I would like to apologize for the delay. I was busy. Yes, I was. But I've written some shit and I decided to upload it. So here you go. PART TWO!
Disclaimer: I do not own Beyblade.
CHAPTER 1
What goes on behind these doors
I'll keep mine and you'll keep yours
We all have our secrets
We all have our secrets
Naughty Boy
Two Years Later
"After much deliberation and afterthought," a cool voice spoke, carrying the news effortlessly over to the employees gathered in the conference room. "The board has decided to change its earlier decision to showcase our latest VR technology at the upcoming expo happening two months from now and in its stead reintroduce the sport of beyblade to the world."
A surprised and tense silence followed the announcement. Surprised because it was completely unexpected and tense because even though they were outraged, none of them were bold enough to protest against the board – or the man standing tall at the head of the table. The sharp as a whip descendant of one of the oldest zaibetsus that ever existed in Japan, with a lion's heart and hell bent determination, who had plunged his arm into a panther's jaws that was Japan's sinking economy without so much as a second thought and built an empire. A nineteen-year old Kai Hiwatari had accomplished in two years what many men failed to achieve during their entire lifetimes. When the global economy took a hit a few years back causing companies across the globe in lack of a strong foundation to shut down in multitudes, the young man who had recently come into power, saw the opportunity the situation presented to force shut the mouths of his sceptics and protesters and in a ridiculously bold move, turned a deaf ear to the directors and drained nearly all of the company's float to buyout entire businesses inside and outside of Japan's borders that were temporarily wounded from the hit and looking for shareholders. Kai then followed the stunt up with a series of strategic moves which would've earned him the respect of a champion chess player to drag the newly purchased businesses and the Hiwatari enterprises itself on board the proverbial Noah's ark to sail out the bloody financial storm. He also bought huge shares of his own company, thereby solidifying his position as the major shareholder in the Hiwatari enterprises and used that to constantly out-vote his fellow directors. Kai threw money around with the kind of recklessness that prompted his employees and the rest of the board members to believe he didn't give two shits about the company or its future, only to later learn that each of his decisions had not only been thoroughly calculated but also fine-tuned for the best advantageous outcome. He kept up the financial daredevilry for a while and by the time the Japanese economy climbed back up onto a much more stable state and the world economy finally touched fairer winds, the Hiwatari enterprises had gone from being a moderately-sized vertical keiretsu to a giant conglomerate with its assets spanning several continents.
What bottomed out the stomachs of the employees when they shared the same air with the purple-eyed wall of burning ice though was the knowledge that the first thing the young Hiwatari did as soon as he gained control of the business was wipe down almost the entire payroll, saving only a select few who could be counted on the fingers of one hand. He did not trust their former employer's workers and he had made it very clear during their interviews that loyalty and willingness to work hard were the two things he valued most. Isono, a raven haired midget with glasses, the head of the expo projects team, meekly cleared his throat before managing to raise his argument. "But Kai-sama, beyblade is a dead sport." Calling his boss by his first name only because he had explicitly demanded all of his workers to do the same – Kai preferred not to be addressed or referred to by the name he shared with his late grandfather Voltaire whenever it was possible. "The sport met its end two years ago when the Tokyo stadium was attacked."
"Isono, I am very aware of the history of the sport that I used to play." The dangerously chill tone caused sweat to trickle down the backs of the rest of the inmates of the room. Truth was, though Kai rarely fired anyone these days (he didn't need to, he'd handpicked the best team to bat for him), or intentionally threatened anyone in the current company anymore, he still managed to come off as intimidating by the simple fact of his manners. The man was a workaholic – pulled all-nighters at the office more times than he ate in a week, was always on his feet, always planning his next move, never stopped to smile or share a pleasant word with an acquaintance, had no known friends, girlfriends, wives or kids, barely human. Standing at six feet and one inch, Kai resembled a smooth, chiseled marble statue with his high cheekbones, angled jaw, almond eyes, slate grey suit and a matching head of hair – now that he'd stopped dyeing it – that somehow lay perfect on his head even after long hours of work.
"Beyblade is a dead sport and we will resurrect it at the expo."
"A last minute change of plans?" Matsuda, the head of the R&D department, piped up. "Kai-sama, we would never be able to pull it off in a decent manner and besides, we worked so hard to develop that VR technology. We worked on it for years!"
"Matsuda, save the whining and negativity for matters outside the concern of the company." Kai closed his eyes for a moment, in which the R&D employee flushed with embarrassment, before he spoke again. "We have sixty days to prepare for the event, that gives us fourteen hundred and forty hours. With that much time on our hands, we can campaign across cities all over the globe, hoard fans – both old and new, conduct a string of smaller battles between known players and bring back two of the most celebrated bladers over the years for the opening match on twenty second in New York."
Another hand rose. Minako, the chief designer at the H Industries, one of the few left who had been appointed by Voltaire, smiled before asking, "Two of the most celebrated bladers? You and Tyson Granger, Kai-sama? Are you going to compete again?" The smile stopped just short of turning sly.
Kai sent an obvious glare in the designer's direction, cautioning her slightly teasing expression into a poker face. Isono shifted in his seat in confusion, then made the situation worse by asking "We are organizing a tournament?" Everybody except Kai blanched. Some prayed for the roof to cave in.
