Chapter 23
Hey all! I'm finally back in Canada after my trip to the States; but not for long! In less than a week I'll be traveling to Portugal for six days! I know! You must all be thinking 'What on Earth is UP with her?! Running off to all parts of the world and keeping irregular updating schedules!' But hey, at least I'm warning you guys XD! At any rate, I might not have any internet connection in Portugal, so you can expect a significant lack in updates during that time :P…
Disclaimer: Beyblade is the property of Takao Aoki. All original characters are mine, mine, mine! Actually, I'm surprised at how many original characters I DO have… whoa… where did they all COME from?!
KEY:
— II …(italics)… II —denotes a change in language
— II …(bold)… II —denotes a second change in language
— ¤ø¤,¸¸¸,¤ø¤,¸¸¸,¤ø¤ —denotes a change in point of view
Enjoy!
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Sooryavansham: The Dynasty of the Sun
Sholay
After the world championships in Russia, Kai just wanted to vanish. Then one day, inevitably, Kai is drawn back and ensnared in an intricate web of magic and legends; wrought by forsaken history and controlled by none other than Voltaire.
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"Do not scorn a weak cub. He may become a brutal fighter."
—Mongolian Proverb
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Chapter 23: His One True Weakness
"Take that thing out of my face."
I scowl deeply at Boris. The initial shock of having a gun pointed at my head has faded and with it has returned my common sense.
"Not even in Russia do you have the power to get away with murder. Not with so many witnesses." Pointedly, my eyes pass over the heavy, wooden doors of the conference room. Even through the closed doors, a low murmur from the crowd in the next room is audible. Another thought occurs to me then. "Besides, I doubt Voltaire would be pleased if you killed his only heir." Merely mentioning Voltaire has my posture straightening, a superior smirk threading its way across my face. I know I am right. Boris is a pathetic simpering pet of Voltaire's, and my Grandfather would never allow—
"II Still hiding like a coward behind your dear Grandfather's back, are you… II" I can hear the smirk in Boris' smarmy voice and grit my teeth, belatedly realizing how my words must have sounded… How my thoughts had sounded.
'I was stating a fact; Voltaire keeps his subordinates on a tight leash—I was only reiterating that to Boris. Nothing more. Nothing less.' Having effectively resolved the point mentally, I do not deign it necessary to respond to Boris' comment
"II But nonetheless, you have point. II" And Boris lowers the tip of the gun, giving it what could be called a fond look as he rubbed an invisible smudge off the barrel. This show of affection—for a mere thing—irritates me more than it should; that Boris would care more for an inanimate object than he ever did for a human being should not come as much of a surprise to me. "II Lord Voltaire would be much displeased if I killed you… And besides, I find myself reluctant to ruin such a pretty face. II" The look he sends me then is nothing short of salacious, and my scowl returns, darker.
"You disgust me." I say contemptuously.
Boris seems not to hear, his attention once again draw to his gun. "II You really haven't realized it yet, have you? II" He strokes a thick finger over the gleaming slide then taps the sight thoughtfully, making a hollow, metallic sound. I frown. "II Hasn't it occurred to you that maybe it wasn't you I was threatening? II" And he bares his teeth in a cruel grin.
My back goes rigid.
All at once, everything becomes frighteningly clear to me: how extremely vulnerable the Bladebreakers are… how vulnerable they all are… in Russia. How easy would it be for Voltaire to get one of his contacts, one of his mafia connections, to pick off Tyson, Rei or Max… On an idle whim of Voltaire's, they could all be dead in less than a few hours. And there would be no evidence—nothing—to tie Voltaire to the crime. They would become just another nameless face, an unfortunate foreigner, lost in the war against organized crime… All on a whim… and Voltaire would do that, Boris too… there was no question.
"II Who would go first? II" Boris is already entertaining the idea. "II Maybe that Chinese brat; it would serve him right after he cheated his way into victory last year. II"
'Rei won that fight fairly.'
"II Or perhaps that obnoxious Japanese boy, what was his name? Ah, yes, Tyson. Yes, he would be a very good choice. Little fool thought he could trample all over our traditions and hard-work without any consequences? The boy needs a little lesson in discipline. II"
A sharp thrill of liquid ice stings my throat and heart as the gun in Boris' hand catches the light, glinting in my eyes with wicked brilliance.
"You will not touch them." The words are spoken before I even realize I've opened my mouth.
Boris smiles.
"II Oh? And what will you do to stop me, Fifty-seven? II"
That number, a horrible, derogative method of dehumanization, seems to cut me almost physically. I have to repress a flinch. Why, why did it affect me?
Could it be… that I had yet to actually hear that number used to address me outside of those visions—hallucinations—I have been having? Could it be because hearing that number brought some truth to those hallucinations? Truth… Which meant… that those visions were real: memories…
'No.'
I stare at Boris evenly, not giving him the satisfaction of an answer. Somehow, he seems to have expected this lack of response and directs his stone-grey gaze to something behind me.
