Chapter 12 - Truth and Lies

PRIDAK - TARGET MAIN

In less than a day, Target Main had gone from a smoldering ruin to the new home of whichever Brotherhood members were able to hike across the island. Those who had were surprised to find it both utterly in ruins, devoid of any life. Unquestioningly, they set about rebuilding walls and roofs, turning the wreckage of the small town into an additional space for the survivors of the great journey.

Within a week, Target Main and Base Camp had become the two major strongholds of the Brotherhood, with a well-traveled path between the two. Under the instruction of a Po-Matoran, who had been expertly juggling a number of projects at once, the two were becoming livable spaces - if perhaps extremely crowded and damp ones. Target Main, still mauled and destroyed by shipboard artillery, was recovering thanks to the limitless application of Po-Skakdi materials, island-sourced palm wood, and Steltian labor. Its docks were massively expanded, as the more grievously-injured of the Brotherhood's ships began to line up one-by-one, waiting for repair. In the dark of the night, Target Main was lit up with a spectacle of nearly a thousand workers cutting, welding, and riveting. A large building had been emptied out entirely, and a rudimentary forge had replaced its rubble-filled interior, belching thick clouds of smoke into the rain-filled sky day and night. The ruins of the town had become somewhat of a home for the shipwrights and the workers of the Brotherhood.

Conversely, Base Camp had become a population center. Craftsmen, merchants, and managers of various sorts spent their days attempting to rebuild their former lives. The luckier or more important beings were granted shelters of wood and thatch, and enjoyed a life comparable to that of villagers in the Southern Islands. The less-fortunate were forced to make do with tents and hovels. The hillsides leading into the island's center had become massive expanses of crops, as entire swathes of forest were cleared. Scores of workers patrolled the fields, planting seeds in hopes of a successful harvest in the distant future, while farmers worried relentlessly about the ever-present rain and clouds and the survival probability of their produce. Nonetheless, with each passing day, the still-unnamed and unknown island that the Brotherhood found itself gathered upon found civilization covering it like a blanket.

This was excellent news for Pridak, who was relying on the rebuilding of society to enact his plans. In the first days back on solid land, he and his underlings had traded a great deal of smuggled goods from the hold of the Good Intent, which had made them enough money to secure them bed and board in one of the workhouses of Target Main. However, their funds were quickly running dry, and Pridak was looking to enable the next step of his master plan.

"I need four beings!" came the call from the far side of the gate. Various beings all pushed against each other, looking for work, calling and pleading for the foreman of the ship repair yards to accept them. In the wake of the disaster that was the Great Journey, and the realization that the Brotherhood had arrived far from Metru Nui (let alone far from a functional mint), the value of the widget had fallen to a depressing low. With only the currency that remained in each being's pockets, wages were slim, and forced to be spread out over nearly a million out-of-work beings.

Pridak, however, had enough money in his purse that he was able to bribe the foreman. A slight grease of the palm, and the next morning, when the foreman chose beings to join the repair yard, Pridak was assuredly one of the four selected.

Stepping through the gates, Pridak made his way down the pier, while a manager distributed equipment to him and the three other workers. Wordlessly, he was passed his helmet and harness; hammer and torch. Glancing down at them, Pridak nearly faltered at the sight of them in his hands.

How ironic, he thought. I escape my bonds only to return to manual labor. He considered the fact that for most of his life, he had been a divine instrument, appointed by Mata Nui himself to rule part of the universe. The only tools he had ever held were mastercrafted blades, which he was more than proficient with. It was not in his nature to live the life of a craftsman. The first time he had held a hammer, it left his hands bruised and callous - which was nothing compared to the state of his whipped back.

Now was not the time to be high-strung and elitist, however. He would have to earn his keep if he wanted his plans to succeed. Continuing along the dock, Pridak made his way to his appointed ship - the Robust Foe. A large gash in its side, just above the water level, had forced it to take repairs, and already workers had managed to reconstruct large portions of the hull. He could see a patchwork of plates which were slowly filling the gap, while temporary barricades crowned the edges of the shorn floor panels.

"Your foreman aboard the Robust Foe will be quartermaster Roh, a Gawalai. He will be overseeing every move you make. Do not even think about being light-fingered - he will notice. Do not question your orders, and do not talk back. Understood?" hollered the manager that Pridak and the other workers followed. Each nodded affirmatively. Again, Pridak ruminated on the irony that he had once delivered the same sort of speeches.

Making their way up the gangplank, Pridak took careful stock of the ship's interior. Each hallway he passed through, he observed the vessel's craftsmanship, as well as its layout. He considered the space very carefully, mapping the environment in his head. Whenever possible, he poked his head through an open door before internally noting what lay beyond. As he stepped into the hallway where the hull had breached, and sunlight glared into his eyes, he took quick note of a sign on the far end of the corridor - Officer's Cabins. He smirked, before kneeling by the edge of the breach, and joining a Matoran in riveting floor panels back into place.

