One Hundred Ways

King's Court B

Tue, 15 May 2007 10:17:38 GMT

Title: King's Court and Murder (Part B)
Fandom: N/A
Summary: Life in Harbourfront ain't ever easy, but that's the way what the Gods painted it.

!!!

King’s Court and Murder

Part B

FOURTH

The city was booming: every man knew it.

New commodities had been found further inland - spices, minerals, things that inland tribes knew how to find and city folk didn’t. Much of it was traded and shipped to other places in the world; much of it brought new-comers clamouring for work. Ten or more years earlier, that wouldn’t have been a problem.

But since the fall of the Mitsuke Clan, the rift between ‘foreigners’ and ‘true-bloods’ was all the wider.

In turn, that made life harder, for everyone.

When they came sweeping off of ships in droves, there was almost always a welcoming party of locals. The message was a clear one, even if a common language wasn’t shared - ‘Foreigners’ weren’t welcome. To enforce it, some hurled words whilst others hurled stones, every attack made with the intent to send the dogs back to their land, back to where they came from, so that a local didn’t have to fight for his job.

There were some who were’t much for the idea, but for many it was great sport to watch.

There came a morning when a young woman found herself a nice little seat atop a stack of crates, one that put her a little above most folk’s head height. The advantage was small, but as any girl of Harbourfront would, she took full use of it; sharp-trained eyes scanning the streams of newcomers as they spilt out from the piers.

From a distance, they always looked the same. It wasn’t just their dark skin - it was the gawking look that came from seeing Hell up close. Most came in families, which weren’t any good - predators wanted the ones on their own, who wouldn’t have anyone to watch their back.

A practised eye could spot ‘em a mile away.

That was the lookout’s job. Her job.

The immigrants began to disperse and she looked closer, searching for the ones who cut through the crowd a lot smoother than those with others to be worrying about. One in particular caught her eye, the cautious looks over his shoulder a hint towards the possibility of valuable cargo.

A smirk formed across delicate features, body leaning in a tilt towards the man in charge of them all, nodding in the unfortunate’s direction. “That ‘un, he’s got something.”

No answer came of it. Looking down, she saw why.

The ’Baron had his eyes set on another prey, that only his own eyes could see.

He was the only man in Harbourfront who made a point of watching every ship come to port; rare was the day when he missed it. Even rarer was to see the man without his support-network in sight, composed by street-urchins and ratbags; young adults and older ones too.

The ’Baron was boss of all People, except the Count’s lot.

They were a long way from a Brotherhood, but they were a Gang, united by a specific interest in the poor little lambs who came off those ships. They were the People’s bread-and-butter, at their own expense.

It wasn’t long before he looked up to the young woman, wearing that grin that made him famous. “This one’s all yours,” he said in a drawl, a hand lifting to point at the target.

Curiosity bloomed as she sized up the target from a distance. Everyone in the Gang knew it was her job to be nothin’ but a lookout. Thievery was work that the men guarded jealously - they didn’t care if a woman was good at it, the docks were too rough for a lady.

The opportunity was a rare one. She didn’t hesitate and slipped to the ground, flipping a lock of soft brown hair off her shoulder.

“M’happy to oblige,” she told him, slipping past the others - none of who looked all to pleased that a lass was getting the fun of the morning.

“Looks he’s headin’ for the Station,” ‘Baron replied as she moved out from the group. “Watch yer’self now, lass. Yer’ brother’ll want ye’ back in one piece.”

“I got it, ‘Baron.”

The crowd swallowed her whole; she tracked dutifully towards the station. It wasn’t quite built yet, the People didn’t go there often - certainly not if they could help it. Underneath the building was a whole settlement, with sleeping quarters and private rooms and everything, all carved from rock. Folk didn’t know who’d done it that way.

Some said it was haunted, gave them the collywobbles. Others said it was plain disrespect - Spider himself was buried somewhere in there.

But no-one knew where ‘cause no-one knew who’d done it.

Either way, it was taboo to set foot in there.

It was no small wonder, then, that the ‘Baron had chosen this target - ‘cause true enough, he was heading for the station like no foreigner or even local ever would.

Shame he wasn’t going to get there - it was a certain lass’ job to make sure of that. He wasn’t going to get anywhere unless it was in her company.

It was a simple task to slide right up behind the target, taking in what attributes she could see from the back. He had narrow shoulders that didn’t lean themselves to great amounts of strength; his raven hair was long at the back and in need of a trim, it might’ve been glossy if not for the thick layer of grit and dust. When he lifted a hand to block the afternoon sun, she caught a glimpse of gold on his fingers and wrist - typical Desert wear.

Why Kyan targeted him was clear, now - ‘cause everyone knew that all Foreigners had money and a lamb’s eye, and it was the ones from the Desert Tribes that had gold.

The other hand held a long walking stick loosely, tapping against the ground in a rhythm with his footsteps.

Gimp.

No further encouragement was needed as she hiked up her skirts and made the move.

Sweeping past him, it was somewhere amongst the petticoats and the skirts and the shoes and the slipperiness of the ground that her foot intersected with his staff. With the rustle of clothing and a feminine yelp she lost balance, smaller form tipping into his larger one.

He caught her around the waist with one arm; almost pushing the woman away from him. She shrieked a little and staggered back to her feet, gloved hands dusting off the skirts in the haughtiest manner that she could muster.

“Sir!” she began, wiping hair out of her eyes to give him a glare. “Are you completely incapable of controlling your steps?” It was her only chance to get a good look at him; tawny eyes set to work.

The sight... was not impressive.

He had a fine layer of stubble that men attributed after not shaving for a week; a great dirt smudge ran the length of one cheek. Bright green eyes were barely visible under an overhang of fringe - she didn‘t notice the way they took in her small frame. Other than his hand, none of that Desert Gold was visible anywhere.

Inwardly she recoiled - this was ‘Baron’s target? - whilst outwardly, she bristled at his lack of response. “Are we not inclined to talk, or were you robbed of your tongue?” With a huff, she turned alongside him, extending an arm. “I demand you escort me to the Fifth Lily, sir!”

It was usually at this point that her target, so flustered by the onslaught of an angry Mercer, would take her arm and obediently go wherever she directed - right into whatever trap ‘Baron had laid.

This man, however... when he smirked at her instead, she felt a spark of real indignance. What did he have to be so smug about?

“Another time,” he replied - and vanished into the crowd.

An astounded Chloe stood there for a long moment, unsure as to how, exactly, that had gone so wrong. ‘Baron wouldn’t be pleased that she hadn’t the chance to lead him like a fly to the web, but those were the breaks.

“Well,” she told herself, a hand slipping into her pocket. A gold bracelet lay at the bottom; grooves could be felt as she ran her thumb over it. “At least I got something for the effort.”

By the time the victim realised his precious jewellery was gone, it would have well and truly slipped out of his reach, and into the ‘Baron’s hands.

Such was Harbourfront.

FIFTH

I’m right inclined to be shaking my head as I walk from the girl, continuing on the route I’d planned on before being set upon. She’d been right pretty, there was no denying that - but me and my instincts are well acquainted, and they said she was trouble.

Comin’ fresh off a ship from upriver, I’m not keen to be partakin’ in nothing of the sort. I grew up in these parts; I know the way things work and most importantly - I ain’t the lost little newcomer that they’re gonna’ take me for being.

‘Course, it would be takin’ time for that to be established: until such a point as I ain’t a target no more, it’ll be nothing short of plain irritance to continue having my pockets pilfered.

I’m one whose heart is swayed by the fancy tricks - there’s no good tellin’ a thief they’re caught in the act: all they’ll do is run. You gotta’ turn the tables on ‘em, make ‘em reconsider going after you ‘gain.

It’s for that very cause that I take to tailin’ the lass of earlier.

Folk are easiest to follow when they ain’t used to immediate threat; ones who know the tracking game’ll do everything in their power to shake you. They’ll zig-zag and backtrack, duck into groups n’slip away again, all to trick the eye and the senses.

Worked in my favour that she wasn’t the sort: her path was clear-cut through the milling people; made it easy as paint to follow her. I kept at it a while, stayin’ a safe distance from the lass as she worked her way through streets and down alleys.

When I made my move, it was in a place that it didn’t matter if she chose to scream. Three turns off the main drag and the buildings was tall and the alley was narrow. If there was a fight, it wouldn’t be big ‘cause there wouldn’t be room.

Bein’ bigger than her, the advantage was valuable.

Impressions had to be made quick, though, so I caught at her arm and pulled her ‘round. “Hey.”

The woman didn’t so much as look at me ‘afore that hand came swinging - my staff was handy in deflecting it. It woulda’ stung and her yelp told me so, but I couldn’t find it to be caring of the matter.

“You took somethin’ of mine,” I told her, in a low growl.

