Alright, so. After having an all out marathon with my brother of Beyblade to Metal Fight Beyblade and beyond, he asked me, "What do you think would be different if the two universes weren't separated?" That sent my mind off on a wild goose chase as I worked through everything. I put it all down on paper and poof! I had a story outline.

So, warning, this fic is a x-over of the original Beyblade and MFB, but not quite in the way you'd expect. In this universe, the Bladebreakers came about sixteen years before MFB. Therefore, the MFB characters won't be showing up for quite some time! (I've gotta get through BB, V-Force, and G-Rev and some filler before we get there.) If you came here to read an awesome showdown between the Old Guard and the New Guard, you are in the wrong place. This is going to be a long, wild, likely bumpy, and very hellish (for me) ride. Hang on tight!

Double warning, I'm also basing everything off of the dubs. I grew up with the MFB dubs, and the first stuff I found of the originals were dubs, so the names and characteristics of the characters also came from the dubs. This also means no Japanese honorifics or anything because I'm fairly sure I won't do them justice. I'd rather write something correct-ish than cannibalize another culture. That being said, however, I will still do my best to research everything I can to make this as accurate as possible. This is a love-letter to a franchise.

I unfortunately do not own Beyblade or MFB. If I did, we'd have had more Shogun Steel/Zero-G after the DNA incident because honestly, who doesn't love adult Gingka?

P.S. I'm also doing an OC here, so if she gets Mary-Sueish, send me a warning. If I'm irredeemable, I'll die of shame.

One of the first things I remember is drowning in something impossible to describe, even now. It was like a blanket of energy had draped itself over the world. It was thick, thrumming with carefully contained power; it was easy to get lost, to feel like oxygen couldn't reach my lungs, to wake in the night gasping for air.

And I was the only one who felt it.

I think that was the worst part when I was young. No one understood. No one had a name for what I was feeling. It was nameless, faceless, and I was powerless under its heavy weight. The energy became my personal monster, no, my waking nightmare. Anything requiring breath, from speaking to running, terrified me to no end. I refused to talk or exorcise. I quickly fell behind my peers in development because every time I tried to learn, the blanket smothered me once again.

Then, I saw my first Beybattle.

It was a chance encounter, something that just happened, though, I realize now that it would have happened somehow. Beyblade was far too popular for me to avoid it forever,

I don't even remember the boys names, I just remember that feeling. I remember the storm of energy brewing around the tiny ring and the passion in their eyes. Everything snapped into focus, and suddenly, I had a name, I had a face. I couldn't quite see it, but the echoes of battle, the whisperings of a power beyond human comprehension, burned themselves into my mind. I became obsessed with the sport, and my first full sentence to my mother was my plea for a Beyblade of my very own.

Overjoyed, my parents bought me everything they could in the hopes that it would bring me closer to them. I'd discovered my method of harnessing and understanding the strange energy surrounding my life. No longer was I afraid of drowning with every breath; no longer was the cloak my enemy. I spent my youth beyblading against anyone I could find, which, of course, is where my journey began.

My name is Sara Hamada. At ten years old, I saw my first bit-beast. At ten years old, I competed in my first beyblade tournament. At ten years old, my beyblade career ended as quickly as it had begun.

By the time I was thirty, I'd seen the end of the world.

I first met Tyson Granger and Kenny "Chief" Manabu at the place where I'd meet most of my best friends: a Bey Park. The general assumption is that we'd known each other for years before then, having grown up on the same street. The truth, however, is fairly complicated.

Kenny is easiest to explain. He'd just moved from another district that summer; there was no way either of us had met before that fateful day.

Tyson, however, is a different story. It was impossible to be a blader in our neighborhood without at least knowing Tyson's name. He wasn't quite the strongest blader, like most people assume, but he'd always had the most spirit. It was said that his battles were always exciting and fun because he would get so pumped over every single match. It didn't matter if your bey was made badly or if you were super tough, Tyson would take any challenge with the same amount of fiery passion he'd be known for much later.

In fact, I believe that of everything that's changed about his battling over the years, that passion is the one piece of him that hasn't changed at all.

