Disclaimer: I don't own Beyblade. I do own my OC. Great, isn't it?

Against All Odds

Kai threw himself back against the bed. He knew he should move on, but he really didn't want to, to be honest with himself. Outside, the cherry blossoms added a tint of pink to everything, and life seemed to be reviving to welcome the warm weather of spring in Bakunen.

A lot had changed in six years. He sighed. When it came down to facts, he really didn't know Angel that well, if she had kept such a secret from him. Especially when he thought she was an enemy, and she had ended up saving them all in the end, even at the cost of her own life. That was love, an emotion Kai had never really been exposed to; The only exception was the love he recieved from Mina.

Both she and Tala were inseperable. Tyson and Hilary weren't exactly 'together,' despite the fact that they displayed all the symptoms of a couple. The other guys dated people off and on, but none of them were commited for life just yet.

"Dude," Tyson said, sticking his head in the door, "Let's go. Stop daydreaming!"

The slate and navy haired ex-captain looked up into the eyes of the ex-champion. Their reign of champions ended four years ago, when Mr. Dickenson had exclaimed that they were talented enough to know that they could be champions for the rest of their lives. The CEO of the B.B.A. helped them decide to retire- unofficially, if they were in the mood, they'd show up for a tournament, and were always allowed a crack at the champions of tournaments, especially the world championships.

The Blitzkrieg Boys had dropped the circuit as well, knowing that it was pointless to come in first when they wouldn't have won if the B.B.A.'s star team had entered. They had matured, all coming into conversations if the mood struck them.

Together, their group was still The Rising, save one leader. Kai had naturally filled that position. In the back of his mind, this leader registered that Tyson was talking to him.

"Gomen," Kai said, sitting up, blinking, and pushing himself up off the bed. "Where are we going?" He asked. In the past few years, he had also matured, donning his usual Kai-ness with a flare of kindness- at least to his team mates and friends.

Tyson ran a hand through his navy hair, before placing his trademark cap upon his head. "We're going to the park. Remember? Training?"

Oh yes, it must have slipped his mind. He walked to the doorway, when his friend grabbed the article in his hand, careful not to rip it.

"If she left a note telling us to live," Tyson said quietly, meeting Kai's amethyst eyes with chocolate ones of his own, "Why do I always seem to find you dwelling on that note? You've got to move on. It's what she'd want."

Kai looked at Tyson. He'd grown up too, surprisingly. They were closer than friends, more like brothers. Kai had his own room in the Granger Dojo, which he typically used, unless he felt a need to go to Russia for a little while. He glanced at the paper in his hands, written in graceful cursive, initialed at the bottom with a trademark A.A., and a PS, telling them that she loved them all.

She had known it was her time, and Kai still couldn't fathom the type of person who had the strength to accept it, much less try only to help others through it.

Tyson gently pryed the note out of Kai's hand, setting it beside the Russian's bed, where a picture of Angel, Mina, and Tala resided, the three smiling victoriously, from seven years ago. This was all before they had met up with Kai again. Kai had learned that she was in remission at this time. She looked awfully happy to be where she was.

It seemed like he was obsessed with her, from this point of view, but honestly, he wasn't. It was uncommon to have Kai caught with that note in his hands, much less to catch him this lost in his thoughts. Tyson hadn't seen it happen in probably a few months. He had been told that grief had stages, and they took a long time to get through. Kai was doing pretty well, for being Kai, he thought.

"C'mon," Tyson said, passing Kai and leading him out of the room. "We're going to be late... again."

"You don't need any help to get there," Kai said snidely, a smirk set on his features. "Hilary won't kill me, I'm not you."

The blunette laughed. "That's because you're a stoic son of a bitch," He said, as Kai grabbed the keys to his rediculously fast black ferari, with Dranzer painted in sleek, red, racy letters across the side, more toward the back.

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Green met blue. "So I'm alright?"

There was a nod. The man facing her gave her a thumbs up, and she looked around the white room. "We'll see you in six months." He smiled at her, checking his clipboard, holding her chart. "And to think, when you showed up here six years ago, we weren't even sure you were going to live, much less make it through the chemo."

She smiled in relief. "Yeah, I didn't think I'd make it through it," She said quietly. "But I'm not there yet."

"So serious?" The presence of a woman in her early thirties in the doorway caused the girl on the counter to squeal. "I thought you'd be happy! You're almost there!"

"Cher!" She jumped off the counter and hugged the woman fiercely. "You look stellar!"

The woman laughed, straightening her scrub clothes. Cher held the twenty-three year old out at arms' length. "You're the one looking great, Angel. You've certainly come a long way."

The doctor, the man who she was just speaking to, chuckled behind the duo. "She has, hasn't she?"

