Battle Shock Electric
Disclaimer: © Nevlana; should any of the following resemble factual or fictional eventscurrently in existence,itis merelycoincidence.
¤ This story is based on the first season of 'Bakuten Shoot; Beyblade';
Ergo it will resemble the television anime.
Alterations and additions have been made so it will not be faithful to the transcripts
Warnings: OC, OOC (?) and humor
Author's Note: § winces § I know, I know: this game I have going is getting dull and noone wants to
play anymore, right? Well,I have an announcement! This will be mythird and final attempt at publishing
the Beyblade Series Fanfic; if I state that I will nolonger be updating then I mean it. If anyone is interested
enough to take on the challenge of completing it (with my permission, of course), than so be it. For now, bear with
me, okay?
R&R,
Enjoy!
Prologue: Long Fall
Defeat is a deceitful word. It bears an abundance of contradictory definitions. For example, as a noun this term is commonly defined as 'a failure to win'. In this context it sympathizes with the defeated party. Yet verb-wise, it is 'to win victory over'; supporting, now, the winner. Harsh, unrelenting and, in no matter which context, this word is predominantly negative.
Still, it is more than a simple dictionary definition requiring research to understand. Defeat is a cold and heavy emotion which clings to one's mind. It clouds the determination to continue fighting for one's endeavours. Some can overcome the ache of defeat with support from intimate relations. Friends or family stir the optimism within the conquered participant, helping to restore former feelings of excitement and eagerness.
There are others, though, who have a difficult time surpassing the null pain of failure. They become brash and angry, as though losing everything. Suddenly they thirst to bestow their hurt unto others and spread the pitiless feeling like disease. Often one can see these sullen individuals partaking in sporting competitions.
Competitive activities have the regrettable ability to arouse the worst in people.
The recently fashioned game of Beyblade has become the current wave of competition. Literally spinning into the athletic spotlight, Beyblade grips the new generation of youths across the world. The fandom for this hobby-turned-sport has increased over its years of existence, spreading like a manic wildfire. However, it wasn't until 1998 when Beyblade earned its title as the most frequently followed game of the decade.
Needless to say, Beyblade has spewed out a string of unhappy challengers. Uncivilized behaviour and, occasionally, absolute withdraw from the sport altogether ensues the loss of a match. Those who remain bitter and continue to involve themselves in Beyblading create an unspoken tension during battle which plays in their favour.
Intimidation becomes a singularly understood means of victory.
Although they win, their actions are dishonourable but widely accepted. The outcome is not due to skill. Instead it is through influencing their adversary's emotions. One learns to have the upper hand merely to hold First Place. Outrageously immoral, it cannot be stopped for no one was failing to uphold the rules of the game. To think, this fraudulence is actually the underling of defeat; a domino-effect, beginning with a single loss…
≈
1998
European Singles Championship Tournament
Robert Jürgen vs. Skye Azure
Anxious silence befell the surrounding audience as the battle before them climaxed. The referee tried desperately to relay the expert manoeuvres being played in the beydish. Above the arena, quick words were shared between the announcers while uncalculated attacks were infused to gain an advantage.
Shredding around the obstacles and bypassing offensive assaults, the fist-sized tops spun in accelerated circles, one thrusting sharply upward as a whirlwind formed in its wake. The other avoided the oncoming tornado, retreating to the edge of the dish as blinding lavender light emanated from its center, slicing through the storm.
"Wing Dagger!"
The final cry echoed over the collapsing apprehension before the elevated beyblade was struck from below. Onlookers shared a collective gasp as the match came to an astonishing close. Squinting through thin sheets of dust, the referee struggled to see the result of the volley.
Dark silhouettes stood amid the settling cloud, the beybladers they belonged to examining the dish inquisitively. Once the air cleared, the referee hollered into his microphone with buoyant enthusiasm, grinning in relief as he declared the winner. Thunderous applause and zealous shrieks of joy shook the stadium.
Robert Jürgen waved stiffly to the crowd, comfortable with the awestruck attention he was receiving. Across from him, his opponent registered the scene, falling to her knees in devastation. Skye Azure looked blankly ahead, her eyes wide and body paralysed in bewilderment.
Muffled yells of encouragement blended with the incomprehensible cheers. The voices of her team-mates faded into the background until the noise disappeared and all she heard was the rapid beating of her heart. Behind her, the silver and pale-blue blade landed with a chink, its defence ring damaged and faceplate shattered.
After months of perpetual training, she had failed?
Turning to collect his jacket and bag, Robert left the ring wordlessly, revelling in his strong victory. His name was entered into the next session while Skye's was erased from the Tournament database.
Wilting, Skye gazed at the tiled floor as someone rescued the beaten beyblade from the ground, gathering fragments that could be reused. The bystander neared Skye, watching her stand rigidly.
"Th-this is yours," The spectator squeaked, a pink blush heating pale cheeks. Skye ripped her beyblade from the person's hand, ignoring the gesture and marching to the bench where her team waited with her things.
Dejected, the bystander concentrated on the troubled girl as she and her team shuffled to the exit, marching brazenly past the beyblader subsequently taking the stage. The new opponent ignored Skye's rudeness and walked gracefully into the middle of the arena. He passed the stranger, offering his condolence.
"Sometimes," The blader began in a delicately accented voice, "the game can consume the gamer."
Sad eyes gazed upward, lifted by the refined smile and cordial demeanour.
"I know,"
Interrupting the short conversation, the referee's voice crackled over the speakers, calling the names of the participants about to take the floor. A torrent of screams and claps burst forth while a Mediterranean-looking boy stepped onto the raised platform in front of the unveiled beydish.
"Okay," The referee blared, "in this semi-final match, we have former champion Oliver Beaulieu against Enrique Giancarlo! This is going to be exciting folks!"
Heaving a sigh, the strangerslipped away from the stage, pushing the exit door open and sucking in the fresh summer air. The intensity from within the stadium leaked outside as the bystander sent a final glance toward the commencing match.
Believe me, I know…
≈
End Prologue
Author's Note: There you have it! I hope you all enjoyed what happened so far; trust me when I tell you there is more to come and things will be explained! If you don't believe me you should keep reading grin. Anyway, tell me what you think; bad, good or in between, I honestly don't mind reading what's on your mind. Give it to me!