You lucky people, I'm updating early since I'll be busy painting my room tomorrow. Although, technically, it IS past midnight, so I guess it's Saturday already. Whatever. 8D
Sooooo, now we're dropping back in on our beloved Demolition Boys now. Honestly, as much fun as I had writing this, I'm a little nervous about publishing it, for reasons you'll surely see when you read on ahead.
Thanks to AquilaTempestas and Uncommon Valour for reviews. :3
Chapter Six: First Impressions
Tala narrowed his startling blue eyes in concentration as he came up with a brilliant strategy and decided to put it to action. He scouted the windows of the watch tower, knowing that Ian was inside. Carefully, keeping low to the ground and out of sight, he laid down two claymores on either side of the gate leading into the compound. He then carefully traced his steps back to his hiding spot behind an abandoned jeep, and waited.
Tala knew the little purple headed sniper was inside the tower, waiting for him to make one wrong move and reveal himself. He also knew that he was an impatient little runt, and wouldn't wait around all day to shoot him out. As soon as Ian left the compound to search him out, he'd trigger the laser sensors on the claymores, and they would explode and riddle the runt with shrapnel. If that didn't kill him, Tala was ready with his H&K MP5N submachine gun (his preferred weapon of choice) to blow the little midget's head off once he'd revealed his location.
It was the perfect plan.
And then the phone rang, disturbing the perfectly tense silence of the room.
"Ah, shit," Tala exclaimed as the shrill ringing startled him, making him press the jump button. The next thing he knew, he was dead.
"BOOM, headshot!" came the celebratory shout of Ian in the next room. Damn him and his amazing eye.
"Fuck off Ian, the telephone did all the work," Tala retaliated, calling over his shoulder into the midget's room.
"Ha, whatever, man!" he said as he came walking into Tala's bedroom room with a smug little grin plastered all over his face. "Don't take it so hard, Tal, at least you lasted longer than before! Although, that's not really saying much," he added, snickering.
Tala threw his hands up into the air and collapsed backwards onto his bed with a groan. This is why he hated playing Call of Duty with Ian, he always won! "Ian, just get the phone, it's pissing me off."
He heard Ian snickering all the way into the hallway before picking up the phone and answering it with a cheerful, "Hell-lo?"
Tala rolled over and propped himself up onto his elbows, tucking his bangs behind his ear. He had since stopped styling his hair into those weird gelled-up horns Boris seemed to like so much, and now just let it hang loose around his chin. He was half sulking and half thinking of a new strategy – that is until he heard who Ian was speaking to.
"Hey, Bryan! What you doing man, you're late! –––– Huh, the window? Why would I have looked out the, ohhh, the snowstorm? Wow, yeah, it's pretty bad actually –––– Don't lie Bryan, I know airport crowds are your favourite thing –––– HAHA, four hours? I hope you haven't killed anyone yet, you're not allowed to do that without us –––– Me? T'chh, whatever, you wouldn't kill me, you love me too much! –––– Nope! Tala's not in, so I guess you're just gonna have to stick with me instead."
Tala rolled his eyes and decided to rescue Bryan from the annoying little runt before he really did kill him. After snatching the phone away and easily shoving Ian to the side, he lifted the receiver to his ear, smirked, and said with a flourish, "Well hello there, Bryan. What seems to be the problem?"
– Fucking airport delays, that's what –
"Oh dear," Tala said in mock concern. He could practically hear that Bryan's fists were clenched in frustration from the sound of his voice, and snickered. "So, where are you now then?"
– Pulkovo airport. The captain had to take us down here 'cause it was too dangerous to fly any further inland, apparently –
Apparently's right, Tala thought as he glanced out the window towards the freak blizzard. They never had weather like this in mid-April. "That's St Petersburg, right? Why don't you just get a taxi down to Spencer's or something?"
– Cant. Haven't got enough money, and my luggage is bound for Moscow anyway –
"Well, I guess you're gonna have to suck it up then. It's a good job my parents thought to check the flight schedules online, otherwise they'd still be waiting for you at the airport."
– Shit, yeah Tal, apologise to them for me would you? And tell them I'll phone again when I arrive in Moscow –
He smiled. Even though Bryan never said it, Tala knew how fond he was of his parents. And he didn't blame him. Bryan's dad was a dick, and his parents were stupidly nice in comparison. It took him a while to get used to them at first, and they had many, many arguments, but eventually Tala let down his icy barriers and allowed them to love him. Besides, he got sick of making his mother cry in the end – it just didn't feel right. Of course, that didn't mean he was getting soft. It just meant that he was shrugging off the iron-clad hold that Boris had over his life – over all their lives – and was letting himself feel for once.