The dreaded axe somehow failed to come down on their heads. Kai's tone still dripped acid. "I am not going to compete and I doubt Tyson Granger blades anymore. Yes, Isono, we are planning to hold a tournament and the players I anticipate to go head to head for the exhibition match on the opening night is Tala Valkov and Bryan Kuznetsov." He tapped the glass to bring up holographic images of the players before them. "I've already contacted them once and though there haven't been an actual confirmation of their respective participation, I've only received positive vibes from them on the subject."
"Kai-sama," called Isono. "Pardon my doubts, but I still don't understand how we're going to organize a whole tournament for a sport that is not even in existence anymore in just two months!"
Evidence of their lack of faith beginning to prick at his patience appeared in the form of a nasty smirk as the CEO regarded him. "In case you haven't noticed, this company faces no shortage when it comes to manpower, but as you so intelligently observed, the undertaking of such a mammoth task requires more time, a resource we do not have at the moment, and so, be very pleased when I tell you that we are not going to be working alone. In fact, we're taking on a partner for this mission: the Petronarch Corp."
Kai spread his hands and watched jaws drop around him in unison. The Petronarch? Seriously? Their age-old rivals as their partner for an exposition? How did that even make sense to Kai? The very point of taking part in a world exposition was to promote the Hiwatari Enterprises; scrub off the taint brought on by its former chairman's actions and boost the company's public image – convince the masses they were not the greedy conglomerate they'd once been. New and reformed and under the leadership of a much better man (in a way), the Hiwatari Enterprises was now a window to the glorious future. So why in the world would their biggest opponents help brush their manes? And why would Kai ask for their help when it had always been crystal clear that Kai fucking despised King?
Something felt horribly off. Kai had a saintly look on his face. It was when he donned the darned expression the nickname fit. Satan's Spawn.
They waited for him to give them an explanation as the temperature of the room fell further, beneath the zero mark. The sun dipped low beyond the horizon, casting shades of orange, pink and purple across the sky. The floor to ceiling windows framed a beautiful backdrop for Kai as he surveyed his employees silently. It had been a hectic day at the office today, they appeared tired and ready to head home. Kai simply felt no mercy.
"Right before the BBA dissolved two years ago, the H enterprises and the Petronarch were the only ones involved in the manufacture of beyblades. Two more years ago, we were not only suppliers, but sponsors as well, however small our contribution may have been." Kai placed his fingers on the table and leaned forward on them. "When the tragedy struck and the biggest names in the sport suffered losses along with thousands of other people, the very term beyblade began to trigger nightmares and panic attacks for those who had first-hand experience with the fire. The players gave up or were forced to give up their passion. The chairman of the BBA died in the attack and though an interim was elected, they couldn't keep the association from meeting its end barely three months later once the fans misdirected their anger at them. Then the sport died." Something akin to emotion flashed in his countenance for the first time since he had taken the reigns of the company, marking a significant moment in their corporate lives. "Now nobody wants to remember, but something as big cannot be forgotten no matter how much you wish to. The only way to overcome the pain is to fight back." Kai's voice stated he meant the words with all his heart. "Kill the evil in the world by keeping love alive. Beyblade was a sport the world was once passionate about. The players loved it. The fans loved it. I loved it. A thing as precious is worthy of being fought for. We will bring beyblade back. For those who died in the attack. For the ones trying to forget. For me. For you. And to show how much we are willing to commit to the cause, we will work together with one of our known competition, the Petronarch. Let the message be clear: when challenged by evil, we will join hands to fight for love."
By the end of his speech, his audience were staring at him in quiet reverence, with his determination mirrored in their faces. But just as soon as the thought formed that Kai might be a good man, he went and ruined it by saying, "Haruhi, make sure the video is played at the rest of the companies under the Hiwatari management and also to send it to the press." His secretary gave a quick nod and immediately turned to her computer to attend to the given task while her colleagues found their earlier fears resurfacing.
KAI
The people who worked for me believed I was some divine hero sent from heavens above. The ones who sat with me during board meetings thought of me as the Antichrist while my rivals considered me Satan himself, who had crawled out of hell to ruin their fun-filled corporate world where each tried to outdo the other through veiled cooperation.
Half of Japan worshipped me in some way while the other half constantly wished death upon me. I didn't blame them; where there had once been almost a dozen keiretsus controlling the Japanese industry, now there were only three and one of them wasn't even a proper keiretsu anymore and the snotty big fishes saw only one man to hate on. Megalomanic Voltaire's triply power-crazy grandchild Kai (They said the hunger increased along with the generation).
I gave exactly zero fucks.
If you were to ask around you'd hear stories about me one wilder than the previous. They were all wrong. My success had nothing to do with the devil or me selling my soul to him, I worked my ass off for years to get here and I had every right to be proud. I wasn't, though.
When asked during interviews for magazines about my motivation to strive harder everyday I lied it was my dead, workaholic father. What a noble answer. An insider would know that was a fib before it left my mouth. Reality was, familial motivation could only get you so far in this competitive world. To make it to the books of history you needed something a lot more powerful than that. And no, it was not the desire to prove them wrong; not even the thirst to achieve a lifelong dream. It was revenge.
