A/N: I'm back. Wow. It's been so long, I'd almost forgotten what writing (an actual story) was like.

Forgive an errant writer her insanely long absence, and her (quite possibly) horrid writing as a result of lack of practice. But I do hope you enjoy this story as it unravels.

Disclaimer: I only wish...

Prologue

Metallic clanging, whirring, the occasional suppressed shout, more clanging and other sounds of collision. The young teen winced at the noise barrage around him as he walked down the cool, sterile hallway lined in pale gray stone.

Maroon eyes gaze evenly ahead, darting to either side now and again as he passed a number of metal doors with small window-like spaces near the center, taking in what he could see of what went on behind them. None of these were what he sought. He sighed, ran a hand through his hair as he reached an intersection and turned left.

He was used to the ever-crossing passages, ambiguous room names, the constant noise of battles with spinning tops – "spinning tops of doom", as one of his frequent companions had called them, a designation that made him smirk with amusement every so often. He was used to it because he'd had to traverse those passages, enter one room or another, and participate in a number of those battles himself practically every day.

The pale teen, looking even paler in his dark tank top and dark baggy pants, knew the place almost his entire life, having grown up there since the death of his parents. Once in a while, he'd feel something, a bleak emptiness tug at his heart, for this missing piece of his psyche. He remembered very little of his childhood before the endless corridors of stone and harsh yet effective training techniques. What little remained of his memories were hazy at best, yet comforting in his loneliest, most troubled moments when he chose to relive them in his dark, dreary little room for one. He remembered maroon eyes not unlike his own; a gentle smile; an encouraging voice patiently explaining how to hold a shooter and aim at the dish. There had been weekly visits to a nearby park, trips to the riverside, the occasional movie… an ideal childhood, really.

He'd forgotten, now, how long it had been since the airplane crash. The worst in commercial aviary history, if he recalled the news description correctly. But he'd been very young then, only around five or six. He'd stayed with a friend of his father's for a while, until another man – Balkov – had come for him. Balkov – this graying middle-aged man with a hard voice and a hint of evil in his dark eyes - had told him that there was a place for him in the training facility he ran, that his father had been planning to send him there when he was old enough, and that his grandfather had given permission for him to go, to board there. Your grandfather even agreed to handle the expenses, as he will soon have custody of you, young one, Balkov had said that time, holding out an inviting hand.

He'd had a choice, apparently – to accept this invitation, or to turn it down and be raised by that same friend who took him in those first few months after the accident, in less privileged conditions than he was used to, yet forever remember his roots, his early childhood, the happiness that had come with it and the bitter sweetness of remembrance. It was obvious what he'd chosen, seeing where he was now.

Balkov Abbey had not changed in the nine or ten years he'd spent there, except for a change in management at one point – Balkov had apparently been re-assigned to another training facility further west, and had been replaced by a man the trainees knew as Yevgeny, who had blue-black hair and younger features but wore Balkov's hard and often eerie smile. The change had been easily forgotten, for it did not merit a change in the abbey's operations.

The young blader stopped short, blinking, slightly appalled at having allowed his thoughts to distract him from what he was supposed to be doing. Red-brown orbs narrowed, and he brushed several strands of loose, blue hair from his face. It didn't matter, he thought; he was standing right in front of the room he'd been summoned to.

His face twitching with what could pass for vague annoyance, the young blader wondered why he'd been told to come here, to this specific room. He'd had to visit it only once before, when he was eight, and that had been to informed of his transfer to the advanced section, having shown great aptitude for the sport and more than a passing interest in the harder training exercises – effects, he felt, of the early introduction he had to the sport that was Beyblading, courtesy of his parents.

"How long has it been since 07144 was summoned?" Yevgeny was undoubtedly inside, for that was his voice. Also, it was only he – and Balkov before him – who used the trainees' registration numbers to refer to them when conversing with his colleagues. The blue-haired teen never really liked their numeral designations; they made him feel like some kind of robot or a factory production.