"Don't worry about it Bry," he said in response to the pale haired blader's request, "they don't mind, they're just worried about you having enough money to buy lunch and shit while you're waiting. My mom's been fussing over you all morning and you're not even here yet. So," he said, his tone of voice shifting from soft to snarky in two seconds flat, "You'd better get your ass over here quickly, 'cause it's starting to piss me off a little."
– Pft, whatever you say, captain – Bryan said, and Tala could hear the smirk in his team mate's voice. Then he hung up without so much as saying goodbye. Typical.
"Right you little runt," he said, twisting towards Ian who was sat on top of the stair-rail and listening to their conversation, "round two?"
"Ha, sure! Somebody's a glutton for punishment today," he said, jumping off the banister and all but skipping to his room.
"Fuck off, Ian, this round's all mine."
––––––––––––––––––––––––––––
Glaring at the bustling crowd milling past him, Bryan roughly ended the call and shoved his cell phone back into his pocket. He didn't like looking at the thing – it reminded him too much of that old man's kindness that he was beginning to feel indebted to.
When Bryan got to Kyle's that Tuesday, the first thing he did was phone Tala. It was a good thing, he'd thought, that Tala was getting accustomed to late nights, because the phone only rang twice before he'd answered. Bryan would've felt a little bad if he'd woken up Mr. and Mrs. Ivanov at two in the morning. He'd told Tala that he'd blade in the tournament if the team was going, but that the only thing keeping him back was his brother. Tala replied that, yes, they were planning on going, and the only thing stopping them was him. He suggested that Bryan phone Dickenson to see if he had any ideas about what to do with Tyler, so that's what he did.
Bryan had searched up the telephone number for the main American BBA headquarters, figuring he'd have more chance of reaching the old man that way than if he'd just phoned the smaller Michigan office. Once Bryan had said who he was and what he wanted, the secretary was suprisingly accommodating, and within ten minutes he was wired into Dickenson's office phone. After explaining (somewhat grudgingly) his concerns, Dickenson asked him that, if there were some way for Bryan to keep in contact with his brother, would he be more willing to go. Bryan replied that he would, and immediately the old man laughed and said, 'well, not to worry old chap, everything will be taken care of,' and hung up the phone.
Two days later, a parcel arrived for him at his father's house, and inside were two mobile phones, one for him and the other for Tyler (the kid was four!), each with sixteen-month contracts already paid for, and a plane ticket that would take him to Moscow that Saturday.
Bryan wasn't quite sure what to make of this, and he was more than a little taken aback by the old man's generosity (or stupidity, he hadn't decided which yet). Nevertheless, Bryan was looking forward to seeing his team and blading with them properly again, so he had spent the next two days teaching Tyler how to use the phone so they could keep in touch (he'd entered his number on the speed dial to make it easier for the little man).
Now it was Sunday, and Bryan had been traveling for at least 20 hours straight. After leaving the airport in Detroit, he'd had to stop over in Chicago for an hour, and then again in London for two. During the long flight to London, he'd probably slept for about two hours maximum. Now he was stuck in St. Petersburg because of a stupid blizzard.
He ran his fingers tiredly through the middle of his hair, which he had changed since leaving the abbey – Kyle's sister had done it for him. It now resembled a kind of shortish, layered, slightly grown out mohawk, and he was quite fond of it if he was honest. Much better than the straggly cut he used to flaunt. But, no matter how good he thought he looked, dammit he was tired, jet-lagged, grumpy and in dire need of a warm and comfortable bed. Or a very strong cup of coffee. And a cigarette.
Following that thought up, he pushed himself away from the wall he'd been leaning on, and went to search out a cafe. Before long, he found one and stared in utter dismay at the line that, for all intents and purposes, may well have stretched past the borders of Europe and back. He looked up at the bold green Starbucks sign and rolled his eyes. Fucking figures. Bryan weaved around the airport crowd anyway, and took a place at the back of the line, at least appreciative of the fact that this was probably the one place where he could ask for large Americano with three extra shots of espresso, no questions asked.
After paying for his caffeine fix, he cradled the large warm mug in his hands before raising his eyes to scout for a table. His eyes roamed over one with a young family and a baby screaming in its pram, over to another with an old couple sitting together quietly minding themselves, before finally coming to rest on an almost empty table at the far end. Sitting at it was an unassuming looking young girl, probably no older than himself, reading a magazine.
Careful not to spill his coffee, he weaved around the tables and crowds once more before reaching her table, and asked in polite Russian:
"Is this seat taken?"