She was nursin’ her hand and giving me a right fierce glare, recognisin’ the threat more than me behind it. “I haven’t got anything of yours,” she tells me, using that indignant voice that a woman knows well.

“Ain’t nothin’ but a lie,” I retorted. My fingers close tighter on her arm; it tweaks the so-called delicate feminine temper and she tries flyin’ at me. S’not a smart move - ‘cause instinct takes over and I’ve got her pressed face-first to the alley wall.

There’s a growl at the back of her throat and she’s fightin’ it; mighty strong for a girl, at that. “Let go of me, swine!”

She kicks back; I dodge and keep the hold. “Not the answer I want, lass.” It’s a professional tone I use; one that says I’m here to collect. It came in damn handy in the Tribe what took me in as a kid; it hadn’t been thought that it might be of the same value in a place like this.

“You’re going to regret this,” she tells me angrily.

“I’m doubtin’ that a great deal,” is my answer. “Hand it over, or I slit y’throat and take it that way.”

I’d never kill a girl, but she ain’t needing to know that.

“That’s enough, ‘lad.”

It’s a new voice and at that moment, an unfamiliar one. It’s got my attention ‘afore I realise; lookin’ to the source the identity clicks. It‘s the eyes, mostly - they‘re as blue as the sky an’ piercing. He could be half his size or twice the age he were, but them eyes made him unmistakeable.

“... You must be the ‘Baron,” I retort, words chosen careful.

He’s older, but he’s the same man I remember as a kid. It remains to be seen if I’m worth recognising or not.

He grins, but it’s not at me - it’s at the girl, who I’ve let go of. “Did a good job, Chloe.”

She’s pleased with that; I snort and tell her in my best growl, “I’m wantin’ my bracelet back.”

“Ain’t yours no more,” she tells me smugly. “S’Baron’s.”

“Bullshit -”

“S’alright, ‘Lass. You can give it back.”

She’s as surprised as I am - what thief gives back what he stole?

She - ‘Chloe’, I ‘spose is the proper name - pulls a face but obediently begins digging for it. Her hand emerges holding not just my bracelet, but a half-dozen others. It’s in sulky words that she says, “I don’t know which one’s yours.”

I don’t hesitate in taking what’s mine, the heavy piece slipping back into the pocket where it rightfully belongs. I take a step back, choosing to ignore the woma - Chloe, looking to the ‘Baron instead. I make the message as simple as I’m able.

“Don’t steal from me again.”

He seems humoured by the demand, arms folding as he laughs lightly. “That’s not your call to make, lad,” he says confidently.

I ain’t fond of being laughed at. Still, this was ‘Baron I had the misfortune to be dealing with - if I was gonna’ get far, losin’ face weren’t no option here.

This is only a hurdle, I’m inclined to remind myself. If my plan has any hope of working, I’m not going to let a senile fool get in the way of it.

So I grace his answer with a snort, throwing him a contemptuous look ‘afore turning away. “Next time, I kill ‘em,” I toss back at him, and make my exit.

Damned thieves. So much for slipping into the city with little to be noticed by.

---&

Chloe watched him go with a scowl, biting out a quiet mutter of ‘swine’ at his retreating form. Then with her hands at the waist and head high, she strode back towards ‘Baron - just incase he looked back.

By the time she reached the Thief, her earlier target disappeared from the alley. Kyan was watching the youth’s exit path with a thoughtful look: glancing at him, Chloe was struck by a notion that this was what he’d expected.

“’Baron?”

“Y’did a good job, lass. He’s the type to earn a ripe handful of questions from a curious mind, though.”

“He’s an ass, what’s to know?”

He laughed at that, broad hand clapping her shoulder. “Firstly,” Kyan told her, steering them back the way Chloe had walked to begin with. “A man like that’d be too valuable a warrior for Them to be letting go of lightly.”

“Maybe he’s here to trade.”

“Mayhap, lass. I’m thinking we’re just going to have to keep an eye on him, in case he gets himself into trouble.”

“Asses like that are good at finding it,” she agreed.

“So is the Count,” the ‘Baron said, a certain gleam in his eyes at Chloe’s avid dislike of the newcomer. Sure enough there was a plan forming in that mind of his, though not the kind that was for sharing.

Chloe looked to him sharply: the rivalry between the ‘Baron and the Count was legendary, to hear one speak of the other so... casually was a rare thing. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“S’nothin’, Lass. But I’m willing to reckon that he’s gonna’ be on the Count’s books ‘afore too long.”

---&

M’back on route towards the Station when interruption finds me a second time - in the form of a lad younger n’me. He were runnin’ like there was devils on his heels, but held a grin what weren’t made from fear. The path he cuts through the crowd is ‘nough to get my attention well ‘afore he’s near - and when he’s in sight, all I got time to see is the two-toned eyes. Then his lil’ frame is slamming into mine, arms grabbing me ‘round the waist tight.

For most, it were the sort of thing to be taking offence at.

Kid’s lucky I knew ‘im.

M’knocked off balance for a twice-time that day, only this ‘un’s a benefit more than anything’ else. I catch my feet and even laugh a little, hand clappin’ him on his back affectionate-like.

“’Lo, street-rat,” I tell him, lookin’ about for that sister of his.

“Addy!” the boy’s half my height and has to look a long way up to give a grin, but he does it anyway. “Ma said you’d be in town this week.”

“You been lookin’ for me, eh?”

“Yup!” He unwrapped ‘imself and grabbed me sleeve instead, putting his weight into a strong tug - I knew without figuring too hard that he was gonna’ be as strong as his own pa’. “C’mon, they’ll be wantin’ to see!”

He gives another tug but m’looking the other way, seekin’ out the tall steeple of the almost finished Station. It stands out as the tallest building for a good few streets, calling me ‘tward it; calling me inside it.

I ain’t got interest, right then, to be seein’ the family what adopted me - I been interrupted once already, and all m’wantin’ to do is to be seeing what’s left of my pa’s Brotherhood.

Thing is, the more I look ‘round at other folks on the street, I see all kinds of Gang colours - a green stripe on a shirt, a yellow scarf, a half-dozen others what pass us every few seconds. Too many of ‘em ain’t familiar. Absently, my free hand’s in my pocket, holdin’ the bracelet loosely ‘tween a few fingers.

Victory lies in knowing the limitations of your battlefield and having the patience to manipulate them.

Words of a wise warrior, carved into the ceremonial piece usin’ a language what most folk not of the Desert call ‘dead’. As a fighter for my clan, it were something I knew well.

I’d never thought them words would be the kind of thing to be applying at a time like this ‘un, but it looked to be that I was wrong. If I was gonna’ get what I wanted outta’ bein’ in Harbourfront, I was goin’ to need a mite of research ‘aforehand.

So I give the youngin’ a nod, painting on a smile he ain’t likely to notice is a falsehood. “’Aight. Let’s go see ‘em, yeah?”

He didn’t need any more encouragement n’that, an’ with me giving in to his pull, we was off like rabbits through the crowds.

It weren’t till a whole lot later that I found we was watched by them same green eyes what haunted my dreams.

SIXTH

The Fifth Lily was the kind of tavern that held a legendary reputation well outside of Harbourfront‘s range. A man could drink himself literally blind while watching dogfights between the best canines on that side of the continent. Local legends were abundant in song; the music that played until dawn was rarely heard elsewhere in the city.

It was closed to the People when the sun was in the sky, but never for the Count’s brood; largely because he owned half the establishment, despite not owning half the deed. In Harbourfront, Leonardo Raiden was a man to whom everyone owed something - and everyone paid their debts, whether materially or symbolically.

He was frequently seen at the head of a table close to the roaring fireplace, ruling his throne whilst playing cards or cutting deals; always flanked by a black-haired woman and a red-headed man.

If you wanted to get to the Count, you had to get through his defences first.

Even messengers had to be vetted before they were allowed to pass on what they were sent to deliver, no matter the time of day or the occasion.

It was treatment which Chloe was used to; she stood patiently whilst Kilara - Leo’s female guard - examined the folded letter. ‘Baron’s authentication seal held it closed, embossed in green wax flecked with gold. The handwriting, though a rare exhibition on the Baron’s part, had an educated spin to it that made it distinct.

The woman turned it over in her hands a final time, then nodded. “You can go,” she told Chloe, voice raised above the din of the Lily. She took a step back, waving a dismissive hand as she added, “You can assure the ‘Baron his message is delivered.”

A little surprised - she had expected to give it to him directly, especially given the rarity of the situation - Chloe looked to the Count’s table. The giant of a man was paying more attention to his cards than to the two women at his left, aptly ignoring the building nightlife at the same time. Taking the hint that she wasn’t needed, the young thief bowed her head graciously. “Ma’am,” she said politely - you never crossed Lion’s guards - she made her exit.

