The phenomenon of self sabotage is recognized as "L'appel du Vide" a french expression meaning "The Call of the Void"

Some people might be thinking hm this looks fimillar. Well L'appel du Vide already existed not to long ago, but its been deleted and thrown to the wolves because I couldn't figure out how to make the story right.

I tired changing some stuff around in the story and the more edits and changes I made, the farther it strayed away from what I wanted L'appel du Vide to be (plus I was frustrated and got pretty sloppy). So I'm switching it up a bit.

The story is missing one part (mentioned but not written about like last time), but the story is the way I want it to be.

But once again, this fic includes

-some swearing
-blood/violence
-mentions of physical and mental abuse
-meta knight x galacta knight
-some ocs who kinda have importance at some points but I tried to make them pretty likable don't come for me

Anyways onword! The new and improved and better version of L'appel du Vide

CHAPTER ONE: Rebirth

He was completely numb. The blackness engulfed him as he laid in the nothingness. He strained to move. Nothing happened. Once again, he moved. This time he was somewhat successful, eyes cracking open to slits. They fluttered open a bit more, and all he could see was the sky above. The sky was dark and cloudy. It smelled like metal and rain. He was very confused. Where was he?

Little by little, the feeling came back to his hands. He brought them to his face, feeling his soft but tattered gloves touch his dirty skin. In the rips of the stained fabric was his exposed palm, cut and bloodied. He moved each and everyone of his fingers. The pain from the cuts was bearable, until he moved his fingers. The movement pulled the skin on his hands, causing the cuts to burn

Sighing, he placed his hands in the muddy earth and heaved. He staggered to his feet. He was plagued with exhaustion. Disorientated, he glanced down at his feet, which blurred into the ground.

He still wore his silvery-white armor he was almost always clad in. But the metal was splattered in blood and dirt. The dirt was somewhat washed off by the rain that was falling steadily. He scowled at his appearance. This armor had to be hidden. Glancing around, he caught sight of a line of dead and thick brush. That would have to do, as it was the only sort of fauna in the area.

Without hesitation, he lunged forward and prepared to rip the brush out. Instant regret. He pulled his hand back, yelping in pain. He bit his tongue quickly to stop the noise from escaping his mouth. Large thorns were now lodged in his fingers and droplets of fresh blood started to seep through the glove. He growled to himself in frustration. Teeth gritted, he reached again, ignoring the sharp pain and ripped the thorn bush from its roots. Tossing the bush aside, he gazed back down at his hands. Even more thorns had been driven into his palms. His gloves where even more shredded than before. Wincing, he pulled some thorns out, until his fingers were free of the tiny daggers.

Slowly, he reached behind him and started to unclip and remove his armor, careful to avoid using his palms for anything. One by one, he laid each individual piece of armor under the bush. Without being armored, he allowed his mangled wings to unfurl. As he did so, the white downy feathers fell off, leaving bald spots. But not a single feather was stained.

Kicking the armor deeper into the brush, he noticed he was missing some things. He pat down his sides, eyes wide. His lance, shield and mask were nowhere to be found. His eyes darted around the clearing; they couldn't have gone far.

He hurried back to where he had been before and sighed with relief. The shield and lance where lying side-by-side in the mud. His mask was lying next to them, and he gasped a bit at the sight of a large dent in the top of it. He knelt down and examined the mask. The mask had a cross-shaped visor and two openings in the top for his horns. The dent was centered right in between the slits. He glanced away from the mask, seeing something glimmering in the mud.

Picking up the object, he rubbed the mud off and his eyes widened. In his palm was a stopwatch; the glass was cracked down the middle of the clock. Around the edges of the clock was a plastic encasing, its color darker than night. Speckled across the deep black plastic was flecks of orange. The watch itself was a necklace, made to be worn around the neck. He was confused. Maybe this watch had been here before he had woken up?

Then it hit him. He looked it over a second time. The memories came flooding back. He remembered the vigorous thrashing, the heaving rain, the falling ash. The sounds of battle had been drowned out by the sounds of someone screaming, his head being held underwater. The river had filled with blood.

He also remembered the feeling of the ice cold crystal when it was first pressed against his skin.

He was out of that prison. He was free. Even though he had been sealed away unconscious, it still had to have been a while since they wished him put away.