Revenge was the fuel that kindled your fire by burning you from within. It ate at your heart. Your mind. Dominated your thoughts and strangled you in your sleep. I was reminded of my purpose every time I came home to this cold, desolate chunk of glass and wood they called modern art.
The metal briefcase hit the floor with a thud that echoed through the whole house. I could practically hear myself breathe as the door fell closed behind me. Tomorrow would mark the commencement of two long months of restless work, and so the office had let out early to give the employees a moment to breathe. Didn't want them complaining they were overworked.
An early night meant alone time with myself in this estate of solitude whose walls still smelt of paint. It was a three-bedroom, four-bath home overlooking the beautiful Tama river. High ceilings, sloping roofs, timber walls and fucking glass everywhere. There was nothing in here that remotely resembled a home. No warmth. No laughter. I bought myself hell for two point five billion yen. Oh the irony.
The more kind-hearted men I made business deals with sometimes recommended taking women home. Probably trying to play a fatherly figure for ten minutes, pitiful of my pathetic personal life. Not a bad idea actually, but I'd tried that. Didn't work out. Women you met in clubs were dumb more often than not and bedding your work contacts was never a smart move, so I stopped pretending to be a playboy just to keep my blankets warm.
I'd never thought I'd miss human company, but I did, and I fucking hated myself for being so weak. Yet that weakness was exactly what lent me strength to keep going. Gave a meaning to my life. I tapped the fishes swimming around in the purple tank. The fancy creatures reminded me of the cats I used to pet. One of them was lying dead at the bottom of the tank and I wondered why. The house staff who came in the morning and left in the afternoon made sure they were properly fed or at least I made sure to fucking pay them to make sure. "So why are you dead?"
I remembered the night I got the call. The day before the stadium went up in flames. Tyson's sleeping face on my pillow, arm thrown carelessly over my chest. It hurt to recall, yet I got a perverse satisfaction from revisiting that night, which was the best and worst of my life. The phone's ringing had startled me awake, the lights were on a second later. Tyson had not stirred. Hisoko had informed me in a quick, formal manner that my grandfather had passed away due to a sudden cardiac arrest in the hotel room he was staying at in Paris and I'd gone hot and cold from the news. The surprise had been such that I couldn't respond for a whole minute till I finally forced myself to ask for further details. Hisoko hadn't much to tell me, his answer to most of the questions was 'We do not know yet'. Ten of those later, he'd smugly told me, after successfully pissing me off, to get ready, I was to leave for Paris right away. The call had cut with that and I'd sat staring at the lamp in a daze, then at Tyson for another minute or two. He'd slept unaware of the hole developing in my gut, leaving me to deal with the realization of being so completely bereft of blood relations in the world all alone. The feeling of isolation had begun that very moment and it was now a major part of my life, so much that it felt like an entity of its own.
I'd left without a goodbye kiss (Not that I was a fan of goodbyes). I'd left without a word (Not that I'd known how to face him after what had gone down between us earlier). I hadn't seen Tyson since. Didn't even know where he was. He'd gone off the radar, which was so unlike him, yet expected at the same time. He'd lost Bruce and Ryuu. I'd lost him. Although I'd probably lost him before the fire when I crossed that stupid fucking line. I regretted having done that like nothing else. It had been a terrible thing committed on the spur of the moment; blinded by anger. We'd been fighting and it had been ugly, but we were still okay, till I drew blood. He'd fallen asleep in my arms after, but only because he was too exhausted to think about his actions.
I thought I could still fix it. Fix us. But he'd been taken from me just like everybody else. Oh yeah, King had managed to do Voltaire in without anybody catching wind of it, except for me. King had been on the same mission as Voltaire in Paris, looking to convince Oliver's stuck-up millionaire father, Polanski to make an investment in their respective companies. My grandfather had been very excited about the whole matter yet somehow, that deal never took place and instead, King got Polanski to agree to a joint venture between the Petronarch and Télépolé. My naturally distrustful temperament had me digging deeper into the whole affair and discovering that at some point of the night both parties had been present at the same scene. They'd probably met. They'd probably poked and prodded at each other's easily ruffled feathers. And King had probably slipped something into his drink. Probably a shitload of aspirin. Voltaire had been taking them to avoid another heart attack like the one he'd experienced the year before. The overdose of aspirin had been listed as the trigger in his autopsy report, along with the statement on his unstable mental condition. I wasn't stupid enough to not put two and two together like the rest of them. They called him a maniac who'd killed himself out of anguish when he'd failed to get what he wanted. I knew the truth. Voltaire may had been many things, but suicidal had never been one of them.
Alistair King had taken my family and destroyed it out of senseless spite and jealousy. He'd begun torturing me almost right after I was born. Now I was nineteen and left with nothing to call mine except a machine-making company.
When the kids at school had to bring their mothers on Bring Your Parent to School Day and I'd had to tell them "my mother is dead" when they asked. It had been because of him. When I'd once visited a park and sat there in a swing, watching a boy play ball with his father, with tears rolling down my cheeks. Because of him. When I'd cried into my pillow with abandon, from all the pain the consecutive deaths of my parents and brother brought. Because of him. And then cried harder when nobody came to comfort me in that giant cavern of a house. Because of him. When I'd curled up into a ball from stomach cramps from not eating for several days. Because of him. When I'd had to perform dirty, heinous tasks to "become a man". Because of him. When I'd finally found a semblance of normalcy and had it snatched from me. Because of him. When I had to shoulder the burden of an entire keiretsu at the age of seventeen. Because of him. When I chose working through the night over going home. Because of him. When I gave up my dream for revenge. Because of him. When I broke my body trying to keep up with my own crazy expectations. Because of him. When I couldn't sleep undisturbed anymore. Because of him. When I had to leave Tyson behind without an explanation. Because of him. When I clutched the old phone under my pillow to remind myself warmth still existed in the world. Because of him. When I let my hand give in on the nights I missed Tyson too much. Because of him.