That job completed, Chloe wandered towards the other end of the tavern, where things were a mite quieter, albeit fractionally. It was ‘happy hour’ and the establishment was ready to lift the roof clean off with the rowdy folk who filled it. They were strewn over the tables and draped against walls, many in the company of local whores or chosen ladies. A bard and his musicians wove their way through, singing a well known folksong that only served to heighten the atmosphere.

It was purely local, very familiar, and highly tempting. But after a long, hard day of working the street’s pockets, Chloe was ready to get out of there. The streets would not be as quiet and a whole lot more dangerous, but Miss Mercer hoped that her reputation as being one of ‘Baron’s lot would keep her safe on the journey home.

It seemed that one of the men at the bar had another idea, lurching out of his seat to sling an arm around her trim waist. At Chloe’s yelp he chuckled, pulling her in close and inhaling the oft absent smell of a woman. The other arm joined its companion in slotting across the small of her back, fingers grabbing her skirt and hiking it by a little; but enough to be suggestive. “You look like a fun lil’ lass,” he drawled.

Chloe had frozen; it was the man’s attempt to kiss her that kicked the woman back into motion. She recoiled and threw out a slap, clipping him on the jaw - to which he only chuckled again. “Fiesty too, eh?”

“Let go, swine!” Gods, what was it about today? First that Desert animal that had caught her lifting his pockets, then the ‘Baron’s errand, and now this?

“Naw, don’t be tha’way,” he persisted, preventing the next slap by catching her wrist. He kept hold of it and pushed her hand low, past his belt. “Les’have fun, yeah?”

“Mm… I think she said ‘let go‘?”

The words were low and a little dry, blended by an accent that was rooted in Harbourfront talk, but some years out of date.

Chloe was the first to realise that they weren’t from the pig holding her - she looked up in startlement, just as her captor did.

He was taller than both of them, clean-shaven and neatly groomed. Bright green eyes gleamed out from a tanned complexion, white teeth visible through a wry smirk. By all accounts, he was quite attractive to the average lady. A gold earring occupied one earlobe to enhance the exotic look; the hand which then tapped the drunkard’s shoulder flashed in the Tavern’s light - a thin bracelet and two rings were the source. Both were also gold.

Oh - oh, it was that Foreigner. Letting out a sound of disgust, Chloe lifted her knee - hard.

As if she was letting that guy save her.

She could take care of herself: she intended to make sure that this man from the Desert knew it, especially after the incident in the alley.

The man holding her let out a choking noise as pain flashed upwards, arms instinctively letting go of her to cradle something a great deal more precious to him. Freed, Chloe threw a smirk to the two of them and put her back to them with a swish of the hips. “This ain’t none of your concern,” she told the taller one.

A chuckle was her reply. Angered, she failed to notice that it had stopped abruptly as she whirled, hands to her waist and tawny eyes flashing.

It all came to a screeching halt when she found herself to be looking down the barrel of a pistol - and it wasn’t the Desert guy’s.

It was her predator, red-faced and insulted by her method of refusal. “You ain’t nothin’ but a woman; you don’t got rights to be refusin’ me,” he snarled out. Without waiting for a response, he lowered the gun and shot straight at her stomach - see if the whore would be any use to a man if she couldn’t have children.

Chloe wasn’t fast enough to get out of the way: it was only on a God’s good graces that she felt herself pulled instead. With a stumble, she ended up face-first into the Foreigner’s shirt-covered torso. She heard the sound of wood hitting flesh (maybe bone), closely followed by the thunk of a body hitting the floor.

A tawny eye peered out, barely realising whom she clung to. The drunkard was flat on his back on the floor of the Lily, eyes rolled back into his head and completely weapon-free.

The pistol was now in the other man’s hand. He held it loosely, a distasteful look painted on his features as he eyed the weapon.

Chloe remembered dimly that most Desertfolk were distrustful of guns, so it didn’t surprise her at first. The notion changed, however, when she found herself pushed away a little; the gun pressed into her shaking hand.

“Don’t trust drunks with pistols,” he told her, forcing eye contact.

It was all the young thief could do to nod dazedly, fingers closing over the weapon. She noticed for the first time that the tavern was completely silent - and everyone was watching them.

Even the Count.

She whirled to say something defensive, but ran out of luck - the Foreigner had taken advantage of her inattention and made his exit, slinking between the confused populous until he was out of sight.

Stunned - by, well, everything - Chloe dropped the gun to the table and broke into a half run in his wake.

By the time she followed his trail outside, the Lily was roaring back to life.

---&

The air’s cold and biting with the promise of ice or snow when I break free of the Fifth Lily’s confines, matching the thoughts runnin’ in my head.

The - Chloe would have been fine, I know that. Causing a spectacle didn’t work as a benefit, not when I was looking to be unnoticed in my research ventures.

Artemis was dead-centre right, though - the streets was different. When I were a kid and me and my brother snuck in places like that, folk like ‘Leopard were always on the prowl, disarming fools and keeping everyone on their best behaviours.

Seemed the Count found his cards to be of a more interesting venture.

Well, ‘til a pistol goes off.

Fair to say he musta’ at least noticed when the calamities came knocking.

My thoughts are interrupted something fierce, all a’sudden - ‘cause I know that I’m not alone. Something’s not too far behind: being in the mood I was, it almost came as a blessing.

I stop and turn at the same time, fingers realigning on my staff. M’ready for a fight - funnily enough, the source is right there in front of me.

It’s her, what’s more.

“You want somethin’?” I ask, watching her carefully. Never know what a woman’s gonna’ do.

“I…” she looks lost for a moment, but then her chin lifts defiant-like, a haughty air takin’ over. “Didn’t need your help, thankyou.”

“Tell that to a surgeon,” I retort, lettin’ go of my staff a fraction. There weren’t a guarantee she was alone - ‘specially after last time. “If you were still ‘live by the time one made contact with you.”

To this, Chloe scoffs - it’s a cute sound, though her words ain’t. “You seem to be under the impression, sir, that if not for you, I would’ve been shot. Well, then -”

“You tellin’ me that ain’t the case?” I ask, a mite surprised.

“I told you, I didn’t need your help.”

“If not mine, then whose, eh?” I’m inclined to be a mite insulted at this attitude of hers. “A priest’s, to bury you proper?”

She stalks forward, ire painted in every motion. “I ain’t raised in these parts, but I ain’t some defenceless woman, I’ll have you know!”

Ah, not born local. S’the sort of thing what goes a long way to figuring a person.

“Well, I can’t say I’ve seen anythin’ to that,” I tell her, adding a snort. “You already had your ass saved twice.”

She’s closer and ready to throw one of them girly hits. Rather than retaliate - not much fond of hittin’ women - I draw myself up, looking down with a glare. It’s a dare to keep on going.

Damned woman tries to hit me anyway.

Catchin’ her hand is easy enough, it works as a good anchor when I tug her right up close. “You need t’learn throwin’ punches,” I tell her. This close, I can feel a slight tremble in her arm, feel her breath on my neck. Them tawny eyes are watching me with the same ire as ‘afore, but the longer I hold, the more subdued she’s getting.

“Is that so,” she huffs. That kind of response takes effort, so she’s got spunk.

“Need t’learn to pick yer’ fights, too,” I add - smugly.

“Don’t need to, to put you back in y’place, foreigner,” she snaps.

Foreigner. Job-stealer. Corrupted blood. Lowlife. Uncultured. Uncivilised. To be feared. To be fought. To be hated.

I don’t much fancy being called that. ‘Temi was right, though - moods on the street were uncommon hostile.

“Foreigner?” I repeat, pushing the words out slowly. The temptations were strong like somethin’ fiercer than her temper, then, to tell the woman just how many different ways she were wrong about it.

“Mhm. Tell me, do all your lot act so chauvinistic ‘bout us ladies, or just the ones who are assholes like you?”

A lesser man woulda’ hit her for saying so - but I weren’t brought up to that. All the women I was brought up near were of ‘Leopard’s or Seiko’s sort - messing with them got you skinned proper.

‘Sides, she were pretty.

I let her go, adding in a good push fer’ the sake of distance. “You’re welcome,” I snapped out. Save a woman from trouble, n’all they do is get you right back into it.

Figured.

“I’m not grateful!” I heard her cry - but I wasn’t inclined to be caring. I was walkin’ away, pushing past other folk what dotted the streets. It was getting darker by the minute, I had a half-hope to be losin’ her in the evening air. With my back to her and the Lily, I rounded a corner - but not ‘afore an indignant huff caught my ears.

Knew without bein’ told that she were following.

“Just who do you think you are?” she demands, steps clipping along behind me.

I gave her no answer - mayhap she’d tire of the charade ‘afore I got back to ‘Temi’s.

Another corner.

Another remark.

“You know who I work for! You’ll hang from th’gallows if I get my way!”

Women.

I keep right on ignoring her.

“Getting involved with other fights, chasin’ thieves, taking back what’s not yours anymore… you ain’t going to last a week in this city, foreigner.”