After other pleasantries, hugs, and encouragement, the young woman found herself on the brisk streets of Belgium. She gazed at her reflection as she passed down one of the most busy streets Brussels had to offer. She looked beautiful, she decided, though that was rather prideful. Her bright jade eyes glimmered with a renewed intensity, she had grown- although it was at eighteen that she had gone through her final spurt, leaving her at five-foot-eight-inches tall.

Her hair had grown back the same, but different. It had retained the black color, minus the artificial cherry-red streaks. She personally preferred the natural look, as it gave her a little more bounce in her step, but was edgy to say the least.

As she passed the largest building in the city, she seriously thought about entering it. The last time she had rushed into things though, she ended up going around in circles. Her heart persisted in telling her mind that this time would be different, and that she had to try.

Eventually, her heart won over her head, and she pushed the door open to the B.B.A. headquarters, noting a poster on the wall advertising a tournament. She approached the secretary, a delicate smile upon her pale features. "May I help you, miss?" The secretary asked her, smiling back.

Angel nodded gracefully. "I would like to enter the tournament." She was immediately handed a form, a clipboard, and a pen. The secretary pointed her a place to sit down and relax, while filling out the form. She debated for a moment about how to go about this, as the top sheet of the form stated that all beybladers were to have a conference with the chairman privately before their application was approved. Smirking, she realized that was to prevent the things that had happened to them- quite an influence, she decided she had held on them. That was a good thing.

She had been keeping tabs. It was surprising, but the tightening of security definitely helped out the lock-out of massive evil figures. Not that there were too many big ones, with Voltaire locked up and Boris dead. Her mind reminded her just how that had happened, but, she was reminded by the phoenix dwelling on the beyblade in her pocket, that it was merely self defense. The fact that she had made it to Brussels in the first place shocked her, but the doctors from the physility she had went to when she was younger had come to her this time, taking her back with them.

Did she mention how much that cost her? Way too much, but it had ended up paid, by a bank account of money received by each child tormented by the Abbey.

When she finished, she brought the application back up, only to watch the secretary read over her fluid, elegant cursive with curious eyes. The woman looked up at her and hit a button on the telephone next to her.

"Marc, is Mr. Dickenson free at the moment?" Angel tensed up. She was thinking that she'd receive a phone call in a week, when she had gathered her thoughts and decided whether or not she was really going to go through with it.

There was a simple 'yes' given in response, to which Angel visibly trembled. "You don't happen to know if the Rising is here right now, do you?"

The secretary chuckled. "They're at home in Japan," She said sweetly. "It's still the off season." Angel nodded, dismissing the possibility of running into anyone, and waited for the woman to continue. "You can go upstairs, to the twenty-seventh floor, and wait outside Mr. Dickenson's room. He's a very sweet man. There's no reason to be nervous."

Oh yeah, there's no reason to be nervous, Angel thought, unless you were supposedly dead, and were now making public appearances in the same places you had attempted to destroy a few years earlier.

Mentally cursing herself for listening to her heart and not her head, Angel waited solemly in the elevator to face what she had determined was fate trying to rip her into pieces- again. Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two... Wow, this was taking forever. She sighed, as the elevator finally made it to the twenty-seventh floor.

When she got off the elevator, she was graced by the presence of another secretary, a man this time. She assumed that this was Marc. He smiled at her, motioning to one of the seats before him, and adjacent to the B.B.A. founder's office. The man was currently occupied with the person he was talking to on the headset attached to his ear. Angel closed her eyes, applying a breathing technique she had been taught to keep herself calm.

The door to the chairman's office opened silently, hinges oiled to perfection. Angel's head rose as she glanced at the shadow on the floor of the short and chubbly man that ran the B.B.A. He looked at her through his glasses, but apparently didn't draw the conclusion that he had met the young woman before.

"Come on in," He said, holding the door for her as she entered. Her eyes scanned the room upon entry, noting the highly professional atmosphere. The wall was a grey-white color, while the desk was a metallic color, and the furniture- all patent leather, black in color, and slightly comfortable. White walls slightly bothered her.

Mr. Dickenson took a seat at his desk, looking at her. His eyes did a slow analysis of her lean form. She slightly squirmed, taking on a feeling of being 'under the microscope.' He seemed alright with her appearance. Angel clutched the appropriate applications in her hand, almost afraid to relinquish them. However, he didn't ask for them. Not just yet.

The chairman looked at her with a grandfatherly look upon his aging features. "It's nice to see a young woman such as yourself entering. There haven't been too many people like yourself lately." He stopped, thinking for a moment. "How long have you been blading?"

She smiled. "Since I was able to walk," She answered, her white teeth accentuating dark lips.

Laughter followed from the man behind the desk. "I would figure as much. You're... how old?"

"Twenty-three." She met his eyes, noting that his flickered in a bit of bewilderment. She seemed to be so shy a moment ago, and was now exhibiting some strange signs of quickly gained confidence.

He nodded, his grandfatherly attributes reappearing. "Do you have any kind of restraints with your hearing or vision?"