Anyhow, I avoided the boy at all costs, taking care to only go to the park when he wasn't around. Remember that energy I talked about? Well, it followed him everywhere. It surrounded him in the thickest concentration I'd ever felt, and the one time I'd talked with him - even after I'd found beyblading - I'd felt like I was dying. To me, the boy was a terrifying anomaly.

So when we met that warm summer day, my life changed forever.

"Alright, Moses," I cheered, "you can do it!"

Said boy smirked in my direction, giving me a big thumbs up before turning back to the battle at hand. "Now!" he ordered. His fist pumped into the air as his opponent's top flew out of the small arena and into the dirt. "I win!" he crowed.

His opponent's head dropped. "But I spent the whole day yesterday rebuilding my bey," he said softly. "Why didn't it work this time?"

"Tommy," I said gently, pulling his beyblade off the concrete, "this is the third time this week you've rebuilt your blade from the ground up." I inspected it carefully. It really was a well crafted blade. "Maybe instead of simply rebuilding your bey from the ground up every time you lose, you should take the time to get to know your beyblade better. You may have built it with all the right parts to get the results you want, but you don't know it's quirks and weaknesses until you battle with it enough."

He took the top from me with shaky fingers. "Is that really all it takes?" he asked, eyes shining with more than just tears. The expression on his face reminded me that this was a very impressionable seven-year-old.

"Well," I cautioned, "it takes more than just knowing your blade." I pulled my own blade from the holster at my hip. Its white and blue metal shined in the sun, showing off the care and detail I put into it, but also showing some the dings and scratches that were beyond my skill to fix. "Every blade has its strengths and weaknesses," I explained. I pointed at the tip of my blade. "This part makes my blade slower, but it also makes it spin longer. So, my blade has a lot of endurance, which means that in a drawn out battle, I have a better chance at winning.

"However, see this?" I said, pointing at some of the dings in the metal. "Against an attack type bey, especially one that can hit these points, my blade won't do so well without a decent strategy."

The boy nodded slowly. "So I need strategy too," he said carefully.

"Give it some time, kiddo," I said. I shot my fist out in front of me in a silent invitation. Tommy raised his own and hesitantly bumped it against mine. "Beyblading isn't easy," I advised, "but if you practice, you'll be amazing in no time!"

"Cool!" he exclaimed. I could almost see him vibrating in anticipation. "Battle me, Sara! Please!"

I scratched the back of my head sheepishly. I really hadn't intended for him to get that excited. "Maybe some other time?" I suggested. "I'm kind of waiting on someone. He wanted me to watch his battle." Both Tommy and Moses deflated at that. "But you can stick around and watch!" I amended, waving my arms in front of me. "Andrew usually likes an audience!"

"Whoa," Moses breathed, "Andrew? Who's he battling?"

I frowned, mulling over the question. "You know," I murmured, "he never told me." Odd, usually he'd brag about his upcoming matches. "I'm sure whoever it is, they're strong!" I said with a brilliant smile.

"Have you ever beat Andrew?" Tommy asked.

I grinned. "I came close a few days ago," I said. I looked down at my bey again. "He just barely managed to push me out of the stadium."

"Sara!" a voice called from the stairwell entrance. I looked up to see a gangly boy about two feet taller than me waving in my direction.

I waved back, feeling slightly uncomfortable. The small boy on one of the stone steps - detached from the scene, but not too detached - had inched forward during my lesson, but then he'd been feigning interest in the small laptop resting on his lap. Now, his attention was eerily focused on my movements. Most unsettling, however, was the concentration of what I'd dubbed Bey Energy hovering around his person.

"Hey, Andrew! You ready for your battle?" I called back with all the energy I could muster. A small group of kids came out of the stairwell behind him, likely wishing to see the fight soon to go down. I used my friend's sudden appearance as an excuse to move away from the kid and his weird energy.

The teen nodded. "Totally," he said, a grin stretching across his face. "You think you and I could talk strategy for a bit?"

I shrugged. "Yeah, sure," I agreed, "if you don't think it'll bother you before the match."

"Nah," he said with a wave of his hand, "I think I know what I'm gonna do, but I just want to be sure, ya know?"

"I get it," I said, sitting on a secluded part of the stone steps. Andrew took a place on my left side and shooed some of the rabble away. "So," I said, "what's the type of blade?"

"Attack," Andrew said without even taking a moment to think about it, "definitely an attack type bey."