I would make him pay. Pay for every last painful thing I had to endure because of him.
Human beings were beautiful creatures. You could take a look at this mangled one right here – frothing at the mouth like a rabid dog and braying like a donkey – yet in possession of a certain level of loveliness other animals did not have in hand. The unfairness of this ugly universe manifesting itself once again.
That was fine by him. He liked ugly and unfair. A lot.
Squatting down, he held up the man's finger, the one with a ring wrapped around it. The small vent on the side of the dingy room let in enough light for him to make out his face. This was no one important. Just a bitch who had tried to sneak in to the House and steal shit. A clueless fool who was deeply regretting his poorly thought out decision to climb their walls at the moment. He was in the mood to have some fun. Time to create a fucking masterpiece.
As soon as he picked up the knife lying beside him on the dirty floor, there came two sounds. One, was the bitch mewling in agony (he'd liquefied his bones) and fear – he bared his front teeth at him – two, was a knock on the rusty, metal door. "What?!" he yelled at the closed door.
It opened and a figure appeared at the doorway, silhouetted against the yellow light behind them. "Blu?"
Fuck.
He tapped the pad of the knife against the floor as Uncle walked in, shutting the door with a hand. "And who is this lucky fellow?"
Blu regarded him from under his lashes for a second. "He was trespassing on our grounds earlier today."
Uncle's mouth curled. He was the acting boss, the stand in for Blu who would officially be pronounced Vor of the Solntsevskaya Bratva when he reached twenty-one. The Mogilevich family was one of the handful who were thoroughly involved in the Russian mafia and the most powerful in their midst. They were the heart of the Solntsevskaya Brotherhood, the careful structure hidden under the layers of loosely organized networks. But recently, as a result of the ongoing dispute between them and the Tambovskya bastards they'd been losing core members by the dozen, and the eldest of the last generation had married within the family to keep their numbers from falling dramatically. Blu's mother had been the first of his grandfather's production and she'd married her cousin Aleksei, who had exercised control over the mafia for all of ten years before getting slaughtered by the Tambov assholes. He was her first-born child. The direct heir to the dark throne. He should've been the one in charge, but for now, his uncle, Sergei, the youngest of his generation, was currently at the head of the organization.
"I know you want to be left alone with your evening pleasure," Uncle let out a laugh."But, before I leave you to it, there is something important you must know."
"What?" Blu growled.
"Somebody tipped off the Japanese police that-"
"The ones who like sticks a lot?"
"-Yes, somebody tipped them off that the perpetrators of the stadium attack two years ago was not some group of terrorists but the mafia."
"The fuck?" Blu rose to his feet. "Which mafia?"
"The Japanese obviously doubts the regional criminal organizations."
"And this is apparently a problem because..."
"Now the Yakuza is on our ass."
"Zaebis(1)" He turned away from his uncle, hands on his hips. "Nu ohuet teper.(2)" Two years ago, when Klara approached him with a job that had finally shown him a way out of this trap, it was the beginning arc of the turning point of his life. He'd found out the name of the person whose head he had to bring to the elite members of the Bratva to overthrow his uncle and gain power over the Bratva right away. Alistair King. Klara, who had been working with him, was clueless of King's past – or more accurately, his family's past. You see, the Brotherhood took matters of honour very seriously and a few generations ago, there had been one incident that stained the Mogilevich name to this very day. The first-born of his great-grandfather – who was the mane and pride of the Brotherhood, whose pictures hung on the walls of the House – had died in a stupid little bar fight. The man chosen by the stars to succeed the boss of bosses his great-grandfather, Yegor had been, had died in a fucking bar fight. It hadn't even been an honourable rival duel, but a fucking bar fight he'd fought drunk off his ass while on a freewheeling trip in Europe. Blu could only imagine the kind of shame such a thing must have brought Yegor and his men at the time. It almost caused him pain when he thought about it. Almost. The family had been unable to find the dickhead who'd provoked him, and they'd tried. Oh, they'd tried.
The fucker would have had been fucking ruined if they'd gotten their hands on him, but because of some luck he'd escaped unscathed. Escaped as in he was fucking dead now. Most of the King line had perished over the years except for the spiteful one. The Mogilevichs wanted revenge. Make some King fucking writhe in agony for the embarrassment they'd had to suffer and sometimes still suffered. All the more sweeter if the dickhead himself had been caught. Or at least a next of kin. They'd hunted for years in vain till Klara had, ever so casually, gifted Blu with the name they'd been searching for years. King was looking for someone to do his dirty job for him and Klara had been trying to be clever when she dropped by Blu's usual haunt. Blu, ever the suspicious one, ran a thorough search every time before taking on any clients from the outside and the practice finally did him good when he found out the slick mogul had had one huge troublemaker of a brother, the very dickhead who'd cut down their then golden heir.
