A/N: This is mostly just boring origin stuff, but keep going and it gets much better! Please leave a review to let me know your thoughts! Enjoy.

It was six o'clock in the morning, and the tournament was getting closer and closer by the minute. None of the Ice Bladers had gotten up yet, but the Black Hawks were well into their training, having begun two hours prior.

Getting out of his bed, the starved blader, John, took in a big breath of air and blew it out. His hair was all messed up and he had pizza crust stuck to his leg. He made his way to the hotel room's door, removing the pizza crust and grabbing his room key on the way out. He didn't seem to care that he was still in his pajamas.

As John left, the captain of the Ice Bladers, Kevin, came out of the bathroom with clean clothes on and a baron face. He rubbed his newly shaved cheeks as he hummed over to the balcony overlooking the beach.

"It's a great day for relaxation, isn't it, Icers?" he asked, hearing the rest of the team slowly awakening. "We trained hard yesterday, so today I thought we'd take the day off and let our bodies catch up."

Parker, flubby and tenacious, wobbled over to the balcony, joining his leader. "I can't wait for tomorrow, Kevin. I want to show those Black Hawks and everybody else that I'm not a loser. I can't believe I lost to Steven like that. I let the whole team down."

Kevin patted Parker on the back, saying, "Not at all. Mistakes happen. We just have to learn from them, pal."

"Yeah!" shouted Carry, sprinting over to them and jumping on Parker's back. "Ooh, it's such a bright day out! Can we go to the beach, Kev?"

"Sure," he answered gladly. He began speaking when something caught his attention. It was the sound of orders being barked by a familiar voice.

The three of them looked to the shoreline, witnessing the Black Hawks running the beach in training clothes. At the front of the pack was Sarge, snapping orders at them left and right without hesitation. The team was sweating profusely, even through their weighted clothing.

"Wow, they're training this early?" Carry asked in astonishment. "I guess they really don't want to lose. They're taking this pretty seriously."

Kevin chuckled, turning to his teammates as John returned. "Nevermind them. It's our day to relax, so go on. Let's have some fun!"

Over in the Demolition Raiders' room, the dark-skinned Kenyan named Damilare shot up from his quarters, quickly entering the bathroom, both hands holding his buttocks. The sunlight from the outside shone into the room through the blinds, waking up Chrissy. She moaned and got out of her bed, immediately tripping over Angus on the floor, cursing as she hit the carpet

"Jeez, Angus! Way to sleep on the floor right in front of my bed, you idiot!" Chrissy whispered angrily, walking past Angus and making her way to the bathroom in her Green Bay Packers.

Angus laughed, continuing to lie on the floor, flipping over onto his back. "Maybe if we had enough beds that wouldn't happen."

Chrissy pounded on the bathroom door continuously for a moment. "Who's in there? I gotta go!"

Damilare called out from inside the bathroom, "Damn, hold on! Those Chinese noodles and that Mexican food didn't mix well! Oh, save me, this is like a semi-truck passing through my bowels!"

Chrissy kicked the door and walked over to the window, peering out of it at the brilliant Pacific Ocean. There were a few regular surfers and a speedboat passing along. Angus sat up and stretched his arms. He was the only one who didn't change into his pajamas.

Chrissy began yelling at Damilare in the bathroom, the yelling soon turning into an argument about how long it takes the average African to use the restroom. Eventually the two give up and move on.

"Hey, Angus, wanna train with me and then go to the beach?" she asked, swooping in and jumping on top of him.

Not wanting to deny such a pretty face, Angus politely agreed, gently pushing her off of him and hopping to his feet. He rummaged around in his pocket and finally retrieved his Beyblade, holding it proudly. "I don't think you can handle my Ram Basher, but it'll be a good workout for you anyway."

In the room directly across from the Demolition Raiders, the members of the Covenant were preparing for another day of hard training. They'd been witnesses to Steve and Parker's battle in the hotel fitness room, and knew they couldn't let themselves slip even one bit, or they'd fall prey to the Black Hawks. There was only one day to get stronger, and they weren't going to waste it taking a breather.