But who unsealed him? The thought raced through his mind as he whirled around, scanning for any sign of life. His hair on his neck stood up straight. Something was wrong. Nothing was found around him; the only trace of life being his own footprints his boots had left. His eyes grew large as he reached for his lance and shield, clipping the watch around his neck. On edge, he slumped back towards the brush.

Crack!

He snapped his head back at the sound of someone stepping on branches. He could hear the footsteps coming closer and closer. Panic surged through his body as he glared over to where he had left his mask half-buried in the mud. A light sudden shone his way. Lunging into the thorn bush, he hissed quietly at the pain. He was certain he could feel blood trickling down his face as he watched two men walk into view.

They carried a flashlight and spoke with slurred words. They wore run-down rags for clothes and they laughed so loudly it made his ears ring. Their knees shoke as they cast the flashlight around the clearing.

"Your hat has got to be around here somewhere!" One of the men snorted loudly. He watched them stagger around the clearing, light dancing around the edges of the brush. He sank deeper into the thorns, but sighed in relief as the man with the flashlight turned away. The relief, however, turned to anxiety as he saw them near his mask. Hopefully these men were foolish enough to miss the mask completely.

"Hey, there's something lying in the mud here!" The man yelled towards the other man. He put his head in his hands and let out a low growl. Flicking his eyes up, he watched as one of the men reached down and started to rub the mud off of the mask. When he saw the silvery metal, the man's eyes lit up.

"Look at this!" The man with the flashlight dropped it to the ground and hurried over to the mask. When he saw the mask, the man seemed to squeal at such a tone that made his ears ring from the bush. The man ripped the mask from the other's hands and gazed down at it, completely mesmerized.

"Do you know what this is, dude?" The man yelled, excited over the find. He watched the two men gaze down at the mask again. One of them slapped it for some reason. The other snatched it away but nearly tossed it to the ground. His wings twitched with fury; they where manhandling his mask.

"This mask looked like it belonged to that legendary dude you thought was real when you were little." One man laughed, picking up the flashlight once again. He playfully elbowed the other man, who still seemed fixated on the mask. When his companion didn't respond, the man rolled his eyes.

"I don't know man. This thing looks authentic and wo-"

"We are not five. You must be stupid; Galacta wasn't a real person. He was just a character in a legend that was passed down from our ancestors. Legends aren't real ya know. That's why they're called legends." And the man kept droning on and on and on.

He lifted his head higher at that remark. His name had been said. Galacta. And apparently these men thought he never existed. He, Galacta, watched the men with a puzzled expression. They're words now fell of deaf ears. Suddenly, Galacta remembered the man's words. Ancestors. It had been ages since he had been sealed away. Why was he of use now? Galacta sat motionless, thinking deeply until he heard the sound of his mask falling into the dirt.

"It's probably just a replica. Besides, when did the legends ever say Galacta had set foot on Mekkai? The legend came from Halcandra, which, may I remind you, is in another dimension." The skeptical man retorted. Galacta listened intently, starting to piece together all of the information. He was on a foreign planet in another dimension called Mekkai; he woke up lying in the mud, unsealed and ages had passed. Galacta scowled; he still didn't know who had wished for him unsealed. He shook his head and exhaled to relax. Alright, he thought to himself, I can work with this.

"I'll take it to the museum at the base. They'll check for its authenticity. And if this thing is real," The man puffed out his chest, "I'll be drowning in cash!"

"We'll be rich," quipped the other man, "We found it together."

"Whatever."

Galacta watched the men stumbled out of the clearing, his mask in their hands. Slowly, he crawled out from the brush. Galacta gazed back down at his armor, lance and shield lying underneath the thorns. He had to leave them; if anyone was to see him with anything like that he would be in trouble. Breathing out slowly, Galacta turned and started towards the men had been heading.

Galacta stalked the men from behind, silent and slow. The anxiety about being unarmed and unarmored had been replaced by determination and anger. He was going to get that mask back. He walked past buildings. The air smelled like metal and rain. The men continued further and further down the streets, until they stopped at a large building. Galacta stopped dead in his tracks.

This building wasn't just a single building; it was apart of a complex. One large skyscraper like building stood tall above the rest, walls shiny and covered in metal. But what bothered Galacta was the sign that stood in front of the building in front of him. The letters in red and bold font seemed to laugh at him. They taunted him as his skin crawled. The sign read,

INTERGALACTIC AGENCY: DEFENSE HEADQUARTERS