Now I’m shakin’ my head. Another corner… surely she’ll give up soon.

“You can walk as long as you like, but I’m going to keep right on followin’ you ‘til you learn to not mess with business that ain’t yours.”

I’m at my tether’s end - I turn to face her, steps shifting so that I’m walking still, albeit backwards. To Miss Chloe, I snap out, “My name is Adelphos, I don’t care who you work for, I look after my own affairs, and it ain’t my fault that he were gonna’ shoot you.

“Now, please. Go away.”

I turn back ‘round and march around the corner - straight into someone twice my size.

M’backing up right quick, staff up defensive - words what come from the giant are lost on me. He’s laughin’, though. A hand lands on me shoulder, trying to push me someplace. I shrug it off instinctive-like; take another step back.

I look up, and there’s those eyes - the Count’s green eyes. They’re not the narrowed, murderous ones that haunt my dreams - but it’s them, m’sure.

Which means I’m lookin’ at the Count himself.

Now it’s in me to do something, to speak or run or fight, but my body ain’t of the co-operative state.

“Took a good walk around the block, kid,” Lion says cheerfully, manoeuvring us easy-like towards a brightly lit door. “But let’s get a look at you in the light, eh? I’m sure there’s folk wantin’ to know how a… non-local like yourself would know old rules like ‘un.”

‘Afore I know it, the insides of the Fifth Lily are there to greet me for a second time. As a half-thought I look over my shoulder, spying for Chloe, but she ain’t there. Turning back I’m greeted by the Count’s careful inspection - them eyes are examining me like they’re seeing inside.

“Well,” he says at last, straightening. The grin matches his voice. “If it ain’t lil’Adelphos. Always knew you’d come back.”

My tongue’s fair swallowed.

END PART B.

Sun, 12 Nov 2006 09:20:16 GMT

Title: Beyblades: One Hundred Words
Fandom: Beyblades.
Summary: Many in the fan fiction world have heard of Fanfic100. It’s an LJ community that provides you with a prompt table. You pick a fandom and use those one hundred prompt words to do one hundred drabbles. In this instance, each drabble is exactly one hundred words each.

01. Beginnings.

The storybooks never told the whole tale.

They never said how the path to being the World Champion began with two, not one.

They never said how out of the two Kinomiya brothers, it was the first born son who left to become the best in the world.

They never said how it was the younger’s admiration for this dream which lead him on his own journey, one that inevitably stole the dream of World’s Best from he who had claimed it first.

In the end it was a good thing. Hiro was not suited for such a burdened title.

02. Middles.

He’s in the middle of the van’s back seat. It’s been fifteen minutes into what will be a long journey and already, he’s severely regretting the decision to sit there.

Max’s music is too loud. Maybe it’s to drown out Dizzi, who’s talked since they pulled out of the driveway. Tyson is already asleep. When they turn a corner, Kai finds himself to be Tyson’s new pillow. It’s uncomfortable. The snoring is too loud. Sometimes he mumbles incoherent words.

He wishes it was Rei on his shoulder instead. Rei’s a lot softer, a lot warmer - and he doesn’t snore.

03. Ends.

Loss is not a bittersweet flavour. It’s sour and it clings to his insides, it slid down his throat to male a hole in his stomach. He’s been defeated. It’s unfair because it reminds him that he’s just an amateur. It’s fair because it keeps him humble, reminds him that he still has a long path to walk.

He cannot afford to lose again. His opponent is faced with a stern expression that doesn’t match Dranzer’s warm glow in his hand.

On the inside, he’s smiling. It’s not the end until he gives up. He’s not giving up, not ever.

04. Insides.

Beyblades look the same to a lot of people.

To him, each is as unique as his own fingerprints. They’re intricate pieces of machinery; with insides made of plastic and metal that can be lethal when handed the right way. He could pick any Blade from a field of competition and tell you the life story behind it.

They speak to him and tell him everything. He doesn’t even have to ask, he just knows.

It’s Kenny’s gift, some say. A knack, a piece of genius.

He doesn’t know what to call it. But he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

05. Outsides.

Max knows that people don’t always match their insides to their outsides. He knows many of them personally - he‘s one too. They don’t realise, but he does. Part of the problem is that people know that as one of the BladeBreakers, he’s “good enough” to keep company with the best. They don’t take him seriously.

That’s why he needs this. In this tournament, he can’t afford to tag team and be labelled as “backup” again.

It’s time for a team of his own.

Because he is one of the best - his outsides just don’t show it, not yet.

06. Hours.

Driger is tired and so is he. Together they’ve been out here for half a day or more, under the hot summer sun: his clothes are soaked with sweat.

He tries to ignore the hair slicked to the back of his neck; tries to focus on navigating Driger through a tight maze of old drink cans. One wobbles and threatens to fall. Again and again; it’s inadequate. He grits his teeth, recalls the Beyblade.

Rei knows that the longer they’re out here, the worse his accuracy is going to get.

But if hours is what precision takes, so be it.

07. Days.

“Hey - Tyson - that’s mine!”

“Not anymore!”

There’s a yelp.

“Now it’s mine!”

“Get him!”

He’s opened the door to what looks like the Fourth Circle of Hell.

With a cackle, someone goes flying across the room and lands on top of someone else. It quickly evolves into a wrestling match that involves everyone in the room.

With the hope no-one is going to rope him into that chaos, Kai closes the door immediately. He chooses to flee down the hall, using quick strides.

He’s almost positive that their stay at the hotel has just shortened by several days.

08. Weeks.

It’s summer and he knows already that the weeks are going to slip by way too fast. There’s so much to do in the name of doing nothing, like attempting to do his homework and instead trying to stack pencils on his nose.

It’s a sure bet, though, that he ends up sprawled on his back somewhere. It’s usually against a grassy hill in the park, where the ground is warm and the sun overhead is serenaded by crickets. There’s no work here, just himself.

Because to Tyson, the weeks of summer are just perfect for doing nothing at all.

09. Months

He’s been planning this for months. Now he’s walking down the long street to the family home and it’s hard to keep his thoughts straight. The hour is late, so he keeps walking.

He sneaks into the back garden of his grandfather’s home silently.

He slips to the back corner of the yard. He kneels there, ties back his hair. He pulls out his mask.

Slipping it on, he hides the bag away carefully. As quietly as he arrived, he’s over the fence and gone again.

Jin of the Gale has work to do first; then he can say hello.

10. Years.

Ruined!

Years of work, down the drain because of one stupid, stubborn child!

An angry swipe of his hand sends a paperweight flying into the wall. Being some artsy thing of shale, it smashes violently.

A rush of light-headedness tells him to slow down. He tips backwards into his chair, still angry. He’s lost his team of child prodigies and moreover, Black Dranzer. The most powerful BitBeast ever, stolen from him.

It’s ruined and it’s not fair.

His glower shifts to a smirk. It’s not over, though. Not yet. They won’t be free of him, not for years to come.

Sun, 12 Nov 2006 09:13:25 GMT

Title: Switchblade, 04 of 10.
Fandom: Beyblades (G-Revolution)
Summary: The Beyblading world loses its reigning champion. In the years that follow, friends drift apart without Tyson to hold them together, whilst others form new dreams. But life must go on - and that's when Kai notices his grandfather is up to something very suspicious. AU/KxR/PG-15

!!!

Switchblade Beta: Zero-Four.

!!!

“Kenny?” The voice reverberated across aluminium and tiled surfaces alike. Several glass instruments reflecting a flicker of motion as a young man slipped past them, each movement watched carefully by bright blue eyes. He was carefully navigating his way through a part of the laboratory he didn’t often venture to; trying desperately to avoid breaking anything. A few test-tubes wobbled threateningly when he passed, as if to say, One more hair, buddy.

The white lab coat that he wore was typical of employees within his profession, though his youth wasn’t so much so. Still, with the family credentials he had, and his bottomless reliability, the Chairman had been hard-pressed to find anyone better suited for the job.

Or for that matter, anyone who wouldn’t drive Kenny mad by interfering with his work.

At the end of the narrow path, a fellow scientist when bolting past, a box of tools in one hand and half a dozen gadgets in the other.

He stopped, unable to hide the rueful grin at the sight of his friend.

“Kenny - there you are! We’re going to be late.”

“Hang on!” was Kenny’s answer. He deposited his cargo on a small workbench, adding to six different piles of… well, most people called it ‘clutter.’” He picked up a Beyblade and one of the tools, fixing a flaw that only his eyes could see. “Just a little bit… more… there!” Apparently satisfied, the Beyblade was subject to a quick examination before being slipped into a lab coat pocket.

“You’re done?” the first scientist asked, a grin highlighting his good natured approach to the situation.

“Yeah. I hope that Hiro likes the modifications. The calibrations weren’t easy -” Even as he spoke there wasn’t a break in movement, the six piles of clutter being swooped together to convert to one large mass. Like the test-tubes, it now also threatened to give in to gravity.

