The Ascendancy of Velika

A little backstory for the new body I designed for Velika post-2010, as shown in this thread right here. Nothing spectacular, I just wanted to get this out there. (Takes place not long after Established Canon.)

So the remnants of the Order of Mata Nui had survived, Velika noted. No matter. There would be other chances.

For the moment, then, his greatest concern was himself. In attacking, he had shown his hand-- if not his body. And if his actions could be traced back to him, then he was no match for the inhabitants of the Matoran Universe.

Part of him wondered who would possibly suspect Velika, wise Velika, skilful Velika, of attempting to blow up half a dozen of the most powerful beings on Spherus Magna. But another part, a much bigger part, a part that had lived through millennia in this nothing of a body, knew full well it was dangerous to underestimate his foes.

After all, he had other means of concealing himself, and with his Inika-cursed brother free and bringing everything he touched to life, the Order would have more immediate concerns anyway.

This bought him time to act. Time to prepare.

Spherus Magna was at once familiar and unfamiliar to him, but luck was on his side and a few familiar landmarks had already been found. Nobody questioned why he was heading out into the wilds of Bota Magna alone, probably thanks to all the centuries he’d spent carefully cultivating the image of an eccentric; everyone around him, the others from the old Voya Nui Resistance, had just assumed he had his reasons.

He passed unseen by Toa or Glatorian, or anyone else, into a great cavern, its entrance marked two ancient stone pillars-- pillars that, a lifetime ago, he had carved-- and made his way down into the depths of Spherus Magna. A few of the local creatures eyed him as he passed, and he allowed a little of his true self to slip out for the first time since the murders of Karzanhi and Tren Krom, a seeping, threatening aura that drove everything around him back into the shadows.

Before long he reached a bare rock wall and stood in front of it, practically glowing with anticipation. He reached out with his true self and walked through several feet of solid rock-- and into his old workshop.

At last the time for restraint was over, and he let his true self wash over his diminutive form. It was time for a new body-- one worthy of his glory. If he was to reshape the planet, after all, he would need more than just the Power Carvers Karzanhi had seen fit to arm him with.

The half-finished projects of a lifetime ago were strewn about at random and his tools had piled up in the corners of the room: no doubt the Reformation’s quakes had reached even this deep.

No matter. None of this mattered any more-- he just needed materials.

Velika’s Matoran body slumped to the ground and the room around him began to glow a bright, blinding orange. He reached out at random, grabbing every scrap of metal, every half-finished project, every tool he could find. He began to shape them into something he could use-- a new form to inhabit, at least until he had the time for something permanent. Velika picked up the Matoran form from the ground, the one he had taken his name from, the one that had served him so well over untold centuries, and held it a moment in his light. Yes, he decided, there was still a place for it.

Before long the orange light retreated back across the now-desolate workshop and into the body Velika had created to aid his ascendancy: some still spilled out where the armour did not cover, but he did not care enough to fix it-- after all, this body was only temporary. He stood up, relishing his new height, and stretched all three of his arms–

No, all five; the limbs of his Matoran form were scattered across his back, but they still worked. He stretched his legs next, first his new ones and then the vestigial ones of his old self.

Velika turned back to the bare stone wall he had entered his workshop through. Spherus Magna was whole once more, but its people were not. If he was to prevent history from repeating itself, prevent the peoples of his world from fracturing it once more, it would have to become just that: his world. Only in his grasp would it truly be safe.