"II Orlov, Ciernik, tie his hands. II"
My wrists are grabbed and yanked non-too-gently behind my back. I hear a snide snigger; Orlov must be trembling with joy at having the chance to get his revenge. There is a glint of metal in my vision and suddenly I am double in their hold, wheezing slightly as my stomach becomes reacquainted to Boris' steel-plated gloves. A hand fists in my hair, pulls up and I feel Boris lower his head to my ear.
"II I'm going to make you regret the day you ever turned your back on me. II" He hisses in vile content. Again, pain blossoms in my chest and this time my knees buckle. Another strike, this one sharper, more concentrated—the heel of a boot—hits me directly behind my knees—and then I'm on the ground. The boot lashes out again, striking my ribs hard and my chest gives an ominous shudder in response. A few more hit like that…
Suddenly the blows subside, and my eyes—which were squeezed shut—open hesitantly.
"II I've noticed something. II" Boris has a puggish, pleased look on his face. "II All this time you've been speaking in English… You've avoided speaking in Russian to the point of ridiculousness. I wonder why? II" He pauses for a moment, long enough for me to muster up a respectable glare from my position on the ground. "II Could it be… because you are afraid? Are you scared, little firebird, of the memories your Mother Tongue will bring you? II"
I maintain my glare for a second longer, then promptly spit on his shoes.
"Go to hell, Boris."
His anger is beyond words.
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Tyson was enraged. He couldn't understand it; why would Mr. D let Boris and Voltaire practically drag Kai off like that? They had no right! Especially after what they'd already done to him. They shouldn't even be allowed to look at Kai, let alone get to talk to him!
…Tyson hadn't even gotten the chance to do that yet!
But Mr. D, he'd always done everything he could to keep them safe, and he always acted so nice, like a second Grandfather to them all. It didn't make any sense to Tyson why jolly old Mr. D would leave Kai alone with those… those cannibals! Those sharks! Even Tyson knew Voltaire and Boris were dangerous; why couldn't Mr. D see it?
"I say we bust in there and get him out—drag him out if we have to." Tyson muttered conspiratorially to Rei and Max.
"But what if they really are just talking?" Rei raised an eyebrow. "After all, like Mr. D said, it would be pretty stupid for them to try anything here… in front of everyone."
"But Rei…" Max said softly, looking down at the ground. "They don't have to physically h-hit Kai to hurt him… Last year all they did was give him Black Dran—"
"Kai won't fall for that again." Tyson said confidently. "And besides, who said anything about hitting? There was never any proof of that stuff going on at the Abbey." Tyson couldn't bring himself to say the word 'abuse'. It was… too unthinkable. A taboo subject.
"…Tyson…" Rei looked like he wanted to say something more, but stopped himself.
"What?" Tyson looked at Rei with honestly curious eyes.
"Nothing…" Rei looked into those big eyes, then looked away. "Let's just… Let's just get him out of there, ok?"
"Yeah!" Tyson pumped a fist in the air and Max grinned. They turned in the direction of the door, but had only taken a few steps before a voice stopped them.
"Whoa there, homies! Where do ya think yer goin'?" Ryu Granger was standing right in the path of the three Bladebreakers, hands on his hips.
"Aw, Gramps, not now! We're going to bust Kai out of that ambush by his evil grandfather and that goggle-freak. And we gotta hurry!" Tyson feigned right then tried to dash around his Grandfather's left side but Ryu was too fast, grabbing Tyson by his red blazer and spinning him around.
"You what?" Mr. Granger exclaimed. "Now wait just one minute! You can't just go barging in there like that!"
"Why not?" Tyson shot back. "It's a free country!"
"No it isn't! Besides, don't you think that if the Kai-man wanted to walk away from them, he would have?" Ryu challenged.
"No! That's just it! Kai's smart and all, and he gives good advice; but he's pretty awful when it comes to making the right decisions for himself." Tyson said in a surprising burst of maturity and insightfulness. "That's why he needs us, his friends, to keep him from making bad mistakes like this!" And he swept his hand in a wide gesture to the conference room door.
It seemed like there was a brief shine of pride in Mr. Granger's eyes, but quickly, the elder man continued his argument. "V-man is Kai's grandfather, kid. Dontcha think they deserve to make up? Kai might want to talk with his Gramps—"
"Not a chance!" Tyson said without hesitation. "After all the stuff Voltaire's done—after everything he's said about Kai—there's no way Kai'd want anything to do with him! And don't even bring up the Grandmother story 'cause I don't believe it for a second!"
"…But Ty… Kai wouldn't lie about having a Grandmother…" It was Max's quiet voice that suddenly spoke up. "After all, he never told us anything about his family… and we never asked, so who are we to judge him like that? Maybe Kai really does want to make up with his grandfather… Yes, Voltaire did some awful things… but maybe Mr. D was exaggerating about what he said… or maybe he wants to say he's sorry…"
Tyson looked at Max incredulously. "Voltaire? Sorry?! There's a greater chance of Tala putting on a pink tutu and dancing Swan Lake."
