First off, apologies for the Sunday update. And we were doing so well! *remembers Tuesday update and shudders*

The wait is over, and chapter eight is here! Weight, eight, I'm so punny. Or rhyme-y. Or something.

Without further ado, let's do it! Read on.

Chapter Eight - Wu

"Are we here for status or for brunch?" Scourge asks irritably as we sit at another meeting table that has idled for nearly an hour.

"Wish we were, I could use some bite-sized muffins." Quips a younger soldier, and a few people chuckle.

"Then let us formally begin," Thrace says, smiling thinly at the delegates. "Welcome again. Today is, as one of our own has helpfully informed us, a status update on the tributes. Can I have Johnson, please?"

Johnson stands, holding in his hands a thick and messy-looking file in his hands, with papers and photographs poking out of the manila. "Yes, sir. First, the All-Element boy has improved somewhat as a soldier, and he does have potential to make squad. It will take time, though." Garmadon practically glows with pride barely concealed and I can hear him straighten next to me.

"The Fire boy engaged with a few of his… Opponents in his training group and was victorious. He is injured, but not seriously, and I expect he will continue training well. Giving his potential I would expect him to join a squad soon, sir… That and the fact that I believe that said opponents will strike again, and with decreased chances of their losing."

Thrace doesn't seem concerned – if anything, he appears to be more relaxed. "How so, Johnson?"

The man swallows and glances at his rifled file. "Well, sir, the fact that the Fire boy emerged on top of the gang of soldiers in his group will be upsetting to the soldiers he injured. They will strike back with more ferocity and intelligence than before."

"But the Fire boy will know this." Thrace says. Johnson says nothing. "And what on the other tributes?"

"The Lightning boy is adjusting well. Mechanic's is grateful for him to be with us now!" An older woman says, smiling. "I've sent some of the blueprints to you via port." Thrace nods, then turns to another woman.

"And the Ice boy?"

The woman stands, smoothing her jumpsuit as she does so. "His inventions rival any that we have pioneered so far. I expect this will give us a significant advantage over President Borg when we encounter him next."

"But still no solution to our elemental problem?" Thrace asks, not in a prying manner, but casually.

"No, sir. They both are trying, though." The second woman says, the first nodding along with her.

"That's all well. Next, the Earth boy?"

"He's in the Tactical group for leaders-to-be, sir, learning advanced troop manipulation and placement. The course is rigorous, sir, but he's a good student, and has an uncanny knack for knowing the correct answers, especially in disputed situations, such as hostage-interrogation and negotiation. Like the Fire boy, I expect him to rank soon. However, unlike the Fire boy, he is not the top of his class, but given his age I'd say that he would be in a group of his peers." A burly man across the table says.

"And how is the Darkness girl shaping up?"

"So far the squad idea is producing fine results, sir! The men genuinely like her, and their morale is high. Right now they appear to be drilling using the port simulation program, and their training is very vigorous and is coming along well. She will be an asset when we take the Tower, along with her squad."

"Very well, but we are still missing one tribute – the Light boy. Has the autopsy proven anything?"

A slick-haired man stands to respond, and for a moment I wonder where the mortuary in the rebel base is. "Autopsy… Um, no. Our best guess is that the poison in his system was engineered to be undetectable on our technology, which I'd assume is less developed than Borg's if he can pull this off." Troubled whispers fill the meeting room. "We can tell it's poison based on the reaction – foam at the mouth, the protruding veins, but not where the poison originated, what its source is. More questions than answers. Sorry, sir."

Thrace shakes his head as if this is no bother. "Thank you, soldier." With a bob of his sleek head the man sits down. "I believe this concludes our meeting. I appreciate your time."

"Would you like to see some of the tributes?" Garmadon asks me when we exit the meeting. "See them train, I mean. I'd like to see some of the technology-wizard kids at work. Funny how things turn out. Normally they're just tributes, but now they're geniuses. Want to come?" I nod my agreement and am about to ask if we should ask Scourge and Eli, but Scourge has already left and Eli is still angry at me for reasons untold, so I simply follow my brother to the correct floor where the Earth boy trains and we enter the training room.