Blu loved playing games with his prey before finally getting around to them in person. Gave them nightmares for months just because it gave him immense pleasure to watch them get more paranoid with each passing second. Mental torture for months, physical torture for weeks, was how he usually operated, but Blu had something special in store for King. And the Bratva would love it. And then crown him because there was no better way to thank him.
King had made a request for a slightly alarming security breach, but Blu had to send a message that he was onto him. To watch his back. Play carefully now. He was a target of a powerful enemy. And so he'd brought down the entire stadium, planted no more than sixteen bullets in the BBA chairman and pissed off a major portion of the Brotherhood's elite, all to send a message. He would stop at nothing to get his revenge.
So, while the rest of the world thought a group of terrorists were responsible for the Spectacle Arena Tragedy, King had been busy absorbing a newly realized fact – the Russian Mafia was out for his blood. Why? No clue. Get paranoid now.
Or act smart.
King was not new to this game. He'd dealt with dirty mafia bosses before. He knew two could play this game. And so, he'd tipped off the Japanese police it had been the work of the mafia without mentioning which, well aware of the fact that their Japanese counterparts would be outraged. They'd crossed some major lines. Tokyo was strictly Yakuza territory and also, they'd been smooching up to the government for a while, all of their efforts had been thrown out the window now.
How'd the Yakuza know it had been them though? Blu asked.
"How do they come to know anything?" Sergei thew back at him. "They're good at what they do, Blu."
"We are fucked."
"No, we're not."
"Oh?"
"We have you."
"Oh?"
"You do what you're good at and fix this." Uncle smirked.
"I don't have a choice."
"It's your mess."
Wheels were beginning to turn in Blu's head when Uncle abandoned his cool disposition and walked up to him. "Don't even think about slithering your way out of this, you little piss. You've been a real pest to the Bratva for a long time now, that completely out of the line attack on the stadium was the last straw. You will sort this shit out on your own."
"You mean I've been a real pest to you." Blu smiled his ugly smile, irking his boss. "A thorn in your side."
"Don't tempt me, Blu."
"What will you do? They're starting to like me."
Uncle grabbed his chin and pulled his face down so Blu met his eyes. "You know fuck well what I'll do." Blu felt his blood boil. His uncle was a damn thirty-year-old fruit. The nasty scum had put his hands where they didn't belong. Blu let his knife poke against his uncle's belly through his white shirt. "Put the knife away, boy. You don't scare me."
"I could cut you." Blu spat in his face. He earned a slap in his own for that. Sergei had let go to wipe the spit off with a hand.
"I am not touching this."
"Like always," Blu muttered.
"What was that?" Uncle stepped close again. Blu refused to back away.
"I need your men," he said instead. Sergei was fucking untouchable as long as he was Vor of the Bratva. This was why he needed to find King, so that he could finally be free to put a bullet in his uncle's nut.
"They're yours" Sergei's fingers brushed the side of Blu's jaw. "Be a good boy now. Your mother left you in my care. Don't you want to make her proud?"
"Like I give a fuck," said Blu, hands shaking from the urge to gut Sergei to pieces.
Uncle laughed. He closed his eyes.
"Don't close your eyes, Blu. They're your best feature. So full of hatred. Let me see those beautiful cerulean blues." Blu opened them to glare at Sergei, promising murder.
"There we go," Uncle chuckled. "So you do know how to take orders." He pressed a rough kiss on his nephew's mouth and pushed him away. "Don't make me angry, Blu. Do your job."
The door closed behind him and Blu looked down at his bloody hands. He'd been clutching the sharp end of the blade in his fist. It took everything to hold himself back from hurting his uncle. From tearing that door open and chasing him down the fucking hall.
Violent thoughts were running through his head when the sound of the near unconscious man stirring interrupted him. He felt animosity surge inside of him. Blu swung a foot over the man's legs to plant his feet on both sides of him. He envisioned his victim wearing his uncle's clothes, his rings, his boots, and his disgustingly handsome face. Blu let a smile grace his profile before gripping the knife with both hands and raising it high above his head.
Yegor's son's hot-headed attitude was not the only thing that'd given them a bad name. Yegor had a daughter. The bright, shining, ever-so reliable Helena, who had been marked with greatness upon her very birth. The one who'd questioned their morals; caused them to question their own. Those who had been around her always knew deep down she was too good to be a woman of the Bratva. Her ideas, though brilliant, had been too plain. Her judgments too just.
And though they never truly thought she'd betray the Brotherhood, they weren't all that surprised either when she ran away at sixteen. The Mogilevichs had hunted very nook and cranny for Helena, and never found her. Proving once again, she'd been too smart for the Bratva.
After years of searching, unable to find a single trace of her, they'd written her off as dead. But, two years ago, on the night of the attack, Blu had stumbled upon a boy with the original seal of the Bratva hanging off his neck. The only way a person could've gotten hold of that necklace would have been either if he'd pried it off the very breast of an elite member of the Bratva, or if a member of the family had given it to him. The necklace was worn only by those who were closely bound to the Vor. There were only ten of them in total.
Blu had been having the time of his life when the boy had run across the lot to help his friends. He fucking despised heroes, and little runts acting like them, ticked him off even more. It reminded him of when, as a kid, he'd stood up against his uncle for his mother. That had not ended well. At all.
