Chapter 2: Looking Around
I thrust open the glass doors and was greeted by an icy cold breeze. I shuddered slightly, and sighed, and then continued on my way. People in heavy jackets of various colors glanced at me as I walked on by. In a few short hours of walking in complete ignorance, I came across a good sized restaurant. It wasn't too fancy looking, but not a dump like a fast food restaurant. I shrugged my shoulders, and walked towards it; a cold icy stare fixed on my face. 'It's better then nothing, and I have worked in places like these before, so it won't be such a shock. I think I can learn the Russian language quickly, well at least the written language.' I opened the doors, and walked straight to the brown counter towards the back of the building. 'And maybe they can help me find a home or something.' I got to the brown marble counter, and leaned against it; waiting for someone to notice me. A guy dressed in a black and white uniform came towards me from behind the counter, and said in Russian, "what can I do for you miss?" I stared at him with a blank look upon my face. 'I know how to speak Russian, but he's talking too fast, I don't understand!' I lowered my head, and thought about it for a while. I lifted my head again after a few minutes. My icy glare pasted upon my face. My body was ridged as I glared at him with an indifferent look. The guy looked uneasy and repeated what he said before. 'I don't understand!' My glare grew even more cold and heartless, and I shook a little out of rage upon myself. The guy' looked as if he were too scared to move, he shook more noticeable then I, and his grey eyes were wide with terror. My mind was focussed on hatred, no longer did I hear what was going on in my surroundings.
Suddenly, a fist slammed onto the brown marbled counter. The fist was covered in black fingerless gloves, with metal skinny rectangles on it's knuckles, and two metal plates on it's hand. I snapped out of my comatose state, and looked up at the owner of the fist. My icy blue eyes didn't show any warmness, I recognized the man; it was Tala Valkov of the Russian beyblade team; the Blitzkrieg Boys. He stared across at the man behind the marble counter, and replied in Russian "Table for four." His cold, emotionless voice cut through the air like a knife. The man nodded quickly, and he glanced at me with more fear now then before. Tala looked down at me with icy blue eyes. I glanced behind him, and saw three other boys; Ian, a short boy, with navy hair and a scowl on his face, he had a big nose, and worse a brown baggy shirt with black and green overalls, he had grey gloves on the stretched to his elbow.