DESTINY INSIDE

Confusion, cold. The arms and legs moved weakly, found that they were bound . . . hard metal cuffs attached to the chair. The subject’s eyes fluttered opened. The room was dark, only a small bit of light from above. The eyes wandered, then settled on the small figure sitting in the chair across.

“Do you know me?” the figure asked.

The subject groaned. Wrists rattled against the restraints. Mask . . . his mask had just been reattached. He must have passed out.

“Sorry to rush. Can you hear me?” the figure prompted.

“How . . .” his voice said groggily, “How did I get here? I was in the forest. The Koro—”

The figure etched something on a small tablet. “That’s good. Your memory seems fine. What’s the last thing you remember?”

“Last thing . . .” the subject’s tone wandered. “Uh, the trees were on fire. The smoke . . . I fell and . . . the Stone.” The eyes snapped wide, awake. “Where is my Stone?!” He lurched forward in the chair, found another metal brace against his neck. “What . . . ? Why have you restrained me like this?”

His eyes began to rove around the space. The only light came from the large crystal hanging above, pitch black beyond. The figure sat just at the edge of the light, a few bio away.

“The Stone’s safe. Don’t worry. Right now, I need you to stay calm. It’ll go better that way.”

“Calm?! I can’t . . . Who are you? Why am I here? Let me go.”

“I need to ask some questions first, if you feel up to it.”

“Questions? What questions?”

“Are you feeling recovered? Losing one’s mask is always disorienting.”

“I’m . . . I’m fine.”

“Good, then are you up to answering questions?”

“Release me, and I’ll answer.”

“I’m sorry, no, but afterward.”

“Afterward, you’ll let me go?”

“Once I have what I need, yes.”

A short silence.

“Alright. What questions?”

“Thank you.” More scribbling on the tablet. “Now first, I need to know what the Turaga told you. Back in the Koro, after the second bioquake, remember?”

“After the bioquake . . .”

“That’s right. The Turaga called you to her hut, spoke to you. What did she say?”

“I don’t . . . I’m not supposed to . . .”

“You can tell me. I think I know already, but I have to be sure.”

“You’ll let me go?”

“Yes.”

A long pause. The subject looked around nervously. Then:

“Alright . . . alright fine.” The neck relaxed, arms and legs went limp. “She told me that I . . . I was destined. She gave me the Stone, said it would be needed soon.”

“And those were her exact words? Destined? Vaita Sa? You’re sure she didn’t use Vaita Wa?”

“No . . . no, it was Sa. Why—”

“You’re absolutely sure? Absolutely?” The figure leaned forward, eyes glinting.

“Yes, I . . . I swear!”

The figure leaned back, nodding, checked off something on the tablet.

“Thank you. Alright, next question: Tell me what happened on the day of the eruption, four days after the second bioquake. She took you to the Suva, right?”

“How do you—”

“The Suva?”

“The Suva, yes. We went to the Suva, and she took the Stone and did something, something inside the Suva. I couldn’t see, but . . . but it didn’t work.”

“Yes, and?”

“I don’t know . . . It didn’t work, somehow. The Suva, I mean. She said it was . . . damaged, I think? Or disabled.”

“Right, good . . . and then? The eruption had started in full by then?”

“Yes, the ground was shaking, and she gave me back the Stone and told me to run. Then she . . . she ran toward the chasm, and the lava, said she would try to stop it . . .”

The figure stood abruptly, and the metal legs of the chair shrieked on the stone floor. He flinched.

“Excellent.” The figure turned and stepped away into the dark.

“Wait!” he called. “Do you know what happened? The Koro—”

“Oh, the village is buried by now, I’d think,” the voice carried from somewhere in the dark, off to the right.

“N-no . . .”

“I’m sure the Turaga did her best, got everyone out. They’ll rebuild. What really matters is that you survived.”

“Me?”

No answer.

“Alright, last question.” The voice was off to the left now.

“Please, I don’t—”

“Focus. This might be a hard one. A bit more subjective.”

“I’ll . . . I’ll try . . .”

“What does it feel like, to be destined? Try to describe it for me.”

“W-what?”

“The Turaga identified you as one of the destined ones, the Vaita Sa. You know what that means, don’t you?”

“I have no idea.”

“Ah . . . right. I guess that’s expected. I forget sometimes that most live in ignorance.”

“I’m sorry. I want to help.”

“I appreciate that. Then try to describe it, please. How were you different from the other Matoran of the Koro? They say a seasoned Turaga used to be able to pick Matoran like you out of a crowd, but it’s harder now. What is it that makes you . . . special?”

“I’m not special,” he replied. “That’s just what the Turaga said—”

“No, wrong.” The voice was closer. There were noises in the dark, a series of clicks, something dragging. “You are special. You were identified by the Turaga, given the stone. You’ve got it, whatever it is.”

“I don’t understand. We all have a destiny to fulfill, don’t we?”

“That’s how most understand it, but it’s not really true. Let’s just say . . . not all destinies are equal.” There was exertion in the voice, more dragging sounds. Something thudded to the ground, now further off to the right. “Some are better than others.”

“What are you doing?”

“Will you answer my question? How does it feel?”

“It doesn’t feel like anything. There, I answered. You said that was your last question, right?”

“Hm . . . Well, I suppose it’s unconscious, probably not accessible to conscious perception . . .”

“What are you talking about?!” he shouted.

“Oh? I’m sorry, just talking to myself.”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Hah! What a question.” The figure reappeared at the edge of the light, back turned, now hauling some kind of segmented tube.