Manfred, the team's leader, was already doing sit-ups on his bed, sweat forming on his neck and chest. Mickey was stretching on the balcony, focusing on his arms. Even while in the shower, Chuck was throwing punches at the water droplets. The final member, Jerry, was on his laptop, checking the BBA's website for their statistics.

"Jerry, anything new?" Manfred asking, huffing as he dropped back down onto the bed and then lifted himself up again, completing his 50th sit-up.

Jerry's fingertips clacked on the keyboard and he turned the screen to face Manfred. "Yeah, they updated the stats with this month's matches, and it looks like we're tied for overall second with the Ice Bladers."

Manfred shouted in protest, "Excuse me! Who does those stats? That's garbage. We've won more matches than those guys and we certainly have better players. I should file a complaint."

Mickey hopped into the room, running over to the laptop screen. "Hey, Jerry, look me up. I wanna see how much crap you have to feed the makers of these stats in order to make it to the top."

Jerry obliged, typing in a few commands. With the click of a mouse, he'd arrived at the rankings list. "You're exactly where I figured you would be using my own statistics, Mickey. Guys, these statistics aren't rigged or sloppy. I agree with them, and I have my own to back it up. We just have to win this tournament, and then we'll surely be on top."

Miffed, Manfred replied, "We will win this tournament and become the American Intercontinental Champions. We have to obtain the top status in order to manipulate the others into following us and giving us their power. Our ancestors put their faith in us."

Chuck came out of the bathroom, going straight for his Beyblade. "Okay, guys, I'm ready to release my inner rage. Let's do this."

"We should probably use the fitness room," Mickey said, gathering his blade and launcher. "I heard the Black Hawks were using the beach for their training. We don't want to get mixed up with them the day before the tournament, I reckon."

"They're still training, huh? I thought we were the only ones doing that today while everybody else sat on their asses," Manfred chortled, throwing a shirt on. "Maybe we should go down to the beach, guys."

They all looked at him simultaneously, surprised at his suggestion.

"But why?" asked Jerry. "It's best if we don't let them see any of our moves or strategies until the day of the tournament."

Manfred held up his index finger. "You recall that I've been training you in two different ways, don't you? I didn't do that for nothing. If the enemy gains knowledge of one way, we just switch it up and take them by surprise. By manipulating the Hawks into thinking we've only got one palette, they'll never stand a chance against us when we use the other!"

"But what if they do?" persisted Jerry.

"They won't, okay? Let's just go. Chuck could use a workout, and I'm sure the Hawks wouldn't mind some fresh 'prey', as they poetically put it."

"Get up, you chicken-fried turkey shit!" screamed Sarge, setting his foot down on the back of an exhausted blader. Even though Sarge's bark was huge, so were his blading skills, and that's precisely why he was made the commander of the Black Hawks. He stood at six feet and three inches, and was 310 pounds of lean muscle. His blonde hair was chopped off right above his scalp. "We don't have time for resting! The tournament is tomorrow and there will be no pussies on my team! If you can't handle it, I will cut you and replace you with someone who can, got it!"

Spitting sand from his mouth, Steven continued doing pushups, his muscles strained, pushed to their brink from Sarge's training. He'd done training similar to this before in Germany, but his instructors weren't as loud, at least. He glanced over to his three teammates, checking to see how they were holding up compared to him. His glancing was cut short as Sarge stepped on his back, forcing him to the sandy ground.

"What do you think you're doing?" Sarge yelled, putting more of his weight on Steven's back. "There is no time to be ogling your teammates! In eighteen hours, we will be locked in battle, and if we do not win, you will all pay the hefty price of complete and utter failure!" He pushed down further, zeroing in on Steven's lower back, knowing that was a problem area for him. "We still have ten more miles to run and plenty of sparring matches to get through, so let's go, Hawks!"

Steven lifted himself off the ground, his teeth pushing so hard against each other he could swear they would break off on each other, two large veins popping out on his forehead, and blood from his eyebrow dripping into his eyes below.

Fearing further punishment, Michael, Freddy, and Trevor didn't dare look over to Steven. They continued their rigorous training, holding back the tears that so eagerly wanted to come out.