I do not own bionicles

A series of drabbles on Kopaka

"Thank you, Toa Kopaka. Thank you for saving my life…"

The words fade away, the familiar phrases becoming jumbled and twisted. Mismatched eyes watch the Le-Matoran's mouth move, uncomprehending. He stares, waiting till the Matoran is silent before giving his usual nod of acknowledgment and leaving.

All lies, all lies. They thank me for no reason. They do not understand that this is a job, a duty, nothing more.

The ground of Le-Koro is unpleasantly soft, squishy. The raw earth clings to his feet, it'll take hours to get it all off. Despite the blinding white of his armor, the Toa of Ice is a shadow, unseen, unnoticed. Kopaka sighs, looking up at the sheer cliff that leads to his home. It will be another hour before he reaches it, and another hour yet before he can finally stand on ice again.

Curse this warmth.

He feels like he is melting, like his soul is leaking from the frozen shell that protects it. In Ko-Koro everything is clean, pristine, perfect. But down in Lewa's jungle the world is a riot of color, texture, noise.

I hate it.

The depth and richness of Lewa's world is nothing but lies. Lies that try to convince the unsuspecting that their lives truly matter. His life doesn't matter anymore than the lives of the Matoran. Just tools, just pieces in the grand game of chess that Mata Nui and Makuta are playing.


Home, Kopaka's home is nothing more than a simple, sparse room, furnished by a bed and a table. The table displays three items, a sharpening stone, a cleaning cloth, and a container of polish.

Gali often complains that he needs more personal affects, more trinkets and knick-knacks.


He is tired from the mission, he must sleep. Later he has to attend a meeting with his siblings.


Tahu and Gali are yelling. Again. Arguing over some obscure point that has no meaning. Their words are like daggers, stabbing into his temples, making his head ache. Kopaka says nothing, this topic does not include him, he has no right to say anything.

This is pointless. This is pointless. THIS IS POINTLESS.


Silence, the eyes of his siblings watching him curiously.

For some reason, he is standing up, chair pushed away, his fist resting in a large dent marring the steel surface of table. The rapid beats of his heart pound in his ears, so loud he swears that his siblings can hear.

Did I just say that…?

And…he runs.

The halls are a blur, as his feet barely touch the ground before taking off again. A few unlucky Ga-Matoran are run over in his haste to return to his icy citadel.

It's too hot here. Too much life.

The air seems heavy, suffocating. The sheer amount of living, feeling, creatures is crushing him. Kopaka can feel their emotions, their cares, and he can't handle it. He runs and runs and runs, runs until he is in his room, safe.

The floor rises to meet him, cool, unfeeling, comforting. A soft mewl escapes him, the only sound that has escaped his lips since he started running. Here, in the nearly lifeless expanse of his home, he feels relief from the ungodly pressure of living things.

This is his haven.