He'd been this close to killing the boy when the necklace had slipped out – the back of the eight-pointed star glinting up at him had hit him like a whiplash. The missing heir of the Bratva? Where would that put him? If Helena's grandchild entered the scene, Blu would be fucking dethroned. His grandfather had been the youngest of Yegor's children. The third one. The one who'd saved the family from utter disgrace. And the thought, that there was no way Blu could be replaced, that Helena had left everything behind when she'd run away, and with that, her position in the family, had not entered his head then. He wanted to squash the little pig with his bare hands, but curiosity had somehow gotten the better of him and he'd asked: Where did you get the necklace from?
And the boy had said his grandmother had given it to him, like a scene straight out of a nightmare. Blu still marveled at the mammoth restraint he'd exercised upon himself in letting the boy go without leaving more than a scratch on his body. Fucking phenomenal. Because he'd been unsure of what to do with the potential heir if it really were him. He might be a monster, but he was a sensible monster. Unlike his brothers, he used his brain (Another reason why he should be the head of the organization). He'd let him go because he needed to think, and also, find out a little more about the boy.
And right after he'd gotten to his hideout that night, he'd pulled out his laptop and set to work. Blu had found out a few things about him. His name was Tyson Granger, now eighteen years old, was a huge sensation in the sport of Beyblade (Three-time world champion. Would've made it four if Blu hadn't fucked it all up), was apparently a stupid little fuck when it came to everything else, had lots of friends and his grandmother was not and had never been, a woman of the Bratva. He'd lied. The fucker had lied to Blu. The very nerve. Quite impressive actually, because that had been the first time a fucker had lied to protect someone while looking death (Blu) in the eye. So, he was probably one of the goody-goodys. He hated that lot. Really. And he had the smug face to go along with the hero complex as well. Abhorrent.
So, which one of his friends had he been trying to protect and more importantly, was he still trying to protect them? Blu had been stalking Granger for over two years now and one thing had been becoming more and more painfully obvious. Blu grimaced at the screen as he watched Tyson Granger down another shot of vodka.
"I don't..." Tyson was interrupted by his own giggle. "I don't think it's hitting me anymore." He collapsed against Michael on the couch, who shoved him off his lap. "I'm immune to it."
"Dude" Michael Summers watched Tyson tiredly laugh, a halfway empty glass in hand, his hair falling in his face. "You are so gone." The party thrived around them, the heat from all the bodies crammed into the room making them sweat, the music loud enough to drown out their thoughts, the beat sick enough to keep them happily intoxicated. They'd been going for four hours, and they were going to keep going for another four.
"Guess what happened last night?" Eddy asked.
"What?"
Tyson rested his head on Eddy's shoulder and set one foot upon Michael's knee and sighed, smoke drifting up from his mouth. He listened to the guys talk, his pupils dilating, eyelids fluttering with sleep. "So there's this chick in my lit class," Eddy's shoulder moved under his head as he made gestures with his hands. "I can't remember her name, but like, she hates us frat boys so much, especially us Pike boys."
"Rhonda?"
"Yeah! That's her name. The one with the glasses?"
"Yeah, what about her?"
"She said last night, that we cheated at last year's Greek games."
"What the fuck?"
"I know right? Jackson got so mad, he went ape shit on her."
"Jackson can't handle shit."
"Anyway, we got so into it-"
"Into what?"
"Dude, I just told you."
Michael sniffed and shook his head. "Naw, man, don' remember."
"The fuck?" Eddy jerked around, a hand braced against Tyson to keep his skull from falling off its berth as he did so to look at Michael in amazement. "Swear to God, man, you have the memory of a chihuahua."
"Chihuahuas have great memory, you ass." Michael took another swig from the bottle hanging off his fingers. A burp escaped his mouth and he burst out laughing at its sound. Tyson made love to the ceiling with his eyes, tongue caught between his lips. He enjoyed the way his mind spun faster when Eddy's body shook with laughter under him.
Someone let out a whoop from the other side of the room and they all turned their heads to look. They were at one of the illest frat parties thrown by the alphas of NYU. The very best parties you will ever attend in your life were thrown by the Pi Kappa Alpha and Tyson had but all good things to say about this house. Tyson loved this house. He just loved it. Period.
He got in before he even set foot on campus. (No, really!) How'd he manage to get in? Because he's Tyson Granger for fuck's sake. VIP and all that. What, did you the think the most athletic frat on campus wouldn't recruit Tyson Granger? Bitch, they came and fucking begged him to join. No joke.
Lions rolled with lions and Tyson was fucking king on campus, though right now, he felt more like, a close second to the king. What? The pool game! Right! That was why they were whooping. Kui over there was beginning to look like a total snack and Tyson was getting really turned on. May be he should go and ...pee. Yeah, he should go pee. He really needed to go at the moment. "Excuse me, Mike? I'll be right back."
He stared at his legs really hard as they danced in front of him. What were his legs doing? The flutterwacken? Jesus Christ. He needed a drink. Nope, he needed to pee. Bathroom, he was coming your way. Tyson stood up really fast and the room tilted around him. He grit his teeth as the liquor sloshed in his stomach or may be in his mind. He didn't know. He was feeling sick now. And before he knew it, he was face down on the floor and the carpet smelled something really nasty. Ew. Man, it stank worse than Michael after baseball practice. Dear Mike was talking. "Why are you sniffing my shoe?"