Well, what are you waiting for, Hiwatari, he thought, tooling his face into his usual emotionless mask, one hand on the door. He pushed it open and was about to speak, when the large computer monitor – it took up easily half the opposite wall – caught his eye. Rather, it was what was displayed on the monitor that called his attention. Eyes widened as he lost the tight rein he so often kept on his emotions, the information before him rooting itself to his mind like a parasite.

No…

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"Hey, Kai, you all right?"

Maroon eyes blinked open, and Kai Hiwatari frowned in slight protest at the sudden invasion of light, and the fact that his teammates were all looking at him over the tops of their seats. Dammit, I must've fallen asleep, he thought irritably. "I'm fine, Kinomiya," he replied, his voice a quiet monotone as he looked his cap-wearing teammate in the eye.

"Y'sure?" the wielder of Dragoon – slightly rambunctious, chatty, and easily excitable Tyson Kinomiya – persisted, concern showing on his pleasantly rounded, open face. He and the others – optimistic and sunny Max Mizuhara, quiet but amiable Rei Kon, and the slightly geeky but reliable Kyouju – had been friends and teammates with the phoenix blader for nearly four years now; he knew as well as they did that when Kai spoke like that, it was best to leave him alone. Yet Tyson could not, out of force of habit, leave something like what he'd just heard hanging. He had to know. "You were frowning real hard, and when you said 'no', just before you woke up, you went kinda pale."

The slate-haired teen sighed, resisting the urge to roll his eyes heavenward. "I said, I'm fine," he stated, crossing his arms over his chest and looking out the window.

Tyson pouted, then turned back round in his seat, refusing to look anywhere else but straight ahead. "Fine." He knew when to stop pushing, when to leave his quiet teammate to his thoughts. Besides, even if he had persisted, it was most likely that he wouldn't get another word from the serious teen; the indicators had all been there – crossed arms, blank expression, the refusal to make eye contact. He, Tyson, should have been used to this by now, but he was still miffed when Kai did it.

The regional championships for that year were still far off, but the group had been invited to attend the opening of a new Beyblade training facility and battle dome in Kyoto. Team BBA had been told the opening wasn't until a week later, so Kai opted to take the night bus. Rei, however, had been against their captain's sentiment and suggested the train, which would take less than three hours from Tokyo Station, adding that though he came often to Japan, he had not yet seen much old capital, with its many ancient buildings and temples, regarded as world heritage sites; the other three had agreed with the raven-haired neko-jin, and Kai acquiesced.

It had taken two days to sort everything out – a talk with the parent or guardian, replying to the chairman's invitation, and booking rooms at the Miyako Hotel. Afterwards, however, it hadn't been that hard to get going; save for Rei, they all had Japan Railway passes, so it had been just a matter of getting their Chinese teammate one and they were on their way. Max had spotted a car that was less crowded than the others on that particular run, and they could sit near one another.

Now Kai was wishing they'd taken an earlier run, or wished that he'd done so, at least. If he was going to have dreams – that he couldn't remember even moments just after he'd had them – that made him mutter in his sleep like Tyson had said he did, he'd much rather go it alone and wait for the rest of the team to catch up at the hotel. But he hadn't, and there was no helping the current situation.

Outside, the scenery passed by as though through a high-speed slide projector. Verdant fields and bluish-gray mountains, all glimpsed in less than a second. That was the problem with Japan, the two-toned-haired teen thought. Everyone was constantly in a rush, so nature's canvas – the contrast and mirroring of sky and water, majestic snow-capped peaks, fields of crops and grass and wildflowers – went almost unnoticed, save by those who chose to take the scenic route.

Slate eyebrows knitted in mild concentration, Kai thought back, trying to remember what his dream had been about. He could remember cold stone and ominous echoing footsteps, and a large metal door with a sign above it, but that was it.

The pale teen gave an inaudible sigh, nonplussed at not being able to remember what it was about the dream that had caused him to react in the manner Tyson had described. And he resigned himself to not knowing, thinking that perhaps later, it would come back to him.

A/N: I'm hoping that wasn't too confusing (for a prologue). I still need to work on my writing (which has totally gone to hell).

As I've just recently taken a tentative step back into the realm of writers, I'm still seeing where this'll go, and if I can manage to actually stick to what little story notes I have. To those who read and review, thank you in advance!