"Yes..." she replied distractedly, not taking her eyes off the magazine, "um, no. Wait, sorry – what?" she asked, her voice rising at the end as she teared her eyes away from the article to look at Bryan with a slightly confused expression on her face.
English, he thought, internally rolling his eyes. British, if her accent was anything to go by. Suppressing a sigh, he tried again. "I said, is this seat taken?"
"Oh!" she exclaimed, suddenly understanding, "no it isn't. Please, go ahead," she said, gesturing to the chair with a smile. She moved her mug and magazine back to make room for him and Bryan sat down, thankful to finally be able to rest his legs. He was just about to take a sip of his coffee when he was interrupted by the girl opening her mouth to speak. "It's a little crazy here today, isn't it?"
Bryan simply raised his eyebrow at her and nodded. "Yep." He then began to take another sip, but was interrupted again. She was leaning with an elbow on the table, propping up her head with a hand, and looking at him.
"So, we're in an airport. Where are you headed? Oh, I'm Rachel, by the way," she added with a smile, "Rachel Hawker."
Bryan stared at her a little wearily. Of all the tables he had to pick, he had to sit at one with a girl who apparently couldn't sit at a table with a stranger and not make small talk. But he was too tired to start a fight, so he just decided to answer her questions and hope she'd tire of talking eventually. "Bryan," he offered in response. "I'm going to Moscow - I was born there."
"Oh, that's nice," she said. Bryan wasn't too sure what was nice about it at all, but then she continued, "I'm going back home to London after a friend of mine called, or trying to anyway. I've spent the past few weeks traveling around St. Petersburg, taking pictures and writing up articles for a travel magazine." She spared a moment to gesture towards the few black bags she had at her feet, which Bryan assumed was photography equipment, before continuing, "You're so lucky to have been born here - Russia's a beautiful country."
"Hm," he said. Bryan had a lucky past indeed. He laughed a little at the irony, but didn't say anything else. Instead, he continued, smirking, "Probably not so pretty during freak blizzards, though."
She smirked right back and said, "No, I'd have to agree with you there."
She then returned to her magazine and was quiet once more, leaving Bryan in peace. With nothing to do now that she'd stopped shooting the breeze with him, he began to find he was actually little bored after a few minutes of silence. So, he took to people-watching instead.
On the table next to him sat a young man with a laptop. He was wearing a suit and was frantically typing on the keyboard, looking as though he wanted to cry. Next to him was a young couple, making good use of their time stuck in the airport by publicly displaying their affection for each other to anyone who cared to watch. Next to them was a very attractive young woman; curvy, brunette, with glasses and reading a book. He thought she looked like the devious secretary type. Every now and then she shot disgruntled looks with cold grey eyes over to the entangled pair next to her.
He then turned his eyes towards the girl he was sharing a table with. He supposed she was pretty. She had long, slightly curly dark brown hair that was tied in a messy bun on top of her head. She was pale, though not nearly so much as he, and she had the kind of nose that Bryan noticed posh people always had which made them look haughty. She had dark greyish olive coloured eyes that Bryan thought told him everything and nothing all at once, and he watched as these were flicking across the page, completely oblivious to the Russian blader's assessment of her.
Shifting in his seat, Bryan removed a cigarette from his pack, lit it and brought it to his mouth. God he hadn't had a smoke in ages. He leaned back in his chair and spared a moment to enjoy himself.
"Smoking's bad for you, you know."
Bryan raised an eyebrow towards the no longer silent girl, who had lowered her magazine and was now looking at him again. "Is it now?" he asked, getting a little annoyed. First she disturbs him from drinking his coffee in peace, and now she interrupts him while he's having a smoke? No thank you. Pretty or not, she was starting to piss him off.
"Yes. It is," she countered, a little petulantly. "It stinks too, clinging to your clothes like a –"
"– Rachel, right?" he interrupted, not bothering to wait for a reply. "I'll tell you what, how about this? Starting from now, I'll chain smoke, and you can keep annoying me, and we'll see which one of us dies first," Bryan said, leaning forward and putting on a half-assed threatening glare.
Rachel just stared at him, before shaking her head and laughing under her breath, completely unfazed. "...Right, whatever," she said, calling his bluff and returning to her magazine.
It was a music magazine and Bryan noticed, with some interest, that it was written in Russian. Which was odd, he thought, since she didn't seem to understand him before. Deciding, somewhat childishly, that if she wasn't going to leave him in peace, he wasn't going to leave her in peace either, he reached over with his free hand, snatched the magazine away and waved it around. "This is written in Russian," he stated.