Click. The tube was plugged into another tube running along the ground, trailing up to the base of the chair. There was a sound of machinery powering up across the chamber.

“What a question . . .” the figure continued, back still turned, “By my account, everything is wrong with me.”

A series of lights blinked on in the darkness, and the crystal glowed a little brighter above. He could see more tubes or wires hanging down, from the ceiling, all around. The figure straightened, dusted off its hands.

“I think that’ll do it.”

Something shifted on the chair. The chair itself was a machine, he realized, and a clamp or vice, hard and metallic, affixed itself to the back of his head, behind his mask. He shuddered and began to struggle, couldn’t turn his head.

“Hey, what is this?!” he said, voice shaking. “Y-you said you’d let me go!”

“Calm, calm,” the figure replied, walking out of his line of sight. He couldn’t turn his head. ”I meant what I said. Once I have what I need, I’ll let you go.”

“I answered your questions!”

“I’m afraid I need more than just answers to questions.”

He yelled at the top of his lungs. He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t done it before, but it seemed appropriate now. He yelled and screamed for help, thrashing against his bonds. His voice echoed around the chamber, and when his lungs were empty, he sucked in another breath, and—

Something clicked into a slot in the back of his head, and his voice cut off horribly. Air rasped out of his mouth, but he could only manage a hoarse whisper now.

“All done?” the voice said, very near now, right behind him.

He closed his mouth, fighting back terror.

“Yes,” he whispered after a moment. Another click, and he felt his voicebox reengage.

“Thank you. Let’s have no more outbursts. Anyways, I owe you some explanation, I suppose. Where to even begin . . .”

Feet shuffled on the stone floor, back and forth, back and forth. He still couldn’t see what was happening.

“Well, my friend,” the voice continued, “you may be destined, but I am not, and that’s a fact. Straight from the Turaga’s mouth, as they say. When I first found out, I was angry. It ate at me, knowing that destiny was out there in the world but out of my reach. What a capricious thing, is our Great Spirit . . .”

There were clattering noises nearby, metal noises, the sound of tools being laid out. He dared not speak.

“It’s taken a long time,” the voice continued, “but I’ve worked hard to understand, and now my work is starting to pay off.”

“I still don’t understand.”

“I’m terrible at explaining, sorry. The mechanics are so complicated. It’s not just a Stone and a Suva, you know? There are so many other things to take into account. Part of it is the Power. There has to be Power, but that alone isn’t what makes a Matoran like you special. There’s something deeper, something in the foundations, in the mind itself. Hard to explain, but at least I know what I’m looking for now.”

“Looking for . . . w-what?”

“Destiny.” The voice was almost breathless. “It’s not just some metaphysical property, like the Turaga make it out to be. It’s inside you. Actually inside, I mean. Inside here.” He felt a tap on the top of his head, behind his mask. “Or maybe here . . .” Fingers slid along the underside of his skull, near his neck.”

No response.

“I’m sorry to ramble. It’s just . . . I never have anyone to talk to except myself anymore. Talking helps me get my thoughts in order, especially before a procedure like this. Alright, let me walk you through a few things.”

Still no response. The eyes were darting around.

“Um, let’s see . . . There will be a lot of pain at the start—the opening stage is definitely the worst—but after that, once the glabellar plates are fully protracted and braced, deeper irruption won’t register to your pain receptors in the same way. Oh, and don’t worry. You won’t remember any of this afterward. I’ll make sure. I’m very good with engrammatic surgery by now. That will help with trauma.”

Thrashing now. The restraints held fast.

“I understand how you feel, but you need to be brave. That’s what it means to be destined, doesn’t it? Destined to be a hero, and heroes are brave. I need you to prove it to me, alright?”

More thrashing. The subject wasn’t listening anymore. The voice sighed, and all at once, the owner of the voice stepped around the chair, fully into the line of view.

It was a Matoran, just like him. The subject stopped struggling, frozen. He could not even summon the will to cry out.

There was no mask, but a glowing tube ran from the Matoran’s mouth-fixture, off into the dark. The face was . . . the face was open. Right down the middle, between the eyes, open and stretched apart, and the plates that made up the top of the skull were splayed. There were wires running in and out of the gap, and a glint of glowing crystal within.

“By k-kaja,” his voice finally kicked in, “what happened to you?”

The Matoran cocked its head. Maybe it smiled, though this was inscrutable on the splayed-opened face.

“Destiny,” the Matoran replied. “Like I said, some are worse than others.” The Matoran reached out and patted his hand. “That’s good. That’s better.”

Then, the Matoran stepped back around the chair, out of sight.

“I want you to know that we are doing something unprecedented,” the voice continued. “If all goes well, today will be the first recorded transplantation of its kind.”

The subject stared ahead, mouth agape.

“Okay, I’m going to put in the screws now, to keep you still.”

Screws into metal, before he could even react. Sharp, leaping pain. No escape. A high-pitched sound followed, a whining, drilling sound. It approached from behind.

His lungs emptied out in a voiceless scream, voicebox already deactivated. He sucked air back in, to start another round, to cry and to beg . . . but then he stopped.

“Are you ready?” the voice asked.

His hands balled up into fists, pushing back against the pain. His eyes fixed straight ahead. His jaw set.

“Do it then,” he whispered. “If this is destiny, then you can have it.”

“Ah . . .” the voice replied with something like reverence, almost unheard above the awful whine of tools.

“. . . There it is.”

This work can also be found on the author's tumblr, see here.