"…Didn't need that mental image." Rei muttered.
"But Voltaire is Kai's family." Max insisted. "And wouldn't it be nice if Kai could get along with his family?"
"We could be his family, Max." Tyson said. "He doesn't need people like Voltaire, or Boris: people who'll use him, try to force him into things he doesn't want. We'd be like brothers to him." Here he looked to Max and Rei, whose expressions grew more assured, bolstered by Tyson's confidence. "And Gramps," Tyson continued. "We could take him in if he didn't have a home, right? You wouldn't mind; you like Kai, right?" Tyson looked toward his Grandfather imploringly.
Mr. Granger was silent for a moment, watching Tyson with an intense expression. Finally, he spoke. "Tyson… Kai values his privacy, right?"
"…I… yes…" Tyson answered hesitantly, half annoyed at how his Grandfather had just ignored his impassioned speech and half curious about the point the older man was getting at.
"Well, whatever connection you want with him, whatever bond… all that will be ruined if you invade his privacy now. He might never trust you again." Mr. Granger's voice was gentle.
This time, it was Rei who was affected. "Tyson… he's right." Rei said softly.
"No! He'll get over it! We'll keep bugging him until he does!" Tyson held on tenaciously, unwilling to let his idea go; even though both Rei and Max seemed to be swaying.
Ryu placed one hand comfortingly on Tyson's shoulder. "Tyson my man, you remember what always happens when you jump into things too impulsively?" At this, Tyson made a hissing sound of frustration, a confused scowl on his face as he looked away. Mr. Granger's arguments were calculated and precise, built with words that would specifically break down each and every one of his grandson's arguments. Mr. Granger looked down at Tyson with a soft expression; he already knew he'd won.
"Fine." Tyson huffed. "I guess you guys are right. I'll leave him alone… for now. But that doesn't mean I have to be happy about it!" And Tyson, shaking off the hand on his shoulder, shot an angry look at his grandfather before storming away. Max and Rei bit the elder man relatively more polite farewells before walking away as well.
Mr. Granger watched his grandson's retreating back.
"Whew! Well, it might take some time before he forgives you, but at least you did the right thing."
Mr. Granger looked over his shoulder to see Alex Tate standing behind him. Alex looked at Ryu, noted his pensive expression, and raised one dark eyebrow.
"What is it?" Max's father asked.
Mr. Granger sighed. "That's just it. I think what I just did was precisely the wrong thing to do."
"What?" Alex looked confused. "Why? I mean, I thought it was a bad idea to leave the boy alone in the room with those two men also; but Mr. Dickenson authorized it, so I guess he'd know better than anyone—"
"What you must understand about Mr. Dickenson," Ryu had once again undergone that startling change from light-hearted and flippant to low and serious. "Is that, much like an ostrich, he has the tendency to bury his head in the sand and forget about the world around him. I believe he means well; really, he'd never knowingly wish harm on anyone. But if something is not thrown directly in front of his face, Mr. Dickenson is usually blind to it. As long as everyone shows up on time, does their job properly, and appears to be in good health, Mr. Dickenson can walk on with a blessedly ignorant mind."
Alex was quiet as he digested these words. Gingerly, he licked his lips. "So… what do you think is going on behind those doors?"
"Nothing good, I'll tell you." The way Mr. Granger said it sent shivers up Alex's spine.
"So why did you stop them? Tyson was so persistent; he would have knocked down that door to get to Kai, and Max and Rei would have been right there with him! Why did you stop them!?" Alex exploded.
Mr. Granger got a very strange smile on his face with Alex's Tate's words: he looked… proud. "Yes…" Mr. Granger said quietly. "Tyson is a very stubborn kid. Very loyal." The man's eyes slid halfway shut as his thoughts strayed.
Alex was confused by Ryu's words, and more than a little annoyed by his disaffected attitude toward the real problem. "Why did you stop them?" Alex repeated once more; but when no answer was immediately forthcoming, he drew back, sick of waiting. "Fine. If you can stand by and let an innocent boy get hurt then you're not the man I thought you were. But I cannot let this go one. I'm going to stop it right now." And Alex spun on his heel, fully intent on slamming the conference doors open and stopping whatever was going on in that room.
A sudden, shocked expression crossed Ryu's face coupled with something bordering fear. "Stop!" Ryu's hand shot out and grabbed Alex's arm roughly. Alex was yanked back around to face the older man and thought he tried to pull his arm back, it stayed tight in the vice-like grip Ryu had on him. Alex growled.
"Let me go!" He said, tugging his arm harder.
"No! I can't let you go in there!" Ryu sounded unnaturally desperate.
"You can't stop me!"
"Listen to me! This isn't just about you! This isn't just about Kai! This is about all of us! You could be putting us all in danger by doing this!"
Alex stopped moving. "What are you talking about?" He said, looking at Mr. Granger suspiciously. "What else do you know? What aren't you telling me?"