Max eyed it warily. He could half-hear Kenny’s words, catching the occasional phrase such as ‘launch thrust’ and ‘revolutionary balancing system,’ but didn’t pay it much attention. Over the years, his friend had developed a certain habit of constantly being on the move; a characteristic which seemed to drive many people nuts. Max didn’t mind it, not so much - he knew where it came from; knew the psychological root.

And frankly, he hadn’t seen any of them cope any better.

“I know, Chief. You can tell me on the way,” he said finally, turning to retreat from this ever-busy world which so clearly didn‘t belong to him. Kenny took the hint, checking he had his reports on the Beyblade in his pocket before following dutifully.

Together, one blonde and one brunette made for the door.

!!!

At the same moment one BBA scientist located another, a young woman stood in the doorway of the BBA Chairman’s office, one hand on the doorknob and the other fiddling absently with a pen.

“Sir?” She was a pretty young thing with a pretty voice to match, glasses that accentuated doe-like eyes and stocking-covered legs which disappeared into high-heels to hide dainty feet.

It was nothing he hadn’t seen before, though, which was part of the reason that the Chairman didn’t turn to look at her. He was far too busy staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows which dominated his office, observing the thousands of people down on the ground. They moved like a great snake towards the BBA Stadium, spectators and competitors alike: just as they had for eight years now, and would for many more to come.

The woman - his secretary - wasn’t sure if he’d heard her, at first. She was still new to the job, though she’d been warned by her predecessor of the Chairman’s moody days.

He was awfully young, they said, to have such a high up position. Out of sympathy, they said, because there was no other reason that Mr. Dickinson would have given it to him. He was moody, they said, because he hated being there.

“How many days left?” he said finally, turning away from the window. Smooth steps carried him across the office towards the desk, where he sunk into the oversized chair like a hand to an ill-fitting glove.

When they said he was too young, they weren’t wrong.

How many days left? It wasn‘t a question she‘d been asked before; her hesitation in answering told him that much.

“Sir?”

“In the contract,” he replied, collecting the nearest pile of papers and flicking through it idly. Apparently, her confusion didn’t bother him a great deal; she was still new, he had to remember that.

The secretary was wracking her brain for the answer, calling to mind any contracts she‘d heard mentioned recently. A certain three-year agreement came to mind, accompanied by relief that she knew the answer.

“… Fifty-three, sir.”

Fifty-three? He tried not to appear too pleased with the news.

“Thank you. Now, what did you want?”

“The Ceremony starts in ten minutes, sir.”

“So it does. Alright, thank you.” He straightened his tie and grimaced at the reflection on his computer’s screen. Fifty-three days, he told himself. You‘ll be out of here in less than two months. This is the last Tournament you have to open. Be strong, Hiro. “I’ll be back in half an hour.”

!!!

I’m standing at the top of the main boulevard to the Champion’s Stadium. There’s a steady crowd of people in all directions; competitors and spectators alike are mingling on the streets and in restaurants. I half wonder if the stadium will fit them all.

Still, it doesn’t really matter to me. I’m here for the Ceremony regardless - and unlike many, I’m guaranteed a seat.

Being VIP does, admittedly, have perks.

I re-shoulder the small backpack I’ve been carrying, and start to walk. Within the crowd I blend easily; I’ve been travelling too much for the media to get hold of me. They won’t expect me to be here; it works immediately to my advantage. With a half hour until I need to be indoors, there’s plenty of time to stroll casually along the street, to peer every now and again at different stores and their merchandise.

But as I walk, something about this particular BBA venue starts to bother me. Every year since Mr. Dickinson retired, the tournament has been started in the same place.

And it seems that, no matter how many weeks or months or seasons or even years pass (how many has it been, really?) it always looks the same. Even the trees look like they did last time, the boulevard has the same paving and there are still as many different types of people as the eye can be laid on.

I guess it’s true to say that in the world of BBA tournaments; of rules and regulations and championships, the greatest upsets happened inside the Beydish. Everything else is remarkably pedestrian and unchanging.

I’m carried to the main entrance by the same leisurely pace that’s carried me down the street and across the city. Unsurprisingly, there’s no line to get in. The lack of people is a benefit: I give the marshals a nod and flip of ID (a further perk of being associated with Very Important Names) and slip on through without an ounce of difficulty in doing so.

It doesn’t come as a surprise to find that the layout hasn’t varied much and the halls are as immaculately clean as ever.

Nothing here has truly changed - I could have been a competitor again, leading my team down to their private room. A team of the best fighters I can find, ready to conquer the tournament and take the number one spot in the Beyblading world…

It’s the sort of fantasized thought which leads me to lose track of time - before I realise it, I’m standing outside the door to the VIP box.

I can’t help the sigh that escapes me, nor the slight shake of my head as I reach for the doorknob. Foolish thoughts, made of memories that are no good to me these days. My hand is just short of grasping it when something sudden and blue catches my attention. It’s in the distorted reflection of the chrome under my fingers; a reflected streak of colour against the stark white of the halls.

There’s no denying my eyes that it’s there… but what is it?

I look over my shoulder, slowly. Most likely, it’s an attendant who’s gotten lost… or maybe it’s some kind of room service. Hell, it could be Hiro for all I know - the man has blue hair, doesn’t he?

The figure in question comes into my line of sight and all three thoughts are proven horribly wrong. It’s not Hiro, it’s not catering, and it’s definitely not a lost official.

It’s Kai.

Holy shit.

Immediately, my eyes squeeze shut. There’s no way that’ s him; Kai is in Russia… not that any of us really know for sure, but that’s where he said he was going, when he turned retiree on us. It’s been years, so why would Kai be here? At this event, most of all?

I’m clearly dreaming.

Opening first one eye, then the other, it doesn’t work. He’s still there, arms folded loosely and gaze locked with mine. A quirk to the corner of his mouth hints at bemusement.

“Hello, Rei,” he says simply.

It takes every working iota of my mind to concoct the proper answer. Swallowing back any questions of disbelief, any outright exclamations, the best I can manage is a slow, half-mumbled “…Hi,” in return.

“Can we talk?”

I don’t know what’s more surprising - that Kai, the no-nonsense, infamously cold-hearted, second-best-Blader has asked permission for something, or that Kai, the no-nonsense, infamously cold-hearted, second-best-Blader is actually standing across from me.

I never, ever thought he’d come… not to the Ceremony. He hasn’t come once, not in five years.

Now he’s showed up, out of the blue, and something about that simple question makes me think that he’s not here for the occasion. A little bubble of anger wells up at the thought, even though I’m supposed to be flattered that he’s here to see me.

“What about?” I ask. It’s hard to not blurt the words out.

The little bubble is growing.

He glances down the hall first one way, then the other. It’s empty, except for us, but he’s still not satisfied. Turning, Kai gives me a look that I can’t name.

“Come on,” he tells me, “it’s easier if I show you.”

He starts walking; I don’t follow. My hand is still on the doorknob, I’m not keen on doing anything that interrupts my carefully constructed plan.

“Show me what?” I ask.

It’s only after I ask the question that Kai seems to notice I haven’t followed. He pauses only long enough to look over his shoulder at me, that bemused smile back in its place. Somehow, it suits him better than the stern look he wears more often.

“It won’t take long,” he assures me, holding up a tape. I frown lightly.

“You’ll make me late.”

“For what, sitting in a chair you don’t even like?”

I don’t have an answer to that. What he says is true, but the point of it isn’t supposed to be what I do or don’t enjoy. It’s the principle of the thing; I owe the next few hours to Tyson. Every year, they’re set apart just for him. I can’t let Kai walk all over that.

The bubble grows bigger; it’s not little anymore.

“No, Kai,” I begin, a little irritably.

He waves the tape idly. I sort of want to smack at it.

“Would I waste your time?”

The point is subtle, but a good one. Kai doesn’t bother with things that aren’t important; much less get other people involved. Logically speaking, that means that this has to be important. It’s something he wants me to know and for some reason, has chosen right now to divulge it.

I let go of the door, relenting.

“Alright, Kai… Let’s go.”

!!!

He‘s taking the lead of the two of them, navigating flawlessly through corridors that seem to be turning into a labyrinth. By the time he stops, they’re a long way from the Box - for that matter, they’re a long way from the entire competition. It’s exactly what he wants.

He stops halfway down a hallway lined by doorways, opens a door, and reveals a tiny little room furnished only with a TV and a table.

Without a pause, Kai steps forward and slides the tape into the VCR. It’s obvious that Rei is unimpressed, but he doesn‘t let it phase him. This is far too important for second thoughts. Absently, he gestures to the chairs at the table, meaning for Rei to take a seat.

The Neko-jin doesn’t move.

“You know I didn’t come here to watch a video, right?”

It occurs to Kai that he’s a lot more stubborn than when they were kids.

