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[The pain flashes. A twist of the space, the light, and a disformed figure drops down from the webs with frightening speed, snapping gnarled fingers onto the Matoran's skull, hoisting him up off the ground as he yelps.

Familiar enough, and yet not - twisted painfully, stalking like some great cat against the ground.

With incredible violence, the Matoran is tossed aside past rock and web, rolling to an unresponsive stop against the ground. And the voice that rolls out falls heavy on unnatural breath and predatory rumbling under every syllable, slipping right back into cover.

Hunting.]

Picking up the pieces.

You must be joking.

[It's almost incredulous. So incredibly bitter. Animosity building, amplified.]

If you understood as much as you claim, you'd know there is nothing left. It is the kind of "hero" we are, after all. You and I.

The ones who will always find ourselves separate. The ones who destroy all we touch.

[--who have you been TALKING to, Vakama, who's put these thoughts into your head--

A breath rolls out, a rolling growl. Ignoring the voices. Uncaring.]

What use is there in fighting it?

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