"You know it too! You just aren't using your head! Think, boy!" Mr. Granger moved close to Alex, his voice nearing a harsh whisper—as though he were telling some dangerous secret. "Voltaire has connections in the Russian mafia. And where are we right now? Russia! Think about it, so far we've done nothing to anger him… I think right now he probably considers us as nothing more than bugs on the floor: idle amusement at best, easily crushed at worst. But that's because we haven't done anything to challenge him, or threaten him. Yet. But what do you think will happen if we take away his one main obsession? Kai is more than a Grandson to Voltaire; it's obvious from the way the man looks at him that Kai was always meant to achieve some great ambition of his. Like a younger vessel through which Voltaire can pursue whatever malicious plan his twisted mind has come up with. And I don't think Voltaire is quite ready to let go of that vision just yet. Now think, what do you think will happen if we endanger Voltaire's relationship with his grandson?"
Alex's mouth was slightly open, his arm growing slack in the other man's grip. "… He… would get rid of the competition." Alex couldn't believe such a cold-blooded man existed.
"Off with their heads." Ryu said dryly. "He's done it before; I doubt he'd even blink before doing it again. To you, to Max and even Judy. You walk in those doors and you forfeit not only your life, but the lives of your family."
Alex was beyond words; his very breath seemed to escape him. To think… to think he'd been so close, so close, to pissing off a man who, literally, had the ability to snuff out his life like a candle… and to whom that life was worth little more than gravel.
"Not so keen on going in there anymore are you? Even if it means saving that boy?" Ryu let go of Alex's arm, and sent the younger man a sidelong look.
Somehow these words made Alex furious with indignation. "What are you trying to say? You're doing the same thing I am!"
"I suppose…" Mr. Granger looked at his nails. "You don't know Kai all that well; it's understandable that you would put your son first."
"My family is the most important thing to me in the world!" Alex exclaimed. "But that doesn't mean I would want anyone else to get hurt in their place! I might not know Kai that well, but he's a human being, like any other, and he deserves to be treated like one! And you know what? I DO know him. I've heard enough about him now to fill up a book, and plus, Max trusts him, and Kai risked his life to save my son. So that puts him pretty damn high in my books. And you know what else? Maybe once I get to know him even better he might become just as close as family!" Alex breathed heavily after finishing his rant and looked at Ryu with blazing eyes.
After just a few minutes of breathing in and out, sense slowly started to return to Alex and he thought about the words he'd just said. He looked away, frowning, and wishing he hadn't said so much. Somehow though, he couldn't bring himself to take back his words. He'd meant them.
"Very good, lad! That's exactly what I wanted to hear!"
Alex looked up in surprise to see Mr. Granger beaming at him brightly.
"Huh?" Alex was thoroughly confused.
"You see, the direct approach has been closed to us, so now the way to go is the indirect approach. Voltaire'll never know what hit him." Ryu pulled a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket and held it up into Alex's vision. Alex squinted, trying to make out the chicken scratches on the paper. It looked like some sort of an address.
"I'll tell you the details later. For now it's enough for you to know that you've officially been recruited as my sidekick." Mr. Granger sent Alex another way-too-happy grin and thumped the stunned younger man on the back.
"S-sidekick?" Alex coughed. What had he gotten himself into?
"Yup, and lemme tell you, this is going to be one heck of a mystery, my dear Watson!" The grin on Ryu's face was starting to scare Alex.
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"II How does it feel boy? Does it feel good? To finally be back where you belong, on the ground at my feet. Does it feel familiar? This is where you belong; it's where you've always belonged. No matter what kind of fancy shirts and penguin suits you dress up in, you'll never be able to hide what you are. This. This is you. On your knees, at my feet. This is where you began and this is where you'll always end up. You can't make something out of nothing; all you get is a bigger mess. Look at yourself. A mess. You're pathetic. II"
My forehead rests on the ground and harsh, jagged breaths force themselves past aching lungs and clenched teeth. My hands are one more tied behind my back, but this time they're held by a thin, plastic locking tie. No knots to work at.
"II Come on, no smart remarks? No saucy little glares? Don't tell me I've broken you already! II" Boris gives a bark of laughter and sends his foot into my side yet another time. I intake a sharp breath as white light explodes behind my eyes, then cough as something sticky forms in my mouth.
The coppery tang of blood fills my senses and some of it sprays from my mouth onto the ground. I look down. Red blood on a red carpet. How positively ironic.
Pushing the cynicism aside, I make a mental note that the blood is still a dark red, not a frothy pink…meaning my ribs have not pierced my lungs… but still, not necessarily a good sign since I cannot feel any cuts or lacerations in my mouth.
A sudden, loud slam reverberates through the room and I start, looking up sharply. Boris too, looks startled and stumbles away from me.
"Boris! What is the meaning of this?" Voltaire's harsh, unforgiving voice booms through the room like an ominous death knoll. Reacting immediately to his presence, and without thinking, I push myself up, rocking back on my toes then shoving my body into sharp attention. My ribs protest the motion, but it is easily ignored.