He had found exactly what he was looking for.

AARON TRENCH - HAWAII

Aaron Trench idly scrolled through his Twitter feed, hoping for something interesting to strike his interest. He was in his mid-twenties at the time, wearing a burgundy graphic tee advertising a fictional beer from his favorite game, and with an unruly patch of uncombed hair on the top of his head. He was returning from the grocery store - which, for him, was a more formal way of saying that he was returning from the CVS Pharmacy a block away, which conveniently stocked top ramen, cereal, milk, peanut butter, and white bread: all of the essentials to survive. His groceries remained safely tucked in a bag under one arm, while the other clutched to a phone with a cracked screen. His feed was utterly devoid of noteworthy topics - the only thing managing to catch his eye being some fandom drama between Galidor first and second-generation fans - which elicited a dramatic sigh from him as he tucked the device into his pocket. A warm, tropical breeze rushed through the street, and he squinted at the brightness of the sunlight.

A moment later, he arrived at the door to his apartment, which he unlocked, and entered. Shutting it behind him, he found himself in a far darker and mustier location - one that matched his present mood identically. The past two months had been little more than an extremely long chain of misery and boredom for Aaron.

It had been difficult enough making the necessary money to move to Hawaii for a year, but he had remained steadfastly convinced that he and his co-authors, Brandon and Maxwell, could work together to complete their dissertation on meteorological patterns in the Pacific region.

Three months later, Brandon would find himself engaged - to Maxwell's mother. The resulting fallout had been almost nuclear in nature, and left both of them at irreconcilable odds with each other. As a result, Aaron had been left alone to finish the study himself, which was an insurmountable and nigh-impossible task. This did not stop his attempt, as he needed to complete the paper in order to achieve his PHD. As a result, he was in a state of limbo - unable to admit the failure of the project, and unable to finish it either. As it stood, he was merely waiting down the days before his grant money ran out, and he would be forced to return home.

Setting aside his groceries, Aaron tucked himself into his computer desk, and gave an idle click. His computer screen lit up, still showing the weather radar that he kept on at all times, eating at his computer's RAM. Aaron had managed to find time in his daily routine to check the data from his sensors, and compare it to satellite data. It was one of the few opportunities that he had on a day-to-day basis to actually utilize the skills he had learned from his university classes.

This time, however, as he glanced at the data, something strange had caught his eye. Being the most prominent meteorological event of the season, he had of course kept a watchful eye on Hurricane Guillermo. He had even been stocking up appropriately on canned goods, in case his town got flooded as the storm continued Northwest.

Except it hadn't.

Aaron's brow furrowed in confusion, as he scrolled through the satellite data's timeline. Sure enough, the hurricane had been moving with a consistent speed and direction that would have placed it in French Polynesia by now. Instead, the hurricane had done a complete roundabout in one day, and remained stationary, cycling idly above the Solomon Islands, for three whole days. It was disorienting, and more than that - it was impossible. Aaron had never seen anything like it before, nor heard of anything similar in his classes.

Grabbing his phone, he sent a text to Maxwell.

"You been watching Guillermo lately?"

A minute later, a buzz announced a reply.

"No, why?"

Aaron's fingers flew across the touchscreen.

"It stopped."

"What, like, dissipated?" Maxwell replied.

"No like stopped in place."

"Worm?"

"Yeah."

"That's weird."

"No theories about that or anything?"

"IDK dude you were the weather guy, text me with questions about ocean currents."

"Alright whatever," Aaron replied, ending the conversation, before grabbing his glasses and shoving them onto his face. The images of Guillermo transfixed him. He squinted as he watched the spiraled arms of the storm. He paused the timelapsed feed, and rewound it. Setting it to its slowest setting, he played it again.

Sure enough, Guillermo remained stationary - so stationary, in fact, that it did not spin. Aaron's eyes widened in further confusion, as he clutched his head in his palms.

"What?!" he yelled, to nobody in particular. He could not believe what he was looking at. Hurricanes rely on spin - it is the process by which they are generated. For one to stop spinning but maintain its shape and position is a fundamental disturbance in the nature of everything he understood about meteorology.

Three hours later, Aaron was still staring at the screen. Although he had texted all of his friends who were either interested or capable of providing insight, not one of them had a comment or theory to share. By the end of it all, he was still as puzzled as he was before.

It was then that he received a text from his cousin, Lisa.

"Yo, what's up," she had asked.

Like Aaron, Lisa lived in Hawaii, though her decision was not informed by any meteorological study, but rather wealthy parents and a love of beaches, mixer parties, and sun. To their knowledge, she was a straight-A student in the University of Hawaii, with an internship at a news broadcasting company. In reality, she was a middling C-grade student who had lost the internship after showing up to work hungover one too many times. As a result, the two had found a quiet solace in their shared misery and misfortune as they rotted on the sunbaked sands of Hawaii.