So, fast and powerful. "Can I see your bey?" I asked softly. The boy obliged, pulling out a deep blue top. I held it carefully in my hands. "Did you add a heavier attack ring?" I asked.

He nodded. "I figured it would make it harder to knock-out," he explained.

I hummed in acknowledgement, twirling the heavy beyblade in my hands. A few dings dotted the blue metal here and there, but overall, it was in good condition. The heavier attack ring could cause some balance problems, but Andrew was right. A heavier bey was harder to knock-out than a lighter one. It was a good match against an attack type bey.

"I'm assuming you've tested it?" I said, handing the top back to him.

"A few times," he admitted, "there were some balance issues early on, but I think I've tweaked it enough to where there's not as much of a problem."

"That's the weakness of a defense type," I acknowledged. I placed my hands behind my head and leaned onto the stair behind me. "I trust you, though. If you say you've worked out the kinks, you've worked out the kinks." With that simple declaration, our conversation stalled. I occupied myself with watching wisps of Bey Energy float above my head. In areas where beybattles often occur, the energy grows strong enough to where it becomes visible.

"Hey, Andrew," someone called from the gaggle of bladers, "are you sure Tyson's gonna be here?"

I choked on my breath and shot up into a sitting position. "Tyson!" I exclaimed, my heart hammering at the mention of the name. "You're battling Tyson?" I paused and steadied my breathing.

Andrew took advantage of the moment. "He asked me for a match. What was I supposed to say? No?"

"You could have said something!" I fired back. "You know I can't stand him!" I began fiddling with the edges of my shirt, rolling the pink and white folds between my fingers - a nervous twitch I'd developed over the years.

The teen gave me a calculating look. Oh, Andrew knew about my "problem" with Tyson. It's hard to be best friends for seven years without him knowing the whole story. "Sara," he said, "you can't avoid him forever. What happens when you go pro? You might meet people with worse… quirks."

At that, a few members of our audience snickered. It was likely they were thinking of Tyson's loud personality. Good, I thought to myself, let them think what they want. As long as it isn't the truth.

I glared at Andrew and put on my best pouting face. "Fine," I muttered, "I'll stay, but only because you're paying me back with cookies later."

He chuckled. "Sure thing. My mom would be happy to make a batch or two."

"Uh, Andrew?" someone cut in with a note of urgency. "Someone's here."

Our attention snapped to the stairwell where a figure stood, hidden in the shadows cast by the sun. "I'm looking for someone named Andrew," a whiny voice said. The figure moved into the sunlight, revealing a stocky boy in a vest and skull t-shirt. He carried a large, burlap sack over his shoulder.

"Who're you?" I asked. Unkempt, completely not put together. Burlap sack over one shoulder. Red bandana holding back greasy black hair. Something about him made me tense at his presence, as if my fight or flight instincts were set to flight at the mere sight of him. I spared a warning glance at Andrew. Whoever this guy was, he wasn't good news.

The boy moved further out of the shadows. A clicking sound accompanied every swaggering step he took. "The name's…" he started, pausing for dramatic effect, "Carlos." His grin spread into a sneer at his name. Somehow, the look managed to morph his face into something not recognizably human.

I heard a soft voice behind me murmur, "Carlos?" A swift glance told me that the speaker was the young boy I'd noticed earlier. I locked eyes with him and shook my head. Whatever you do, I warned in my mind, you don't want to get mixed up in this. The boy seemed to get the message, and with a small squeak, he ducked behind his computer screen.

"Is that your beyblade?" Carlos asked.

Don't respond. Don't respond, I willed silently at Andrew.

"Yeah," he said, glancing at the top in his hand.

The other boy snorted. "Wimpy." At his comment, a few members of the crowd roused from their surprised stupor and shouted protests at the new presence.

"Cool it," Andrew ordered the crowd. Immediately, everyone fell silent. "So," he replied, "you think you can beat me." He stepped forward.

"Yeah," Carlos answered.

"I'd like to see you try," Andrew challenged in that "you have no idea what you're doing" sort of way.

I gripped his arm and hissed, "Andrew! We don't know what he's capable of!"

My friend glanced down at me and gently shook me off. "Sara, I need to do this." His eyes steeled in determination. "This is my turf," he said loudly, more for the benefit of the crowd and Carlos than for me, "and I'm going to defend it."