"Lord Voltaire… I—" Boris cowers in a pitiful display, wringing his hands and backing away from my Grandfather while half-bowing. It does not escape me that Voltaire's own precise, aristocratic English had Boris immediately switching languages to match. "I was merely—"
"Enough." Voltaire does not yell, but his tone has Boris falling immediately into silence. Voltaire strides up to Boris and gives him a penetrating stare. "Do not presume to discipline my grandson in your barbaric ways. Untie him, now, and return my grandson's property to him." Boris rushes to repeat these instructions to the two guards and they quickly move behind me.
The plastic tie around my wrists comes away with a snap and I immediately rub at my wrists. Small incisions were made where tapered edges had sliced past the skin, but nothing too serious. My arm guards and scarf are returned and I waste no time in putting them on. Like a blanket of security they have the instant effect of putting me at ease… and it is with not a little irritation that I realize how accustomed I have become to their comforting weight.
Slowly then, I look up at the powerful figure of my Grandfather. One eyebrow arches. Why is he stopping Boris? It makes no sense, that Voltaire would call Boris' methods barbaric, when in the past Voltaire himself had had no qualms over strangling me to near death. I thought he would enjoy the sight of me struggling on the ground. More than that though, Voltaire never refers to me as 'grandson'… only when we are in the company of strangers, or when he is inordinately pleased with me. Not often, as one can imagine. Why is he doing it now?
What is going on?
"Boris," Voltaire, his back still to me, turns his head to address the other man. "Take your men and leave the room. Now."
The silence left in their absence is stifling.
Unease is an unwanted companion in the quiet. I worry the edge of my tongue with my teeth; this feeling: the anxious dread of a child about to be punished—is not unfamiliar to me. In fact it is much too familiar.
It is at times like these when I almost prefer Boris' savage physical abuse.
When in the company of others, it is easy to compartmentalize Voltaire. He is distant, cruel, unkind and fastidious to a fault. It is the same when he is angry: the anger blinds him, making him loose control and lash out in predictable fits.
But it is his control which makes me uneasy.
This cold, unreadable silence which passes between us now—his back turned to me so that I cannot even glimpse his expression—it bothers me in that unreasonable, maddening way which only Voltaire can achieve. His could easily be enraged—my leaving for a year, and that comment about Grandmother, would certainly warrant his anger—and I would have absolutely no idea until he started yelling.
I hate it when he yells.
But just as easily, he could be pleased, or satisfied… It happened, on a few occasions… And even now, years later, I can feel an echo of the consummating happiness I had felt when he had gazed down at me, pride shining in his intense eyes.
I harden myself.
'I am not eleven anymore.'
Then, with painstaking slowness, Voltaire turns.
My hand, which had been fiddling with the edge of my arm guard, stops and falls to rest at my side. I do not want him to see me fidgeting.
'Why?'
And his eyes fall on me.
'So disappointed… he looks so… disappointed.'
It is inexplicable, the sudden pull at my heart, the sudden urge to step forward, to say something, to do something. Anything, anything to take that look off his face, to prove myself… To make him pleased, to prove my worth. I am worthy of his pride.
'Why? Why do I feel this way? He is nothing to me… He… is… nothing.'
"You left me."
This simple sentence is like a physical blow, pushing the air out of my lung sin a single, definitive thrust.
"You… took my words so completely to heart that you just left me. You did not look back. You did not come back."
'Why… why is he saying this? He's supposed to be angry with me. Mad, be mad, Grandfather… I understand you so much better when you're mad. I ran away for a year, I talked about Grandmother. Be mad. Be angry!' Unexpected, is this burst of emotion and I quickly gather it mentally plucking it from my consciousness and throwing it into a deep recess of my mind.
'Empty.'
My mind clears.
"I thought you did not want me." My voice is cool, detached and I regard him in the same aloof manner which I had learned from him years ago.
"So you left. Without even a backward glance, you left your home. Our home." His eyes meet mine fully and for a moment my thoughts completely scatter. His eyes speak volumes: some deep, unfathomable expression in them which I cannot read. The urge to say something, something meaningful, something that would sound as deep as his words did, hits me. I have to say something that would not sound silly; something that would impress him...
But no such words come to mind.
"I thought… you did not want me." It makes no sense, why should I be ashamed of my answer? I left because he wanted me to, it was not my fault. He was the one who drove me out of his house. Then why am I averting my eyes from him, why am I looking away?
"I would not want you… I would not want you?"
My eyes shoot up to him, involuntarily opening wide. Was that… hurt I heard in his voice?
"With my own two hands, I brought you into my house." Voltaire raised his hands, spread, as though in prayer. "With these hands I taught you how to read and write. And when you fell off your bicycle, it was I who picked you up and put you back on your feet."
I look down. I remember that day… I was ten, and so excited with my new shiny red bicycle that I had jumped on it and tried to ride away without even realizing I did not know how to ride. When I had fallen and scraped my knee, it had been Grandfather that had picked me up, brushed me off and patted me on the head. The next day, my bicycle had been ready and waiting for me… with training wheels attached.