However, Aaron was in no mood for commiseration or pity - Lisa's timely text could not have been more inspiring to him if she had not given him the idea herself.

"Does your dad still let you borrow his yacht?" he asked, as quickly as he could.

He watched the three dots bounce at the bottom of the screen, indicating a response. What felt like a lifetime later, his phone buzzed in his hand.

"Yea, why?"

"Are you busy this week and next week," he shot back.

"Not really, spring break is in like three days, but Tristan is throwing an absolute rager on Sunday that I cannot miss, so, if you need me for something, it'll have to wait."

Aaron sucked air through his teeth - he needed her help for this.

"You still wanna be a proper journalist?" he asked, plying into the very dream that had brought her to the island.

"Yeah, what's up?"

Aaron breathed deeply, and began to type a long-winded explanation.

ANTROZ - THE PACIFIC OCEAN

Antroz had spent a week and a half on a bloody and brutal conquest of any islands he could find. Routine and highly-sensitive messages by Vamprah had identified the location of the largest enemy population centers in the region, which he had performed a routine sweep of. To his supreme disappointment, each one was both an utterly banal military conquest - with the most well-equipped island having some small arms with which to defend itself, but none featuring a standing army or militia.

This all changed, of course, with the presence of a sizable enemy fleet which had arrived in the past twenty four hours. Luckily, the fleet had acquitted itself most presentably during the combat, dispatching the enemy with minimal losses. Although most of the enemy ships had fled in a panic, badly-damaged (or worse) he was able to carry two, which he towed behind the larger of his ships. The crews of these ships - or at least, the survivors - were kept alive, and remained aboard their vessels as captives, confined to their quarters by the Aquamarine Guard. Fortunately, he had encountered no riots or escape attempts yet.

It was the ninth day of his destructive rampage, before Antroz was called to the bridge. Walking onto the command deck, the crew snapped salutes, before returning to their stations. Although Antroz knew he could keep the crew at attention for much longer if he so wished, he had never particularly enjoyed flexing his command, and preferred to keep the crew at their stations rather than kneeling before him.

"Priority hail from the Indomitable, sir!" called the communications officer. Antroz cocked a brow. Icarax's ship? What could he want?

A wave of paranoia suddenly shot through Antroz as a cold feeling gripped him. Did Vamprah or Krika let slip - no, surely they wouldn't have. Did he find out on his own?

"Connect us," he said, putting on a calm and stoic demeanor. Within an instant, he felt his mind bridge with Icarax's, many mios away.

"My lord," said Antroz, deferring to his leader.

"Antroz. Make orders for your fleet to return immediately, and return to my ship at once. Understood?"

"Of course, my lord," Antroz said, hiding a growing panic.

The mind-bridge ended as quickly as it began, and Antroz tapped his fingers together, trying to steady his nerves.

"Captain, signal the rest of the fleet; we're going back."

"Back?"

"Yes, we'll be rejoining the rest of the Brotherhood."

"Aye, sir."

A cloud of dark smoke grew around Antroz as he stretched out his teleportation powers. He had never enjoyed teleporting, considering flight a far more enjoyable and liberating experience.

In a second, the bridge of the Change of Heart disappeared, and was replaced by the corridor outside the observation dome of the Indomitable. Emerging from the cloud of black and green smoke, Antroz looked around, hoping that his summons were not isolated, and that Icarax had instead been looking for each of the Makuta. Unfortunately, he was alone in the corridor.

Holding his chin high, Antroz strode towards the door to the observation dome and pushed it aside, entering with confidence. Inside, he could see the dome had been repaired in the previous days, with metal sheets patching the shattered glass. Rain continued to batter the windows, making small pinpricks of water that streamed down the walls, casting streaks of aquatic light and shadow across the room. At the center, a large table housed a hex-column projection of the island, and marked the position of each ship. At its far end stood Icarax, with his back turned, examining his claws. A Ce-Toa carrying a stained bag of some sort perched next to him. On the side facing the door, Antroz could see his five siblings, each kneeling. A Rahkshi stood behind each one, with a staff resting against the nape of their necks.

Antroz immediately felt a hand grasp at him as a Rahkshi grabbed ahold of his arm. Silently, he let the lesser creature lead him beside his siblings, as he knelt to the floor. He could feel the sensation of cold metal against his spine as the sixth Rahkshi thrust their staff against his neck.

"Ah. Antroz. You've arrived," said Icarax, coldly. Antroz looked up to see Icarax turning to face the group.

"My lord, I do not -" Antroz began, before the Rahkshi behind him shrieked, silencing him.

"One of you has lied to me," said Icarax. "One of you who suspected that their treachery would not be discovered."