I shook my head once more and opened my mouth to protest, but a cold look from the teen shut me down before I could make an argument.

"There's something you should know, first," Carlos warned, pulling the bag off his shoulder. "Just a little thing." With those ominous words, he flung the bag to the ground, spilling dozens of beyblades big and small onto the hard concrete.

I gasped. "The clicking," I whispered. The air around me felt heavy once more, like I was drowning in someone else's misery. It was a deep pang of sorrow, as if I had lost something immense. It took a few moments for my breathing to start again before I accused, "You stole those beys." At my accusation, the crowd gasped. It was an unspoken rule amongst bladers that no blader should ever steal the beyblade of another. Beyblade didn't run on a spoils system. It ran on hard work, a little luck, and building a good blade.

The boy before us laughed. The sound was deep and throaty, as if he were suddenly much older than he appeared. He gathered his wits and levelled a dark look at me. "How did you know that?" he inquired.

"Why else would you have that many beys?" I countered. I did my best to ignore the wailing grief emanating from the spilled beyblades and shove it deep down in my mind. If I was going to help Andrew win, I needed an clear mind.

"Carlos!" the teen next to me called. Those dark eyes moved away from me and onto my friend. "If I win, I take those beyblades back and return them to their owners."

Carlos's eyes impossibly narrowed further. "Fine," he said, far too calm for the situation, "I take your blade if you win."

Andrew's fist clenched at the challenge. "You're on," he answered through gritted teeth. He stepped up to the bey stadium and pulled out his launcher. The other boy followed suit, his smirk widening as he pulled out his own launcher.

"Three!" the crowd called. It wasn't the battle they were expecting, but seeing their neighborhood hero take down a bad guy was just as exciting.

"Two!" Andrew called in response, his grip tensing on the launcher.

"One," Carlos said eyes narrowed.

The two blades flew from their respective launchers and into the stadium. Surprisingly, Carlos's orange bey spun into the center of the stadium and stayed there while Andrew's blade circled the outer edge. Usually, both blades would circle the outer edges of the stadium for a few seconds before falling into the center.

Something's up with that bey, I thought. A quick glance at Andrew revealed that he'd seen the odd behavior as well.

"Defense on defense," I said softly enough that no one else could hear. At this point, it would come down to weight, but with the other bey's behavior, I seriously doubted that Andrew could win the match.

"Hey, Andrew!" a tinny voice shouted through the tension. "Did you really start without me?"

I tore my eyes away from the battle and glared at the intruder. Tyson Granger had arrived in all his tri-colored glory. Usually, his brightly colored attire and smiling face would light up any situation in the neighborhood, but with stakes this high, no one took the interruption well, especially when Andrew's bey flew out of the stadium moments later.

Everyone stood in shock, staring at the deep blue blade that carried our hopes on its shoulders as it rolled along the rooftop.

Andrew made a choking sound as Carlos snagged the blade from the ground. "T-Tyson," he said, finally finding his voice, "I'm sorry, but our beybattle is off this afternoon."

"What?" Tyson exclaimed. "You can't be serious!"

"Oh, he's serious," Carlos said, winking at Andrew. He turned away from us to glare at the new blader. "He's saying get lost, kid. What don'tcha get about that?" He turned fully and changed his posture from one of confidence to one of aggression. "I'm gonna take your friend's blade, and you're next on my list. Got that?"

"Tyson!" I called. "He takes the blades of people who lose to him!" I pointed at the ground where Carlos's burlap sack had been discarded. "Don't fight him! Leave!"

"You shut up, girl!" Carlos snapped, whirling his eyes on me once more.

Behind him, Tyson was gritting his teeth. "Man," he muttered. Carlos whirled around, ready to goad Tyson into action again, but the other blader beat him to it, throwing out an impassioned, "That's just wrong!"

At that, Carlos froze, his shoulders tensing beneath his vest.

Tyson took a breath and raised his eyes so that he could look the thief right in the eye. "To bladers, our blade represents us in battle, whether we win, or lose. We blade together, we win and lose together, and we even fix our blades together. So how dare you take them away from us?"

"For fun then, I guess," Carlos answered the rhetorical question. He started laughing again. Unlike the laugh from before, this one felt entirely fake.