"I took you from the vulgar, illiterate child you were and turned you into a proud, honourable man. And this…" With a distinct condescension, he looks down his nose at my clothes. "This is how you show your appreciation? By returning to the vile roots from which I found you? By disrespecting your late Grandmother with your lies?"
I say nothing.
"After the passing of my son and his dear wife, I lost all hope of ever finding you. It was nothing short of a miracle that placed you in my hands. I had a second chance to right the wrongs I had done. You completed our family, and you would grow to fulfill all my expectations."
"Everything I did, I did for you." I say, starting out quietly, as I speak my voice grows in strength and confidence. I look up. "But nothing was ever enough for you. Nothing I could do would ever make you proud of me. You were the one who threw me out. You were the one who never called me back."
"I am your Grandfather. I am your elder. I should not have to call you back." Voltaire raises his head, giving me such a stare that—had I been a few years younger—I would have crumbled.
"I had to work for years just to get a single compliment from you; but the second I did something wrong—the second I showed signs of acting in ways that was outside your bidding—you abandoned me like I was worthless."
"You betrayed the family. You went against our honour. And what I did, I did to discipline you. It was you who did not realize your mistakes; you did not see the error of your ways and you did not return to me humble."
"You were forcing me to help you steal bitbeasts. For yourself, for Boris." I nearly hiss.
"No." Voltaire's sharp denial stops me mid-thought. I narrow my eyes. "Think closely, Grandson, before you speak. Why did I give you Black Dranzer?"
I draw back, confusion clouding my thoughts. Why had Grandfather given me Black Dranzer… after I had already betrayed Boris and switched back to the Bladebreakers? I was clearly fighting to destroy the Abbey, and therein destroy all chances of Boris—and Voltaire by association—gaining control of the world. But at the last moment, when I had been fighting Spencer— and loosing—Grandfather had cornered me in the hallways… and silently, with that unreadable expression on his face, he had taken my hand and pressed into it the cold, dark blade of Black Dranzer. At that time I had thought it was Voltaire's way of saying he still had some measure of control over me… that only by his will could I fight and win a match.
…I never thought…
"You say that everything you did was for my favour… and I say that everything I did was for your future." Grandfather steps forward then, and with one hand, reaches up. For one, small, breathless moment I think that he is going to take my face in his hands; but then he drops his hand and turns away, taking a few steps to the side. My head falls; a lingering, worrisome regret tugging at me.
'I… wanted him to touch me?'
Was it true? Did Voltaire really give me Black Dranzer for no other reason than so I could win my match? Was it possible… that Voltaire did not know the dark, malicious desires the black bitbeast gives birth to within me? Did he only think of the power I had with Black Dranzer in my hand; not of its consequences?
It is possible… Voltaire does not know of the sibilant croon that haunts my every step when Black Dranzer is in my possession. He does not know about the dreams—nightmares—of creeping masses of dark tendrils that drag me down into an endless abyss of sparkling, mocking black fire. All he saw was the ease with which I defeated my opponents and the undeniable increase in strength, power and will… and the inability to fall… to fail…
…The inability to disappoint.
This last thought leaves a sour taste on my tongue and my eyebrows pull down into a deep frown. With sudden clarity I gain my perspective back. What Voltaire says is a lie. It has always been a lie. He thinks he can manipulate me, throw fancy words and pretty insinuations in my face to catch me off guard, to win me back to his side… When in reality everything is a farce. His concern, his protection, it all comes with a steep price: the fulfillment of his own selfish needs, his own misguided desires.
It is a price I am no longer willing to pay.
Something in my expression must have changed because Voltaire's eyes grow shuttered: the corner of his withered lips pulling down into a displeased frown.
"I see." There's that disappointed tone again as he looks down on me. "So, in the end, even my own Grandson will turn his back to me. You would toss me aside for whom? Those fools out there?" He raises his right hand, palm up, in a vague gesture toward the door. "They weaken you with their foolish ideals, their fickle emotions… The only consistency you have ever had in your life is me. My presence, my expectations of you. Think on it. They shower you with meaningless praise and what good does it do you? What does it give you? Does it make you happy, hm? Are you happy Kai?" His tone mocks me and I don't answer.
"So you have to work a little harder for my praise, is that such a bad thing? I motivated you to move above and beyond your limits. I drove you to set your goals and exceed them. What did they do, Kai? They made you happy. And where did your happiness get you?" He gives a pointed glance at my frayed jeans, my shabby sneakers.
"This is where you put me." I mutter, feeling all too much like a petulant child.
"No, this is where your arrogance put you. The arrogance which you gained from them." The way he said 'them' made it sound like a curse word. It did not take a genius to know he was referring to the Bladebreakers.
"I am not going to argue with you." And Voltaire steps back. "But I will tell you to remember this: from the moment you stepped through my door I never turned my back to you, even when you turned yours to me. I never stopped looking for you. Never. But them: those fools you hold so close to your regard… they did not even miss your presence. Now tell me truly, are they really worth your loyalty?"