Unlike the Army training rooms, this space has been divided into offices, but the ceiling is open and you can see the scaffolding above. One-way mirrors form windows for us to watch into, and my brother and I carefully meander our way to the room where the Earth boy is.

He doesn't seem to be younger than his fellows, given his height, and later I see his influence over them and the thought is even more evident. A teacher or instructor of some kind stands in the corner of the small office space watching as the students mill around a table on which is a battle-plans board, with figurines and everything. Each student hold a sort of prodding stick that they use to move the pawns across the board, but none seem to be making any adjustments, just musing quietly over the plans. One impatiently taps the stick across his knuckles, keeping a steady rhythm. Posters and sheets of paper are pinned to the walls and occasionally one of the soldiers will glance over at one or take it off of the wall for reference, then return it. The wall port displays a holographic report – the weather. A few soldiers are pacing, glancing now and then at the battle board. All the while the instructor looks steadily on, face deadpan.

"What are they doing?" I ask, and Garmadon frowns as he looks at the battle board.

"A drill for strategy. Winning and losing matter, too, in Tactical, I just don't know how. They keep track or something. This is a team, I believe – they're not permanent – and once they come to a consensus on their attack they go for other training. That's the Earth boy?"

"Yep," I reply, watching as a soldier walks up to the board meaningfully, then shrinks back and continues pacing.

After a few minutes of wait Cole makes his move, stepping up to the board and moving the pawns into different positions, not looking back at his teammates, fixated on the task at hand. He moves the figurines into a complicated dance-looking shift, and once he is satisfied he sets his prod on the table. The other soldiers only glance at the board before putting theirs near his and the instructor walks to the port and unlocks the door, stepping back as the soldiers stream out of the door. Cole is the last to leave, and he glances over at me before stopping and coming our way.

"He's probably got questions." Garmadon mutters, barely moving his lips, and I nod.

"Hello, sir," Cole says, shaking my hand, and he nod briskly at Garmadon. There's a dangerous flash of anger in his eyes, briefly, and I find myself tensing. Relax. He's not going to hurt you.

"Good to see you too." I smile at Cole, but he nods dismissively and moves along in conversation.

"If you don't mind, sir, may I speak to you?"

I blink, startled, then nod and begin to walk to the cafeteria, where the soldiers are walking. "What is it you wish to discuss?"

Cole looks troubled as he begins to speak again. "Well, sir, I was only wondering… My dad is still at the Complex, and it's just the two of us. When I was there I supported most of the family matters – he used to be a member of a musical group, but there's no money in that now – and with the rebellion and all, I can't say where his loyalties lie. We used to be very, um, Borg-loving." He flushes ever so slightly. "So I don't know what Thrace's plans are to keep the families safe, but I want to make sure he's still included. Even if he hasn't joined the rebellion yet, even if he is opposed to it. I just didn't know how deep Thrace's rebel loyalties are – I mean, I know they're deep and all, him being the rebel leader, but if he would be opposed to anything."

Solemnly I turn to the Earth boy and place a hand on his shoulder, which he doesn't shake off, to my surprise. "Trust me when I say this, Cole. When Thrace says he means to do something, he does it."

Letting out a short breath of relief, the Earth boy smiles. "Okay. Thanks. Thank you." Then he trots after the soldiers going to mess, and I see him meet up with some younger men, and they begin to talk lightly, openly. At least one of the tributes has friends here…

As we pass more office spaces I see more groups of soldiers sweating over the battle plans. With my menial trading experience I can see a few moves that could be strategically significant, but not the whole picture, and wonder why the Fire boy isn't in Tactical. Why waste his talents in Army when he could predict the moves of Borg, use his soldiers to tear through forces of Nindroids?