“Would I waste your time?” is Kai’s answer, the TV clicked on by aid of remote. A deft hand pulls one of the chairs out for Rei to sit in, the aim behind the move anything but discreet.

Taking the hint, Rei sits. Kai allows a private nod of satisfaction. Stubborn, but negotiable.

“What is it even of?”

Kai takes a seat of his own, hitting the ‘play‘. The screen flickers to life, footage from a newscast begins.

“Why don’t you just watch and see?” he asks, glancing to Rei confidently.

Rei frowns, but falls silent.

!!!

For twenty minutes, I’m treated to a strange montage of preliminary Tournament battles. They’re the kind that are designed to identify the best in given regions; a progressive scheme that weeds out most amateurs before the Tournament really starts.

For some reason, one Blader in particular keeps coming up. He looks familiar, even if I can’t place him immediately; it’s in the way he stands there, at the edge of that televised Beydish.

When I see who his Beyblade is, though, the Blader himself flies out of my mind and I‘m knocked for six. We’re all familiar with the device and the Bitbeast, we all know that ‘Boris’ is synonymous with ‘Black Dranzer’… and half a dozen other things besides. We all thought that it was under lock and key at Max’s lab, not… in use. The sheer amount of danger that’s associated is enough to make the hair on the back of my neck stand.

It goes without saying that this is what Kai wanted to show me. When the montage ends, I turn to him, but I can’t speak. The words simply aren’t coming, not until I’ve looked back at the (now blank) screen, then back to him.

“That was -” I can’t finish the sentence, but he understands anyway.

“Yep.”

“But what if -” Again, I can’t get the words out. Kai shakes his head.

“It‘s Black Dranzer, Rei. You can’t replicate a Bitbeast.”

“Then what -?”

“I don’t know.”

Kai’s gone to this much effort to show me something, then doesn’t know the answers? It’s unsettling to hear. I swallow, then manage my first coherent sentence of half an hour. “Then how can you be sure?”

“How many other black Beyblades are there?” he shoots back. Kai’s never been able to handle doubts too well; though he’s doing okay so far, I can see his patience diminishing.

“Yeah, it’s strange. But…Kai…how close have you gotten to the Blade? What if there are other black ones out there?”

Kai can‘t hide his annoyance.

“You really want to take the risk that it is Black Dranzer?”

I sigh, sitting back in my chair. My next words are spoken carefully, slowly.

“I don’t know that it’s any of our business anymore, Kai.”

I’m not looking at him, but I can feel his eyes narrow on me.

“You don’t care?” he asks.

“Of course I care,” I retort, sitting up a little. “But what can we do about it? If the Blader’s handling an illegal Beyblade, that’s for Hiro to deal with, not us.”

When Kai doesn’t say anything, I look to my old teammate cautiously. He’s looking at me differently now - somehow, it feels as though he’s disappointed.

“I thought you would have noticed,” he says finally.

“Noticed what?”

“The Blader.”

I’m speechless all over again. By the time I can talk again, Kai’s got the tape back in hand and he’s leaving. The bubble of anger pops - he‘s been gone for so long, I don‘t want him to go again, not this soon.

“I… yeah, he was kind of familiar,” I concede in an effort to get him to stay.

It’s too little, too late. Kai pauses at the door, just long enough to give me a long, hard look. Then he makes one of those little ‘hnh’ noises, and exits without another word. That feeling of disappointment remains.

I’m left sitting at that table, wondering where on earth all of this came from.

!!!

An hour after the unusual convention between Kai and Rei, Hiro Kinomiya found himself returning to the room that posed as his office, the room that lately, had felt like a prison. He supposed it was to do with the contract; the blissful end to a nightmarish job he oughtn’t have taken in the first place.

Not that getting away was going to be terribly easy, of course. He’d done too well; the officials didn’t want to let him go.

A damn shame, then, that he was leaving whether they wanted him to or not.

Shutting the door behind him the first thing the young adult did was loosen his tie, take off the suit jacket, and untuck his shirt. Tossing the jacket across an unfortunate pot-plant, Hiro looked down at his shoes. Deciding to keep them on - he had a meeting in an hour with Max and Kenny, anyway - he decided instead that a nap would be better.

Turning towards the lounge that lived along one wall of his office, the plan didn’t go far. There was someone sitting there, in the way.

Hiro didn’t even blink when he realised who it was.

“Kai?”

Rei, unusually, hadn’t turned up to the Box at the ceremony - no-one had seen him at all. When added to the fact that Kai was sitting in front of him, it made a little more sense.

“Hello, Hiro,” Kai’s greeting sounded like more of a formality than anything else.

Hiro, still standing in the middle of his office, was watching him carefully. This was all very, very odd. “What brings you here?”

“Black Dranzer’s being used.” Clearly, Kai had decided to cut to the chase - Hiro barely registered what had been said.

-- Black Dranzer?

“But it’s at Max’s lab, I saw it yesterday -”

“It’s a fake. Boris has the real one.”

Hiro lapsed into anxious thoughts, considering the situation.

“… Boris?”

“One of his Bladers, actually.” A Blader that Kai had found himself thinking over a great deal, someoneone that Rei refused to recognise.

A Blader that Kai was confident people would resent, even if they didn’t know why.

He did - he knew, or at least, was sure his assumptions weren’t wrong. The solution was one that fit perfectly, however unusual it was… the problem would be convincing others it was the answer.

“Which one?” Hiro winced inwardly when he asked this. Truth be told, he should have known already - he should have been keeping a closer eye on the Tournament.

“He‘s called Tai.”

“And he’s competing?”

“Right.”

The two men lapsed into silence, with one considering the new information and the other waiting to see what the judgement would be.

Finally, Hiro sighed lightly and turned towards his desk.

“… What aren’t you telling me?”

“What do you mean?” The defensive tone was one that came naturally.

Hiro was sorely tempted to take the bait, but he deferred by leaning against the side of his oversized chair.

“Kai… you know something else about this, don’t you?”

“Yeah. So?”

Sometimes, talking to Kai was like talking to a wall. Taking the hint that Kai wasn’t keen on giving up what else he knew, Hiro sighed lightly.

“Alright, Kai. I’ll keep an eye on him.”

“Good. You need to.”

Hiro hoped that Kai's instincts were right, with this one.

!!!

To be continued.

Sun, 12 Nov 2006 09:03:37 GMT

Title: Switchblade, 03 of 10.
Fandom: Beyblades (G-Revolution)
Summary: The Beyblading world loses its reigning champion. In the years that follow, friends drift apart without Tyson to hold them together, whilst others form new dreams. But life must go on - and that's when Kai notices his grandfather is up to something very suspicious. AU/KxR/PG-15

!!!

Switchblade Beta: Zero-Three.

!!!

Cities always looked the same when it rained - they had the same grey, drizzled atmosphere.

St. Petersburg was no different.

There were umbrellas to be seen everywhere; endless coloured shapes that hid the heads of the people who bustled along the path. Not even rain could stop the busy life of city folk. Those who weren’t in such a hurry and lacked the good fortune to be armed with such water-repelling items scurried towards the closest sheltered spot, fearful of the moment when the light rain turned to something much harder.

On the border of uncharacteristically, one Russian Blader deigned fit to do something similar; steering himself off of the main drag and to a closeted little alley where he could comfortably wait for the rain to stop before moving on.

The great Kai Hiwatari, he grumbled to himself as he found a suitably dry post, Leader of the Sharks, member of the Demolition boys, coach of the Blade Breakers… Sheltering under a rusted awning, waiting for the rain to stop so he can find some lunch. There was something remarkably pathetic about such a concept, he decided.

As he stood there and waited for the rain to pass, Kai couldn’t help a casual surveillance of his damp environment. The alley was more of a dead-end than a thoroughfare; the narrowness of the buildings he stood between giving way to a small but sheltered courtyard. from where he stood Kai could hear rather than see several kids who occupied it, ringed around someone who appeared to be the ringleader.

"That’s so cool, Luke! Did you really qualify?"

Despite his wishes of quiet and solitude, it seemed that Kai was not going to be saved from the children’s distant conversation. It served him right, he supposed, for sheltering somewhere so closeted - everything echoed.

"Of course I did, kid."

He found himself grimacing at the arrogance of the tone, then wondering if the youth had the skill to match the attitude.

Surely, whatever he had qualified at was something Kai could best him in.

Get a hold of yourself, he chided, They’re kids and they’re just that. You have better things to do than bully some would-be .

His thoughts were rudely interrupted by instincts which had suddenly started screaming at him - some kind of small airborne missile was coming straight for him. Trusting them blindly, Kai’s hand shot out, knocking it away with the back of his hand. The impact stung and he muffled a curse, watching the … whatever it was clatter to the ground and roll a few paces away from him.

With a blink, he realised it was an amateur’s Beyblade.

