This started off in my head as being some kind of Tyson/Max, but I'm not too sure what it turned into...
Disclaimer: Do not own Beyblade
Max stared miserably at Draciel. The beyblade was cradled in his palm, battered and gouged all over. A single tear fell onto the bit-chip.
"Well, we tried, Draciel." Another tear fell, swiftly followed by another, and another. "We…tried…" His voice broke on the last word and Max Tate, the only championship-level defence style beyblader ever, renowned for his cheerful, optimistic disposition, gave in and let himself cry like a broken-hearted child.
He had fought and tried his best, as he was supposed to, as the state Draciel was in showed. Heck, as the state that he was in showed! He sent a careless glance towards his bruised, bloody in-at-least-three-different-places body, swallowed and felt the pain of his sore throat, raw from screaming out increasingly desperate commands. Yes, he had pushed himself to his limits, surpassed anything he had ever done before, changed his style and tested himself nearly beyond his endurance.
This battle had meant everything to him. He had been fighting, not just for the incredible event of toppling the World Champion, but for the chance of something deeper than mere glory.
He had been desperate to show Tyson that he had left the team for a reason. That he had wanted - needed - to show the world what Max Tate could do. That he wasn't just the happy little kid who stepped in with his lame defensive style when there was no one else around.
He was a world championship-level beyblader in his own right. He commanded one of the four sacred spirits. It had been time that the fans realised that.
So, he had gone in there trying to prove to Tyson that he was a worthy competitor. And what had happened? He had come out feeling as inferior as ever.
Tyson had been sickeningly confident at the start of the match. Max could practically hear his thoughts: Whoever would have thought I'd need to get through Maxie to defend my title? There had been some very sticky moments for both of them, but Tyson had won through. Of course. In a way, Max hadn't been expecting anything else.
It was just…the look on his face when Max had managed to get the upper hand, force him back, very nearly win the match there and then.
Utter shock and disbelief.
Then a patronising comment on how he hadn't expected this from him. Then he had won, and walked away with such a horrible, smug look on his face… never even looked over his shoulder when Max had got back to his seat and passed out there and then.
He had become a true celebrity. Caring only about himself, his title, how he acted, looked, sounded. And without Kai and Ray around to insult him every now and again, his head was free to swell, and swell it had. His ego was massive. Grossly humungous.
And when it burst, like an over inflated balloon, and bits came floating down everywhere, Max would be there to pick Tyson up, dust him off, tell him how brill he was, how everybody loved him.
Why?
The line between love and hate is so thin. How do you know what side you're on?
Well? Random and insane,I know. Reviews would be appreciated, please.