One, Antroz noted internally. So he doesn't know.

Icarax snapped his fingers, and the Ce-Toa approached the table. Each Makuta looked up, watching the Toa. Upturning the bag, the Toa let something silvery spill out onto the table, which flopped against the hexagonal columns. Antroz looked with confusion - it seemed like a fish of some sort. Realization dawned on him, however, as the Toa lifted the rahi into the air, and drove her fingers into it, pulling out a chunk of it. Blood and guts spilled from the wound. It was made of meat, like the beings he had encountered on the islands.

"I was not informed of this," Icarax continued, before stalking towards the table, and pressing a finger into the pool of blood. "This is not something of our universe. I had initially taken the presence of this strange island as simply a sign of some strange new reality that we found ourselves in. Alien geography I could forgive. But creatures of flesh and blood…"

Icarax stepped towards the kneeling Makuta, each of whom turned their gaze downwards.

"I was not the first to discover these. Krika - you lead the slave corps, and their acquisition of food. Chirox you would naturally be inclined to study the local wildlife. Vamprah, you are the chief of my intelligence network."

With each Makuta's name, Icarax stepped past them, trailing his blood soaked hand across their Kanohi. Icarax stopped before Antroz.

"But only one of you has suddenly turned and ran, taking their fleet with them as far as they could, while refusing to inform me of the status of their battles."

"My lord, I -"

"Silence!" Icarax shouted, striking Antroz across the face. The red-armored Makuta flinched in pain. "Your disloyalty has marred the reflection of our Brotherhood. It is a lie - a lie by omission - but a lie nonetheless. You have disgraced and shamed us. You have left me unaware of the state of my empire, and were it not for the honor and distinction you bring to the command of your fleet, I would have you killed immediately for your discretion."

Antroz felt his gaze harden against Icarax - indeed, he had kept secrets from his master. But he had brought no dishonor to the Brotherhood, he had instead acted in its interest, learning about the world and its denizens.

"Thus, I will not have you killed. But believe me, Antroz, I can still find ways to hurt you; a great many unpleasant ways."

The two shared a moment of silence, as Antroz looked up into Icarax's eyes.

"Were any of your siblings made aware of the nature of this universe?" Icarax asked, quietly. Silent as a tomb, Antroz shook his head in the negative.

Icarax stared, watching Antroz's reaction, before he drew an item from his hip. An arc torch, made to cut through metal.

"Put him down," Icarax said as the Rahkshi shoved Antroz to the ground. He felt his Jutlin strike against the metal floor as Icarax knelt beside him. With a click, Antroz heard the torch activate. A jet of plasma burst from it, and Antroz could feel the air heat up.

The torch descended towards Antroz's cheek.

"I ask again: when you found out, did you tell any of the other Makuta?"

"No," Antroz replied, trying to remain as still as possible. The torch was rapidly approaching him.

"Did you tell any of the Makuta?"

"No!" Antroz replied again, desperation growing in his tone. He could feel the flame licking at the edge of his mask.

"Did you tell any of them?!"

"No!" Antroz shouted.

"No?"

"No! I told none of them!"

"None of them?"

"I told none of them! I swear it!"

Antroz winced in pain as the plasma finally touched his mask. The searing heat was unlike any he had felt before. Suddenly, with a loud clang, the torch fell against the floor, lifeless. Icarax reached a hand down, grabbing Antroz by the face, and lifting him back to a kneeling position.

"You are either a very good liar, or you are being honest for once. I expect that we will not need to have this conversation again."

Antroz could feel the residue of fish blood against his mask as Icarax gripped it. Then, gravity took hold as Icarax threw him to the floor. Antroz fell upon his elbows, not meeting his master's eyes.

"You will turn over your fleet to Bitil. He will take charge for the foreseeable future. Do not even think of quick-healing that mark. Let it sting. You all are dismissed."

Icarax stormed towards his throne, as the Rahkshi all lowered their staves in unison. The Makuta all sheepishly stood upright, before shuffling out of the room as quickly as possible. Antroz rubbed his smoldering cheek in pain before joining his siblings in the hall.

Stepping into the corridor, Antroz pushed towards Vamprah and Krika, who failed to meet his gaze. Antroz grabbed Vamprah's throat, and leaned in closely, until the two were a hair's width away from each other.

"You had me believe Icarax would not find out, brother."

"I was wrong," replied Vamprah, through a psionic whisper.

"I trusted your judgment. I will not make that mistake again. The next time I hold your lives in my hand," said Antroz, gesturing towards Vamprah and Krika, "pray that I am in a more forgiving mood."

Antroz pushed Vamprah away, before storming off. Krika reached out a hand to stop him, but Antroz simply shouldered his way past the white-armored Makuta. He had had more than enough interaction with his siblings for the time being, and was eager to get far away from them.