Bending to pick it up, the group of kids came flying around the corner. Lest Kai be trampled, they were forced to stop abruptly, feet finding a slippery purchase on the wet pavement under their feet. From the collective expression of the group, they didn’t know what to make of the situation - that this man had stopped the renegade Beyblade, or that he looked weirdly familiar.

Perhaps it was just the predatory aura that naturally surrounded Kai.

They stood like that for some time; this confused group of children and the bemused adult. Finally, it was Kai who straightened, passing the Blade to the nearest child. "Be more careful next time, yeah?" he muttered to them.

"Sorry mister," one of them breathed. "It was Kyle, there -"

An indignant noise was made from the rear; he assumed this was Kyle.

"- he was just showin’ off," another finished. Kai recognised it immediately as the arrogant one.

He tilted his head with the same bemusement, crimson eyes studying the boy intently. "To impress you, hm?"

The youth had the grace to look abashed. "I ‘spose," he said slowly.

Kyle had had enough. He elbowed his way to the front, huffed, then said in one long breath, "It’s just ‘cause around here, we don’ really have much t’do, ‘cause there ain’t much money and all we got is Blades, mister, and we ain’t too good at it yet but Luke’s the firs’ one to qualify for anythin’ in just ages, so it’s gots us thinkin’ that maybe we’ll be good ‘nuff to qualify next year."

At the end of the tirade, Kai had one simple question. "Qualified for what?" he asked, scanning the group.

Each of them looked equally mortified that he didn’t know the answer.

"The tourney, mister!"

"For…?"

"The BBA Championships!"

Kai’s stomach plummeted to his ankles, all earlier thoughts of lunch abandoned. ".. I forgot it was on," he said after a great length.

It was hard to say whether such a statement was meant for himself or for the children; but from the way that the Russian then turned away and walked out of the alley without so much as a goodbye or good luck, perhaps it was meant for neither.

!!!

Ten minutes later, Kai Hiwatari found himself standing in front of the local BBA Centre. The banner strung over the entrance bid all Bladers welcome and true to form, the boulevard which led to the building itself was littered with athletes of all ages - from the young like the kids in the alley to those closer to his own age. Some of them mingled in groups whilst others warmed up and practised relentlessly: the range of familiar sights and smells had begun to give Kai an uneasy feeling.

In an abrupt decision he stepped forward, walking straight for the main entrance. There was a lengthy queue for those who wanted to spectate; Kai boldly strode past them.

Some years ago, out of what he assumed was pity, the members of the former Blade Breakers were given certain… perks. For the most part it was trivial things - sitting in the Official’s box, an automatic invitation to any Black Tie events; most of it consisted of things that Kai would never remotely consider doing.

The only one that came in handy was this: queue-jumping.

When a marshal at the head of the line motioned for him to stop, Kai lifted his hand - in it was the little laminated piece of card that let him go anywhere on BBA grounds.

Allowing himself a private smirk at the marshal’s wordless response (a sound of disbelief and awkward gesturing), he swept through and into the building.

In the foyer, a news team had stationed itself just inside the large entrance doors, eagerly capturing as many interviews as they could. Knowing quite well that the media would have a field-day if they knew he was around, Kai swiftly moved through the foyer and into the stadium.

It took little time and even less effort for Kai to find himself a prime spectator’s position; the second row (the first held more cameras and more news groups; all of which Kai determinedly kept his head turned away from) and a little to the left of the center, where he’d have enough of an angle to see both sides of the Beydish easily.

He settled down to watch the floor of the stadium, where two Bladers shouted commands (or the occasional insult) whilst their Blades pitted against each other in the plain dish.

Some years ago, the system of the Tournaments had been overhauled - there was now a Singles division and a Team division. Trials for each took place over two days - Teams on the first and Singles on the second. From the emptiness of the Pits on both sides of the arena, Kai judged it to be the latter; which explained some of that Luke’s earlier pride.

The battle ended with what Kai recognised as a clever move; the use of evasive tactics until the opponent became too frustrated to pay attention to just how tall the sides of the dish were. All it took was time and some baiting. The nail was in the coffin before another minute passed - the Blade flew out of the dish and landed in a light patter by the loser’s feet.

The stadium erupted - Kai found himself jostled and pushed from two sides at once; the seats on either side of him were the hosts of euphoric locals, who where madly jumping on their seats.

In the time it took for the crowds to quieten, the competitors had left and the stage was reset. Kai waited with limited patience to see who would take the next round; though privately he had already decided that this would be another year for raw talent to remain elusive, another year for him to not bother competing in.

Ever since the loss of the World Champion, the pickings in the tournament had been slim at best.

Even if it had been five years.

He still hadn’t found anyone truly worthy of the title Champion.

Until he did, Kai refused to enter. He wanted to be the best, sure - that ambition was still a strongly burning one. But he was not going to spend year after year defeating mediocre Bladers and being handed such an empty title for doing so.

To be the Champion meant you were the best; meant you couldn’t be defeated. It did not mean that you could defeat every amateur who came along without so much as batting an eyelid.

Kai was still looking for someone of Tyson’s skill - someone that would make his blood sing when he fought them; someone who would push and drive him to the brink of defeat; someone who would be worth defeating.

Then the title would mean something.

But pending that… Kai found his gaze drawn downwards, towards the small, blue Blade that had slipped into his hand in the midst of these thoughts. You and me are still in retirement. The Blade glowed softly in response to Kai’s words as it replied. Unheard by anyone else, they brought a lopsided smile to his face.

The great Kai Hiwatari; Leader of the Sharks, member of the Demolition boys, coach of the Blade Breakers… retired.

Yeah. There was something most definitely pathetic about that.

That was when he felt something focused on him; something paying more attention than what was necessary. Naturally seeking the source, Kai found it to be one of the cameras a row in front - clearly, he’d been spotted by the man wielding such an infernal machine. With a scowl, Kai folded his arms and looked away; the body language was clear - leave me alone. He could just imagine the commentator’s chatter over his spontaneous appearance at such a rudimentary level of the tournament.

Surprisingly, the hint was taken. For that, Kai was grateful. Even after five years, they couldn’t think of new questions. Having never been one for publicity even back when he’d actively competed, he had long ago lost patience with questions, cameras, spokespeople and interviews - of all types.

The camera moved away to continue a passing surveillance of the crowds - so it, and the people at the other end, never saw the moment that Kai nearly leapt out of his seat.

He had been waiting (with less and less patience by the moment) for the next round to begin, watching the half-lit corridors from which they would emerge.

When the one almost directly across from him showed its first signs of movement, Kai found himself sitting forward with unexpected anticipation. He felt it, rather than saw it - not something easily explainable, but something that called him to that battlefield; made him wish that he was the final opponent of the day.

It was an old feeling; one he’d forgotten about - the quiet hum of challenge in his bones that seemed to consume the entirety of his rational thoughts.

The youth, definitely male, looked to be tall from a distance, a look which was enhanced by the navy-coloured uniform he wore. It was difficult, really, to see much detail - Kai noted to himself that later, he would have to find a recording of the match and study the male closely.

And then he saw the Blade he was carrying.

The sight of the black metal had Kai out of his seat before he knew what he was doing. Two hands braced his weight against the empty seat in front of him, form leaning towards the arena as he stared in disbelief.

That’s just not possible, he told himself. Maybe it’s just coincidental. There have to be other Beyblades that colour, after all - it doesn’t mean it’s Black Dranzer.

Kai had never liked ‘maybes’ or ‘ifs’ or ‘buts’. Things were exactly as they appeared to be - even at surface value, if you looked at them right. So if the Beyblade looked like Black Dranzer, it was Black Dranzer.

The thought was not a comforting one.

Mystified as to how a Blader had obtained a Bitbeast that was supposed to be under constant protection at Max’s lab, Kai turned his attention back to the Blader, searching for details. As he did so, the two opponents arrived at the Dish. The one that Kai was watching had a curious silence to him; a certain trait that he’d learnt over the years to not only be manifested in his own personal style, but almost anyone who passed under the strict training of his Grandfather.

You’re behind this, aren’t you? he asked of his relative silently. There was no doubt in his mind - only a man like Boris could obtain a Bitbeast that no-one was supposed to have.

The referee performed his usual pre-match routine.

The athletes prepared.

The Blades were launched.

The crowds cheered.

In all of fifteen seconds, a bright green Beyblade flew out of the dish and landed on the ground.

At the loser’s mortified groan, it shattered into a million useless pieces.

Kai smiled grimly, his expectations fulfilled.

The crowd was hushed - it didn’t know what to do or how to react.

And spinning with perfect innocence in the middle of the dish was Black Dranzer.

!!!

To be continued.

Fandom001

Sat, 22 Jul 2006 10:32:57 GMT

Title: Switchblade, 01 of 10.
Fandom: Beyblades (G-Revolution)
Summary: The Beyblading world loses its reigning champion. In the years that follow, friends drift apart without Tyson to hold them together, whilst others form new dreams. But life must go on - and that's when Kai notices his grandfather is up to something very suspicious. AU/KxR/PG-15

!!!