"Do you think we could visit Lloyd? See how he's doing, you know." Garmadon asks, watching the soldiers slowly fill the cafeteria, arriving in bunches as they finish their battle plans.

"Can we?" I ask aloud.

"I don't know. I feel like I should – I'm indebted to, as a father – but also we need him to become a good soldier. Is there a space in there for weakness?" I understand my brother's reasoning, but the instinct to visit Lloyd feels like the right thing to do.

"I don't know either. Let's play it safe and leave him be for now. Want to go see the news?" The news-watching at the base has risen since the patchless rebellion has reached a critical scale, and it's only a matter of time before the citizens overpower the Nindroids and the rebel soldiers begin to come in to help train the patchless for war. So far, though, the rebellion has not reached the brim.

Like during the Games, a large picnic scene awaits me as I step out of the lift with Garmadon, watching the projected screen that blares the news, scrolling text at the bottom a brilliant red: Citizens on high alert; Remember to Stop-Fade-Depart method when confronted with a rebel attack; Always remember, President Borg is there for you and your needs!; Report any rebel activity to a nearby Nindroid, then Stop-Fade-Depart.

"Crazy, eh?" A passing soldier asks over his soldier, holding a plate of bland rations and maneuvering his way through the crowd to his seat. The screen flashes with clips of the Games, particularly before the cameras cut out, and the scrolling words read: What really happened then? Borg refuses to answer when questioned, televised interview coming next! And it turns out that next is now, because Borg's face fills the screen as the interview begins to broadcast. Boos and jeers fill the lobby and some people throw food at Borg's image until an angry voice crackles over the intercom.

"Oi! Service'll be cleaning those walls later, ungrateful Singles!" This quiets down the soldiers and they sit back to watch the newsfeed.

"So, President Borg," begins a young interviewer, hands folded on her lap politely, "Could you tell us about what happened in the Games? The very last part we saw before the cameras cut out?"

Borg's face is a mask of calm and forced happiness, making him look waxy and wan. "Of course!" He says cheerily, smiling at the interviewer, and she simpers. "Unfortunately, the few citizens who were aroused used their admittedly feeble might to take out a power grid. This triggered a malfunction in the forcefield surrounding the Arena, and the air inside the forcefield became superheated, destroying anything inside." The interviewer's hands fly to her face in shock, and I am also surprised. Borg lied to the citizens, of course, but he admitted that he was at fault, at least partially, for the Arena's destruction.

"And the tributes?" Whispers the woman, and Borg shakes his head grimly, then takes the moment of silence to face the camera, squaring his shoulders proudly.

"In memory of these fine young men and women, and in memory of all who have been killed or injured as a result of the rebellious people in the Complex, I would like to give my personal and solemn word that I will put a stop to these lawbreakers' actions. No more innocents will die under my watch. They will be eradicated!"

"Aw, I'd like to see you try," A smooth voice drawls, followed by many more voices shouting, until the interviewer's reply is drowned out.

"More Nindroids are being produced every day." Borg says firmly, and then a short commercial-like sequence is shown which depicts the Stop Fade Depart action.

"Whenever you're ready," Garmadon says, and I follow him out of the lobby and we ride the lift back to our quarters, not speaking until we arrive at our rooms.

"Well, see you later," He remarks quietly, and I nod and close the door to my room, watching the TV stream the same interview and wonder again how to change the channel before I walk out of the privacy of my quarters and back to the lobby again, sitting on the corner of the bed and watching the news until the lights click off.

Borg, slimy as always. Not physically, I mean. You get the idea.

Okay, so I actually picked up writing this again (finally) but we're still on schedule - relatively. I'll try to keep the updates on Fridays again.

One writer to another (or reader) it would mean a lot to me if you review. I'm totally in the dark of what you think of the new story, so it would be awesome if you reviewed! Thanks so so much!

I guess that's all for now. Until next time!