His words…
My fingers spasm and I clench them into tight fists. I feel the line of my jaw harden as well, as my teeth grind against each other.
Voltaire turns then, a swift, precise motion, and walks toward the door. He doesn't seem even remotely frazzled by this entire conversation, his suit is impeccable and not a single hair on his head is out of place. I, on the other hand, feel completely stripped bare: weakened by a vicious attack that wasn't even physical.
"Kai."
My head comes up, instantly attentive—an ingrained habit.
"What did you do with Black Dranzer?" Voltaire's back is still facing me.
"I destroyed it." I answer monotonously. "Crushed it under my heel then scattered the pieces in a lake."
There is no answer; but after a moment, Voltaire turns his head, just slightly, and I glimpse the barest flicker of a smile on his face.
"Poor boy, you always were such a terrible liar."
With those parting words, Voltaire sweeps from the room… leaving me feeling oddly as though I had just lost something important to me.
I am only allowed a few minutes alone when the door opens once again. I look up—having successfully schooled my features into a decidedly apathetic expression— to the rather unpleasant sight of the ruddy, thick-faced Orlov.
"II Brat. What are you still doing in here? Hurry up and get out. II" He snarls, waving crudely at the open door.
I exhale through my nose, not bothering to respond verbally to the guard. Sending one last cursory glance at the room, I move to walk forward.
A sharp, crippling pain splits my chest and nearly knocks me to the floor.
Stifling a curse on my lips, I bend double while trying to suppress the instinct to curl my arms around my chest. 'My ribs.' Having been so preoccupied with Voltaire's mind games, I had completely forgotten about the beating my body had just taken. Now the pain was coming back with a vengeance. I run a couple of fingers over my ribs, breath hitching when they pass over a slightly misshapen form.
'Broken… That is… not good.' The urge to curse rises again, but I push it back down. I have neither the tools nor the time to deal with a broken rib. More than that, my knowledge on the subject was severely lacking.
I need a hospital.
'But, I have to be twenty-one or older to validate my own procedures… otherwise I need a guardian… or the doctors will take their own prerogative. And that… is unacceptable.'
I let out a rush of air between clenched teeth, squeezing my eyes closed. 'Dead ends… no matter where I look.'
"II Hey, hey, what are you doing? Dammit kid, why I put up with your kind is beyond me. II" Orlov's gruff voice is heard once more and I become aware of someone's heavy footsteps coming toward me. I feel more than see, a hand reaching out to grab my arm—to drag me physically to the door—but I am moving long before it reaches me.
"II Do not touch me. II" I growl, the Russian flowing from my lips so easily, I might have been speaking it all along. I look up at Orlov fiercely, while the fingers of my left hand curl around the man's sinewy neck. Unable to get my hand completely around the thickness of his neck, I settle for wrapping it around the artery which leads to the brain.
"II So, the brat speaks. II" Orlov spits out. My hand tightens in warning and Orlov gasps, his eyes rolling a little. He must be feeling faint. "II Go ahead. Just try and kill me, we'll see what Master Boris does to you then. II" Orlov sneers.
I return his look with a sneer of my own. "II You fool. I don't have to kill you. I just have to squeeze a bit tighter… II" In emphasis, I tighten my hold, watching in detached satisfaction as the man's face completely drains of colour. "II And you'll be out like a light in a few seconds. The real question is: what happens after you wake up? II" I jerk my head up, mockingly requesting a response. Words seem to fail the man and he just growls incoherently, Confusion clear in his muddy eyes. "II Well… I haven't done this in awhile… Done improperly it could, possibly, result in permanent paralyzation. II" I send a slow, unconcerned look trailing down my hand and arm, then drag my gaze back up to look into Orlov's eyes, letting my own eyes show sadistic enjoyment which I don't feel. Orlov is easily fooled though and his eyes get a wide, panicky look to them.
"II Let—let me go. II" He says hoarsely. I cock an eyebrow at him and don't move. "II P-please, have mercy. II"
Begging.
I feel my expression contort into one of disgust. Begging. How pathetic. Immediately, I jerk my fingers off Orlov's flesh and pull away. Orlov heaves in gulps of air, while stumbling back a few steps drunkenly. I watch him. He must still be feeling light-headed.
"II You. You're just like they all say. II" Apparently not light-headed enough to curb his tongue. I continue watching him as he slurs out his words. "II You're crazy. Absolutely insane. Unbalanced. A savage. Demon. II" I let my eyes follow his staggering form lazily, in a way I know is unsettling. Indeed, Orlov seems more eager to leave by the second. It occurs to me, vaguely, how completely idiotic it is to tell someone they are crazy… especially if you think they really are. I brush the idle thought away.