She shook her head. "Nope, vision's like a hawk, my hearing's even better."

There was another pause, not akward, at least from Mr. Dickenson's point of view. This young woman was quite enchanting. He tapped his pen into his other hand, nodding, before continuing. "Anything else I should know about before you give me your application?"

She nodded, slowly at first, but steadily increased the tempo of this motion. She crossed her left leg over her right and looked down at the black heels that were on her feet. "Do you have any restrictions on anyone in remission?"

"As in," he began carefully, "from cancer?" She nodded, and he thought carefully. "Of what variety would this be?" He then closed his eyes, trying hard to consider how to approach the situation. "Also, the time will be of great importance as well..."

Angel took a moment to let him think. "I've been in remission for four and a half years. This is the second time I've been in remission, and this time was a lot less stressful than the first. And as far as the type, I've gone through chemo for Leukemia."

He sighed. "Miss-"

"There have been reports," She said defiantly. "You have to let me compete, the doctors at the Leukemia Research Institute of Belgium have said that the radiation from the beyblades I was exposed to the second time I was diagnosed saved me from dying, even when my predicted life expectancy had expired. I need to compete-"

If she had predicted this from the start, she would've kept walking. The chairman's eyes met hers, and she instantly silenced herself, inwardly cursing herself for the interruption and outburst. Mr. Dickenson, however, was slightly surprised by the outburst. The woman obviously wanted to be here; to compete.

"Have I met you before?" He asked her, extending his hands for the paperwork. She smiled and gave them up, watching his eyes as they gave her one more gaze.

She nodded, catching his attention, as he had almost looked down. "You didn't like me much then."

"Nonsense," He responded, "I am a busy man. There are very few people I dislike." Angel tried to resist the urge to roll her eyes. She eventually restrained them, and instead blinked, thinking about how to get her point across.

"My name is Angel," She said quietly. "The last time you saw me, I was trying to take over your organization."

The clipboard hit the carpeted floor with a light thud. He stared at the young woman, cursing himself for not being able to see it. "Angel Asmerov," he whispered to himself incredulously.

"Angelique," she said gently. "My first name is Angelique. Angel just comes with the reputation I've put together. No one calls me that though."

He looked up at her, noting her power-house green eyes intently gazing out the window, as if waiting for him to collect his thoughts. "Why haven't you reached out to us before? I mean, you have no idea how many think you are dead!" Her head tilted toward him, her intent eyes landing on him, holding his gaze for a second before she stood up and trekked to the window.

"Why haven't I?" She paused, leting a gently laugh rest on her lips. "It is quite obvious that I was in bad shape the last time I saw them. Kai was more than capable to lead them, and it would seem that I was correct in this assumption."

The chairman leaned back, noting the same traits that he had seen in Angel years prior. She was far from finished.

She turned back to look at him, at which point her necklace caught the light. It wasn't the dog tags he had remembered seeing. "I understand that there are a lot of people who think I am dead, and that was always the way. I have six more months to go before I'm officially done. Please, I need this."

The chairman looked at her, surprised. "You're asking me?"

"I'll beg if I have to," she said gently. "I haven't had a cancerous cell in me for-" She thought about it for a moment, "Four years, six months, and two days." She knocked on the edge of the coffee table next to her chair gently. "Just for luck," she whispered.

"You'll need more than luck if you're going to beyblade for the B.B.A."

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Flash! Snap! The lenses of the cameras surrounding her focused, clicked, and refocused quickly. She felt the hands of two bodyguards on her shoulders, pushing her through the crowd and knocking the offending gentlemen out of the way. She smiled sassily at the paparazzi that had accumulated in Rome.

Quite honestly, it was surprising that she had yet to run into Enrique. She grabbed ducked as she entered the limo, giving the photographers a clear shot at her lean body, dark wash designer jeans, and high heeled black sandals.

"Miss Asmerov, Miss Asmerov..." Their questions were wisked away by the dull roar of the many fans. She felt Mr. Dickenson's arm around her, and she smiled at him, briskly returning the hug.

She looked through the tinted windows at the fans, all of whom had banners, or were jumping up and down excitedly, as if their life mission had been completed by seeing her. She smiled again at them, through the windows, though they couldn't see her.

"Well now, Angelique," Mr. Dickenson said, using her full name. "You've put together quite a following in a short period of time. I'm surprised that none of your old comrades have put together the pieces."

She laughed. "I'd hope that they won't put it together, as mean as it sounds. Not until I'm done with the five years. Then I'll announce all the crap I've put behind me, if that will please you."

He nodded, watching her stare at the city skyline with inate interest. "Do you know where we are going next?"

She shook her head. "Where?"

"New York. You'll love it. If this is interesting to you, you'll adore the skyline. If you win there, you go to Miami's tournament, and then-"

"That'll put me into the South American Open. The World Championships."

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