comfort for a complete stranger, the least I can do for them is return what I don't need (and they quite obviously do).

It's a challenge to get through, but the door is just big enough for me to shinny through, though I have to do a couple of creative hip wiggles to do it. I immediately wish I'd thought to put the mats outside the door, because I have to crawl halfway back through to get them. I start by covering the poor guy who had the coughing fit with a blanket-weight, and then start putting the floormats under the Matoran that don't have any. I'm on the third one (I somehow managed to get the first two on without waking them up—either they're in comas or are really deep sleepers) when the nurse walks back in, stops in her tracks with a gasp, and stares at me like I've just grown another head.

I can't help but quirk a smile at her strange reaction as I finish putting the third Matoran on her mat, then cock my head and whisper, "What?"

"I-I, uh, um—"

An irritated male voice comes through the doorway, followed quickly by another Matoran. "Mahlin (pronounced "mah lin" like two words), what's taking you so long? A routine walk-through shouldn't take you more than five minutes, not with this many patients waiting!"

I can't help but chuckle as I put another blanket-weight on a shivering Matoran beside me. Maybe I'm just too used to how Takua and Jaller sound on the movie, but such a deep voice sounds quite strange coming out of such a little body. Naturally, the sound draws his attention as I tuck the blanket-weight around the shivering body. He too looks at me like I have that second head.

"You! You shouldn't be out here!"

"Why? Do they have some dread disease?"

"No, not that I know of, but the Turaga said you shouldn't be allowed in here under any circumstances. If a victim of this particular virus is agitated—which they would be by seeing a being as unusual as yourself—"he looks pointedly at me here "—then they could take a turn for the worse, which at best will put them a good two weeks behind in recovery."

"Oh." Only now do I notice the freaked-out look on the faces/masks of a couple of Matoran lying beside me. I duck my head, and I can feel my face getting hot. I know this guy means well, but I can't help but feel an irrational flicker of anger. I hate being made to feel like an idiot, and whether this guy meant to or not, he has done a very good job.

As I'm contemplating whether to make a hasty exit to save myself from stewing and doing something else I'll end up regretting or apologize for being stupid, a third Matoran joins us, breathing hard as he rounds the corner into the infirmary, as I'm now pretty sure that's what it is. "Prenlo! Is the stranger awake yet? Turaga Renka—"

Prenlo—at least I'm assuming the deep-voiced guy is Prenlo—turns the new, higher-voiced Matoran's head so he looks at me. "Oh." He turns in my direction.and does a slight bow, like a Japanese person would do to a stranger they met on the street. "Turaga Renka wants to speak with you, if you're feeling up to it."

"Sure." If I remember correctly, the Turaga are the leaders of the villages, and I think one of my friends said something about them still having mask powers. Best not to make whoever this Turaga Renka is cranky.

The third Matoran gestures for me to turn around and go back into the room I'd just come out of. As I try desperately to not look like an idiot as I shinny back through the door (and fail miserably), I find myself belatedly wondering just how it is I can understand these people anyway.

I had a dickens of a time trying to keep from going completely Mary Sue, if you couldn't tell. Please tell me what needs work. Any and all advice would be much appreciated.