"Dude, it' the carpe'" Tyson mumbled.
"What?!" Mike fell over laughing and Eddy sounded like some sort of a whale snorting.
"He knows one syllable." Oooh, that was a silky voice. Who was thaaaat? Tyson's nose was still buried in the fine, reeking fibres so he couldn't see. Wait, you use your eyes to see. Not your nose. So why couldn't he see? May be he was going blind? Oh shit! They did say the Big H was bad for his health. Yeah, fuck H. No, fuck them for saying it, because he was all paranoid now. It was all in his head. H was good. The White Lady was the love of his life. I love you, Heroin. Heroine? Girl? He was gay! He didn't like girls. No, he did like girls. They were...nice.
He was not gay.
He was Tyson. Or was he? He didn't know anymore and he was going to pee on their fucking posh carpet that already smelled like piss. Somebody was lifting him up. Oh thank you. Thank you, whoever you are. "What are you doing on the floor, Tyson?" It was silky voice! I love your voice...
I want to make love to your voice. Tyson giggled and then stopped because Silky Voice looked a little startled. He had a nice face too. But the face was startled now because he must have said it out loud. Oh dang it! Or may be this was a good thing. He probably should say it again. Yeah... "I want to make love to your voice.." He slurred a little but that was still okay. Silky Voice looked impressed. Yes! He was getting laid tonight. Oh. He felt weird. Like, there was something he had to do. Something important. Silky Voice would have to wait.
Tyson pat his nice face and steered himself carefully over to the bathroom. The people fucking leaked bad body odour. He wanted to yell at them to go take a shower or may be five showers. Eeesh. Tyson banged the door shut behind him and inhaled. Then let out a sigh. It was much quieter here. He liked it here. May be he'd stay here for a little while. Sounded like a good idea. Genius. He was such a genius.
Oh
Somebody was manhandling his pants. Get away from my... He still couldn't see. Because his eyes were closed. He had to open them. Opening them...Oh it was a girl! What is she doing here? What is she doing to him? "This is the gents bathroom," he told her clearly, and was immediately proud of himself for being so articulate. He could enunciate. Gosh. The girl had her hands on his zipper. She'd been on her knees. She stood up. Pink hair. He liked that. Nice, Pink Hair.
"Is it?" she asked him, biting her lip. "I didn't know. I'm sorry." She snaked a hand in and Tyson gasped. "Do you want me to leave?"
Tyson's mouth fell open and she laughed at his helplessness as he shook his head no. In such a pathetic fashion. She was so good. So good. Her mouth came down on his and he forgot about his surroundings. Not that he'd been aware of them in the first place...
A knock. Go away, he was having a good time. Please, go away. Go away, you asshole! The buzzkill kept knocking and Tyson reluctantly pushed the girl away. He held up a finger when she looked disappointed. "Just a sec," he mouthed before opening the door. It was Michael.
"Mike!" Tyson hissed. "Fuck off!"
"I'm sorry, but there's some weird guy out there asking for you."
"Who? Where?" Tyson blinked his eyes to clear the fogginess in his mind as the pink-haired girl nibbled at his ear. He bit down on his lip in impatience while waiting for Mike to answer. "I don't know. He's out on the front porch. He said it was important and that you called him here."
"I didn't call anybody..." Tyson was saying when something in his pocket pressed against his thigh. He looked down and remembered. The necklace.
And then he wanted to puke and pee all at the same time. So he did that. And once he was done, he brushed a kiss on the pink-haired girl's cheek and left her to do her thing in the gents toilet. On his way out of the house, he grabbed two lemon halves that had been lying on the beer table and squeezed their juice down his throat. The incredible sourness sobered him up enough to not glare in welcome at the wiry guy standing at the foot of the steps to the Pi Kappa Alpha house. He tried a wry smile as he climbed down the steps.
The guy, JB, had a feverish look on his face. His eyes kept shifting around in their sockets like he was afraid somebody might jump out of the bushes any moment and whack him dead. He had his hands in his pockets and looked Tyson up and down about ten times before coming really close and speaking to him in hushed and hurried tones. "Come with me quick. We don't have a lot of time."
"Your guy is here?"
"Yes," JB turned his head to look behind him for a second, before whipping around and saying, "but he won't be here for long. Let's go."
Tyson knew JB from wandering through dark alleys when he and Hiro first got to New York. All the pain that constantly ate away at him had him itching to inflict that pain upon someone else. Find the guy who'd murdered his family and friends. Find the guy and make him pay. JB hung out with the shadows of NY city and he'd watched Tyson for months before finally approaching him one day. They'd talked. JB had helped him with the pain. At least showed him a way to escape from it for a few hours.
Tyson didn't feel like himself anymore. He hadn't felt like himself ever since that night at the stadium. But when he was high or partying, he felt...better. A lot better than he was sober. Sober he couldn't go six seconds without plotting revenge. And he'd been asking around the shadows if they knew what the eight-pointed star meant. The pretty thing gave him nightmares and he had to seek for drugs when he started thinking about ending his life. Beyblade was a word he did not have in his dictionary anymore. Nothing gave him comfort. Except for Smack. Smack gave him momentary comfort.