"And?" Rachel demanded sharply with narrowed eyes, which were darting between his own pale grey ones and the magazine in his hand. Bryan smirked, it seems she was a little easier to piss off then he thought. He was beginning to think he might enjoy sitting at this table with her – the snow storm wasn't going to let up any time soon, and without his guitar and only three cigarettes left, he needed a way to pass the time.
"You can't speak Russian."
"Yes, I can."
"No, you can't," Bryan argued, shifting to his mother tongue to test her, and slightly wondering why the hell he was even bothering.
"Yes," she replied, standing up and leaning over the table to snatch her magazine back, and surprising him a little when she made the shift too, "I can. And what does it even mean to you, anyway?"
Bryan was about to bite back when he heard a cell phone ringing. He was about to check his own mobile when Rachel dived down into one of her bags, and pulled out her own. She spared a moment to glare at him, before flipping it open and answering.
"Hello? – Oh, Oliver! Salut, comment vas-tu?"
Bryan blinked, French too?
Of course, he himself was fluent in five languages (blading and military training were not the only disciplines taught at the abbey – the boys also had to be academic elites as well) but for some reason it always surprised him when he came across people his own age who were multi-lingual too.
"Oui, je vais bien...je suis coincé en Russie –––– Johnny? Oui, il a appelé... ––––– the tournament?" she said, suddenly switching back to English. Bryan too, began to eavesdrop more attentively at the mention of the tournament. "What tournament, Oliver? ––––– No, yes, Johnny did phone me, but he didn't mention anything about a tournament. He just said there was something he needed to talk to me about and could I come home ––––– Well, of course! He knows that I don't blade anymore, so I suppose he figured he wouldn't be able to convince me over the… ––––– Robert's dad? –––––– Oh, no.. that's awful ––––– No, Oliver, don't worry about it, you wouldn't have known ––––– Okay, I will –––––– Yes, yes okay ––––– Tell Johnny he'd better watch himself when I get back ––––– Okay, I'll see you soon then. Take care, bye."
Throughout the phone call, Bryan had watched as the emotions played out on Rachel's face. First surprise, then confusion, followed by anger, impatience and sympathy, before finally coming to rest with mild annoyance.
Bryan watched with an arched eyebrow as his table partner closed her flip phone shut slowly, and Rachel, noticing she was being watched, leveled him with a glare and said, "what?"
He smirked a little at her tone. "What was that?" he asked, referring to the phone call.
"Nothing that concerns you, I'm sure –"
"– why don't you blade anymore?"
Rachel blinked. "Why are you so talkative all of a sudden?" Bryan snorted. Deflection, what a typical female tactic.
"Why are you changing the subject?"
"Because the subject has nothing to do with you!"
"That's not a valid reason."
Bryan leaned back and smirked as Rachel sighed agitatedly and tucked a few stray hairs behind her ear. The action caused the sleeve of her chunky grey cardigan to fall down, revealing a long tattoo running down the side of her forearm. And then it was gone, and she was folding her arms in a huff.
"This tournament…" Bryan began, bringing up the subject again and ignoring the flash of annoyance in her eyes, "is it a charity event?"
"...why?" she asked with guarded eyes.
"I'm competing as well."
She rolled her eyes. "Well, in that case I'm very happy for you, Bryan, but –"
"And I think you should, too."
"Oh?" she asked, narrowing her eyes at him again, "and why is that, exactly?"
"No reason. I was just thinking it'd be nice to beat you in the stadium like I have in this argument."
Bryan didn't even have time to appreciate the expression on Rachel's face before she promptly threw the magazine at his face, obscuring his view. Then, to further piss her off, he didn't even bother retaliating. Instead, he just calmly pulled the magazine off his face, straightened it out and began to read it himself, all the while smirking at her annoyance and her half-assed attempts to get it back.
He didn't know how long he was going to have to wait for the storm to abate, but hell, at least he wasn't without caffeine and relative entertainment.
A/N: Well, there you have it. Damn, I dropped the OC-bomb. D8
So, meet Rachel. I'm well aware that OC's are risky business, so honestly, what do you think – like her? Hate her? I'd appreciate your thoughts. Interestingly, she does actually serve a purpose in the story. I'm playing with a totally new concept to beyblading in this fic, and I thought new concept requires characters who don't already have an established cannon history in the first season.
In other news, I have rewritten the prologue so it's not such an eyesore anymore, so you all should totally go check it out. It's got Mr Dickenson in it. ;)
Anyway, yeah. Review review review! I'd even welcome some harsh criticism over silence, because at least then I'd know people have an opinion on what I'm writing. :)
Next chapter: Saturday. Virtual cookies for anyone who can guess who we'll be visiting next chapter! 8D