Switchblade Beta: Zero-One.

!!!

Fire was and always had been the cruelest of Mother Nature’s forces, with flames that showed no mercy against flesh or foliage, tearing great scars in the landscape that took generations to heal. Whilst forest fires were common by arson, those created by Mother Nature herself were not, much less concurrently with a storm.

Of course, as Tyson Kinomiya had rapidly found out, fire was unpredictable enough to spring up at the worst times – and this would unquestionably be one of the worst. For what felt like hours he had run before the flames, looking for a place to hide and escape the fire – a cave, a riverbank, water, just something that would let him stop long enough to rest. His hat had been lost long ago, carried away by the winds that urged the flames higher. With nothing to act as a ventilator, Tyson had to draw in deep breaths of smoke-filled air, trying to fuel leg muscles that were steadily refusing to work.

Coffee-brown eyes darted back and forth across the scenery he tore through, searching for some form of salvation – when the dark blue of water caught his attention, the Champion bolted for it without a second’s thought. He reached the river quickly and in an eagerness to get away from the flames, stumbled down the bank at breakneck speed. Stopping at the river’s edge, Tyson crouched, scooping up handfuls and splashing it across his face. The spring water was revitalising, deliciously cool in an environment where the heat was everywhere.

Once his thoughts had cleared, the boy dug his hand into his pocket, pulling out a small metallic object. Inspecting it carefully for damage, Tyson allowed a small grin. "You’re okay, Dragoon?" He asked, turning the Beyblade over in his hands to look at all angles. "That’s good. I’ll get Kenny to run a diagnostic when we get home, ‘kay?" Looking to the swirling waters for a moment, an uncharacteristic frown crossed his face. "Daichi better be okay too," he added quietly.

The boys had separated quickly, driven apart by falling debris from the forest canopy. They had agreed to see each other on the other side of the forest, but Tyson wasn’t naïve. He knew enough about the real world to know that it would take a miracle to survive this. Strength came in numbers, and here he was alone with naught but a Bitbeast.

Lost in a moment’s worth of brooding thoughts, Tyson was never aware of company.

He had no idea that an unfamiliar boy had followed him through the forest, or that the same boy was creeping up behind him.

It wasn’t until a thick branch thudded into the back of his skull, that Tyson realised the riverbank was not as safe as it ought to have been – but by then, the darkness consumed him and it was far too late.

!!!

Get the Beyblade; he’d been told. Follow the teenager through the forest, take the Beyblade, and get away from the fire. We’ll give you money to do it.

It was nice in theory, but now the task was complete, the orphan had to question – what did he do with the Beyblade afterwards? Poised on the edge of the flaming trees and the riverbank, he hesitated. The Champion lay prone on the embankment, sprawled where he had fallen, water from the river licking at him.

However much he wished it, the street kid couldn’t afford to worry about the Champion. He already had the Beyblade; Tyson was already unconscious; now all that was left was to get away from the fire.

Turning away, he kept Dragoon tightly held in one hand, and broke into a run. The boy ran for longer than he cared to think about, weaving his way through the parts of the forest that had not yet been touched by fire. Finally, strength exhausted, he stopped – the orphan’s body wouldn’t be able to run any further. Leaning against the trunk of a thick tree, his thin frame heaved, trying to suck in enough air for his body to keep functioning.

The smoke was thickening and it made it all the more difficult: with no experience of fires, the boy didn’t know it would be safer if he was closer to the ground. Instead, when the decreased oxygen earned him a drowsy feeling, the street kid didn’t fight it, eyes slipping closed. As far as he was concerned, the fire had not yet come through this area – it would be safe. He could stop… and rest… and sleep.

!!!

A grim line of teenagers and young adults stood waiting in the driveway of the forest-based training facility, watching the blackened trees in tense silence. Helicopters swooped overhead, dumping water across what remained of the foliage, dampening the wood that still smouldered. The storm had passed on some time ago, but the group had not been able to search for their missing companions – Tyson and Daichi had been forced to fend for themselves in the fire, drawing anxiety from their team and coach.

Of the five of them, Hiro was easily the most worried. He was the oldest and the most world-experienced; thus he was the one who had the most realistic view of what this fire meant. The odds of Daichi and Tyson surviving… however much he wanted to hope, they were in fact very slim.

It didn’t help that it was his brother out there.

To his left stood Hilary, and to the right were Max and Kenny. All three were pale and tight-faced with worry. The only exception was Rei, who also stood to the left, but a small distance apart – he had come from a different part of the complex. His exterior spoke of calm which strained to stay in place, masking the insatiable need to get out there and to comb every hectare until he found the two.

"Alright, team." Hiro swallowed before he even attempted to keep talking – fear of the inevitable kept his mouth dry. "Let’s get going."

As one unit they set off down the driveway, splitting into groups at the bottom. It was a prearranged system, so they could cover more ground – Kenny and Max would go together; Hiro with Hilary (seeing as he was the oldest and had to look after the girl); and Rei on his own. The Neko-jin hadn’t bothered to complain – these forests were like the ones near his northern home, and he would move much faster through them by himself. Each group was armed with water, flare guns, and first-aid kits: "what-if" circumstances had already been discussed.

Once separating from the others of his team, Rei wasted very little time. As he moved deeper into the burnt forest, the Blader’s initial hopes for any sort of survival diminished by the second. Everywhere around him, it was deathly quiet – there were no birds, no leaves for the wind to brush through. There were no animals fleeing from the presence of a human, and no company to talk with.

Overall, it was very creepy.

The ground was still hot, even under the soles of his shoes. Rei wasn’t surprised when he looked down and encountered grey cloth instead of white – it would take forever to clean his robes.

Fate, however, had an actual surprise for him to run into.

Ducking under a precariously hanging branch, Rei flipped his long hair out of the way as he straightened. Not for the first time, the Chinese wiped his damp-with-sweat fringe from his eyes, leaving a long black streak of soot behind. Deciding to stop and catch his breath, Rei turned to get his bearings – and came face to face with a very unexpected being.

" – Kai?"

!!!

Kai’s day had not been the best in history. Once he had heard about the forest fire, there was no stopping the Russian – against the wishes of his new team, Kai had prepped himself and headed out.

He knew he was tough, and knew what he was capable of – a fire like this was not going to stand in the way of his battle against Tyson.

After all, he wasn’t in the Tournament for fun, now was he?

Once the hike began he had of course headed towards the river – even if the Champion didn’t, hopefully Daichi had enough sense in his mind to know that a large body of water would be best, if he wanted to survive.

Approaching the river, Kai had only taken a handful of steps when a clump of red to the distant right caught his attention. Whipping around, a cold chill swept across him as it became clear that the red was in fact Daichi's hair - his small body was caught between a group of rocks and a couple of tree trunks; right in the centre of the river.

Kai moved quickly towards the bank, discarding his scarf and shoes before sliding off the bank to sink waist-deep into the water. The water was surprisingly luke-warm, and full of small branches or debris from further upstream.

Kai made his way across the river, allowing the current to tug him along with the water flow until he could grab onto the rocks for stability. It was fortunate that there hadn't been much rain over the last few months, otherwise it would have been too deep for him to do this.

Was he alive? A touch to his neck said yes - Kai could feel the weak pulse. Noting, though, that the boy was unconscious, he knew that he couldn't leave him there - even if it wasn't the safest option he could think of. "You fool," he told Daichi in a quiet mutter, gathering the boy up. With a great deal of effort, and more stumbles than he would have admitted amongst company, Kai struggled back to the bank. He hauled Daichi’s limp form out of the water before clambering out himself; falling to all fours and gasping for breath once the task was complete.

The jungle-boy hadn’t stirred once during the whole thing, which made the Russian a teensy bit worried. Eager to keep moving, he forced himself to his feet once more, and gathered the boy’s form in his arms. At a slow, dogged pace, Kai set off into the trees. The closest building would be the training facility – it would be doubtlessly be the Emergency Services’ temporary HQ; thus the best place to head for help.

Once amongst the trees, it was plain that Kai didn't have eyes in the back of his head. Something overhead CRACKED ominously – he glanced upwards in time to see a log – no, a branch – plummet from above, pulled by gravity straight down towards himself and Daichi.

"Shit –"

Kai had no time to get out of the way. The best he could do was make a mad lunge for the side, holding onto Daichi’s form tightly so the boy wouldn’t sustain any more injuries.

The branch and Kai slammed into the ground at the same time, centimetres from each other. The impact was enough to stun Kai into unconsciousness – he didn’t hear bones crack; feel the searing pain...nor see the darkness of the world around him.

And when Rei stumbled upon their two forms, he never heard the exclamation, either.

!!!

to be continued.