He liked to think of himself as a conscious addict. He knew he could clean up his act if he wanted to, but he chose to keep himself intoxicated as long as his father's killer was on the loose. He would not die before that man paid for his sins and he wanted to personally make sure that he did. JB had a lot of shady contacts. He was his dealer as well as his go-to man when it came to exacting vengeance for the death of his loved ones. JB couldn't help him a lot in the latter case though. But a few days ago, JB turned up at his dorm room in the middle of the night to tell him that a certain figure would soon be haunting NY's alleys and said figure had a lot of underworld connections. Tyson didn't know about "underworld connections", but he was willing to give anybody and anything a go. Who knew? May be this man could help him identify whom the chain belonged to.
Tyson texted Mike that he had an errand to run and will be back soon, as he walked alongside JB. He pulled up the hood of his jacket as they made it past campus grounds and began navigating through the deep networks that wound around the city. JB was super fast, his steps were light and quick and Tyson had to pick up his pace every now and then to keep up with him. He knew the way around these buildings well in the dark by now, that was how long he'd spent sneaking along the dangerous parts of NY.
JB took so many turns Tyson sort of lost track of where he was going. He could operate while he was higher than a pothead on the moon, but he performed best when he was somewhere in between sober and high. Safe to say, he wasn't doing that well tonight, and JB was taking advantage of it. Tyson and JB were not friends. They were mere acquaintances who shared their pain with each other sometimes. They understood each other on a certain significant level though and that was enough for both of them.
After what seemed like hours, Tyson had successfully managed to lose track of where they were going when they finally reached their destination. A door that had seen better days stood in front of him and JB pushed it open for him. Tyson stepped through it first and shivered from the sudden cold. They descended down a flight of rickety stairs and went through another red door with two menacing men standing on guard outside it. The minute Tyson's foot crossed the threshold, his nostrils were invaded by the smell of strawberry flavored tobacco. He wrapped the end of a shirt sleeve around his nose. The room was dimly lit by yellow lamps, the walls covered with tapestry, the air foggy with smoke.
They entered a hall and Tyson halted. A man in a white tailored suit sat in the middle of the room waiting for them, five of his men lurking in the corners, watching them. He looked around forty with a wide nose and mouth, a scar marred one side of his face – from his bushy eyebrows, cutting through his mouth, to his chin – like somebody had slashed his face with a knife, his smile was crooked and he had a gap between his two front teeth. A hookah stood beside him on the floor – he drew from it, appraising Tyson as he did so. He squinted and asked in a deep voice, "Are you dumb?"
Tyson jumped, taken off guard by the sudden sound in the quietness. "No"
"Then why are you standing and staring at me like you forgot how to speak?" He spoke in a manner that made Tyson feel like he'd known him since birth. Like an uncle. Who was constantly mad at you.
"Sorry, I uh I wanted to ask you something."
"You're not going to offer me your name?"
"Should I?" Tyson felt unhinged.
"No" He waved a dismissive hand and sucked on the pipe. "I already know your name," he said, smoke escaping through his mouth and enveloping him.
Tyson glanced at JB, whose poker face betrayed nothing, but Tyson suspected JB for ruining the anonymity anyway. "What's your name then? If you know mine, I have the right to know yours."
"Call me RM" he said after a beat had passed. "Now ask, boy, I don't have a lot of time."
Tyson, despite his doubts and uncertainty, slipped a hand into his pocket to palm the chain. He brought out a fist and walked up to the man. "Do you know what this is?" He opened his fist to reveal the star. RM went still, eyeing the chain, then slowly raised his gaze to Tyson's face. He reached for it and Tyson let him take it from him.
The man held it up to the light, examining the smooth back of the star. Tyson held his breath as time ticked by, something about the way RM stared at the star told him that he knew what it was and that it was making him sweat. JB came closer as RM lightly scratched the surface of the gold and held it up to the light again. A panicked look flashed in his eyes and Tyson demanded, "Do you know who it belongs to?"
RM stood up all of a sudden, knocking the chair back, and his men around them tensed. He grabbed Tyson by his collar and jerked him forward. "Where did you get this from?" he asked furiously.
"Somebody gave it to me."
"Gave it to you? Are you fucking kidding me? Do I look that stupid to you?" RM shouted in his face.
"I swear, I'm not lying!" Tyson tried to remove the man's fingers from him. "What is it? What's wrong?"
"Now, you listen to me very closely, Tyson Granger," His hookah-mingled breath washed over Tyson as he spoke in frenzied tones. "This" He referred to the chain. "This is no fucking joke. Wherever you stole it from, whomever you stole it from, you return it right now. You understand?"
"No! I didn't steal it. A friend gave it to me." Tyson snatched the star back from him and RM looked at him incredulously.
"Which friend? What friend? What are you saying, boy? Do you even know what you are saying?"
"What am I saying?" Tyson asked, confused.
RM rubbed a hand over his face and took a few deep breaths. He calmly analyzed Tyson for two whole minutes before asking, "Do you have friends in the Russian mafia?"
A/N: YES. I KNOW. Actually, I don't know. And that is great. I wanted to write it. I wrote it. Period.
(1) Fucking great
(2) Okay, we are fucked