Tyson, he's goading you. Don't listen to him. This was bad, very bad. If I didn't do something now, another strong blader would lose his blade today. If we wanted to win, we'd have to stall for time.

"Tyson," I said suddenly, "your blade is damaged, isn't it?" It was complete bull, but it was the best thing I could think of at the moment. "Maybe you should hold off on battling Carlos until we get it fixed."

"What?" Tyson said, a confused look taking over his face. He pulled his blade out of his pocket. "It's not damaged. It's just-"

The kid with the laptop from earlier shot out of his seat and strode over to Tyson, snagging the boys blade from his hand. He made a show of inspecting the blade carefully. "Sara's right, there are some deep scratches on your blade. We'll need to get these fixed, or your blade will fall apart." He kicked Tyson in the shin, silencing the retort the blader was about to make. "How many times have I told you, Tyson? You can't just shoot your blade around willy nilly without taking proper care of it."

"Carlos," I said. The other blader didn't acknowledge me, but I knew he was listening. "It won't be any fun taking down a weak beyblade. Wouldn't you want to face Tyson when he's at his strongest?"

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the little kid unapologetically jam his foot into Tyson's. The blader's face went red, but he stubbornly refused to cry out. The rooftop waited with bated breath as Carlos mulled over the question.

Andrew signalled something to me. I ignored it and instead kept my gaze on the thief. I understood that whatever he did next would decide the fate of the neighborhood.

The stocky blader reached down and gathered up the scattered blades into his bag, making a show of tossing Andrew's blade in with them. He strode purposely past Tyson to the doorway. "Alright then," he said. The thief turned swiftly on his heel and jabbed a finger at Tyson. "We'll meet by the river. Tomorrow. At three."

Then, he was gone, taking his last words with him.

"What was that all about?" Tyson shouted once the thief's laughter faded. He levelled a glare at me. "You had no right to get in the way of a battle."

"Hey, you interrupted mine," Andrew accused. "I might have won if you'd stayed quiet."

I sighed. "You," I said, pointing at Tyson, "need a level head." I whirled around and jabbed Andrew in the side. "You shouldn't blame others. You'd have lost the match no matter what happened."

"How do you know?" Andrew argued. The gangly teen waved his arms in the air. "You didn't battle. You wouldn't know!"

I was about to bite back with something I would have regretted when the kid with the laptop said, "Let's go to the park. I can explain everything there."

I blinked and shifted my gaze to him. "Who're you?"

"Kenny," he informed me, holding out a hand, "and you're Sara Hamada. You're in my database They call me The Chief around here because I know all about beyblading."

"I've heard about you," I murmured. My thoughts followed the pieces of the puzzle in my brain as it put everything together. "You're the kid with the bit beast in your computer, right?"

"Yes, Dizzy," the boy explained.

"It's nice to finally meet you, Sara," a feminine voice, Dizzy, said from the small laptop. The moment she addressed me, the energy in the air spiked. A light headed sensation took over me, and I fought to keep myself from keeling over.

"So this kid is the real deal?" Andrew asked skeptically.

I nodded. "Word on the street is that he's really good at breaking beys down," I confirmed. I looked to Tyson. "Maybe you should take his advice."

He crossed his arms over his chest and huffed. "Fine. But you'd better apologize!"

With that last jab, Tyson disappeared into the stairwell. Kenny wasn't far behind.

"Uh, maybe we should follow?" Andrew inquired, staring into the darkness.

"Maybe we should," I agreed.

They say that past is prologue, which, I guess, is sort of true. But my meeting Tyson and Kenny - along with another important blader in our shared history - was the catalyst for everything to come.

And who said nothing good could come from evil?

Well, there you have it. I'm doing my best to make sure that we follow some stations of the canon, but not too much. The Butterfly Effect is all about how a slight change can alter the world in huge ways, right? So some things have to go the way they will. One thing I will say, however, is that the one speech Tyson makes is unchanged from the original because it's honestly a Character Defining Moment and really deserves to act as such. It also brings up some of the tenets of the entire Beyblade franchise, so it really needs to be there.

So, like? Dislike? Questioning my sanity? (I sure am!) Review or PM me - whichever you prefer - to get in touch. I promise, I'll get back to you ASAP!