"II What the HELL is going on in here?! II" Boris is now at the door, regarding the pitiful guard with barely restrained fury. Seeing the potentially incriminating scene in front of him, Boris hurriedly enters the room, closing the door behind him. "II I told you to get him out of the room, not to get into a fight with him! And especially not to broadcast it to the entire world! Someone could have seen you, you imbecile! II"
"II My-my apologies, Master Boris. II" Orlov chokes. I raise an eyebrow at his antics. Surely he must have recovered by now; I did not hold him all that hard… "II But he attacked me! Out of nowhere he just grabbed me by the neck and—! II"
Oh. I see.
I look away. Orlov is trying to pin the entire incident on me. 'Too bad' I think. 'Boris knows me well enough not to believe I would attack someone without reason.' Then my thoughts pause as a disturbing point occurs to me.
'How would Boris know such a thing?… How would I know that Boris knows such a thing?'
A particularly deep breath causes my ribs to throb, bringing me back to the present. I look up, just in time to see Boris dismiss the browbeaten guard from the room and turn toward me. With the absence of the guard, Boris switches back to English.
"Ah, I just can't leave you alone for a few minutes, can I?" As with all things that come out of Boris' mouth, this too seems to have a second, hidden meaning. But finding myself not in the mood for his little games, I step forward, fully intending to shoulder my way past him and into the other room.
His hand snaps out, grabbing me tightly by the forearm.
I freeze.
"What is it… about my touch… and only my touch, that prevents you from lashing out?" Boris asks lowly, his attention solely on my arm as he turns it over gently, sliding his hand down then raising the back of my hand to his eyes. I look up, finding it difficult to swallow, but forcing my self to remain calm. I look up, past my arm and into his eyes.
"If anyone else did this," And he runs his dry, calloused fingers over my inner wrist, my own hand twitches in response. "They would be on the floor, unconscious in seconds flat… Or strangled, like poor Orlov." At this, Boris gives a dry, grating chuckle. "Could it be… that you are afraid of me?" His laugh ends in a curling grin.
"Let go of me." I say it slowly, in a low, humourless voice.
Boris laughs again. "But my dear boy, I haven't gotten the answer to my question yet!"
I look at him.
"Tell me something, Kai." He smirks even as I frown. Odd, how strange my name sounds coming out of his mouth. Like something I am not used to hearing, something awkward… Why? I realize then that this is the first time I heard Boris actually speak my name… Last year, he had said it, once or twice as well… and it had sounded just as unusual then…
…In the Abbey, didn't I have a name?
"Tell me," and his smirk widens into a feral grin. His fingers slip under the cloth of my armguard, I jerk away but with sheer force he keeps my arm steady. Then with sudden and precise maliciousness, he plunges his nails into a spot on my arm and scratches outward. My mouth opens in a silent exclamation of pain and my elbow buckles, causing me to take an involuntary step toward him. Boris raises an eyebrow and continues like he hadn't just dug his fingers into my arm. "When did you start falling back into such old habits?"
"I… have not idea what you are talking about." I grit out around my teeth.
"Oh?" Boris looks faintly amused. "Then what are these?" And he draws back my armguard with the tips of his fingers, just enough to expose the long, scabbing cuts along my arm. I stare at the slightly swollen, still angry red flesh. Had it only been yesterday that I did that? It seems like such a long time ago…
The cut which Boris had dug his nails into had reopened and was now steadily dribbling blood down my arm in rolling, thick beads. Eventually, the trail reaches Boris' fingers and bulges over them. Seemingly fascinated by the blood, Boris draws his hand away from my arm—I waste no time in pulling my arm away and securing the armguard over the cut, concealing it from view once more—and I watch with sick revulsion as Boris raises his fingers to his lips and tastes my blood, eyeing me with apparent satisfaction.
Disgust can no longer adequately describe my feelings toward him.
"Your Grandfather would be ever so disappointed, Kai. To think, he spent so much time rehabilitating you from that habit. What would he say if he knew you'd fallen back into such… oh, what did he call it? 'Base tendencies: worse even, than an animal.' What do you think he would do?"
And now, a tingle of fear runs through me. Grandfather can never find out. Will never find out. My expression goes from wide-eyed to glaring in an instant. Boris just smiles, showing off a row of yellow teeth.
"Don't worry, my firebird. I can keep your little secret. After all, I believe you're allowed a mistake every now and again. You're only human, after all."
'How dare they, all of them. Trying to take control over my life like this. I am the master of my own life. It is not within their right to tell me if my actions are right or wrong…' And yet here they were, doing just that.
"I just want you to do one little thing for me." Boris leans forward and I lean back, scowling. "I want to know; do you remember the first time you did this? Do you remember why?"
I frown. What was Boris talking about? The first time I did this… I look down at the cuts on my arm. The first time… A heavy fog settles in my mind. Was there ever a first time? Why can't I remember?
"Hear me, believe me and fear me!" Boris' voice is a harsh whisper near my ear. "Take those words into your heart, my firebird, and remember! Remember what made you into the person you are now."
I flinch as a bright light flashes in my vision. Those words… I remember… those words…
'Hear me!'
'Believe me!'
'Fear me!'
The world dissolves.
';.;' Flash ';.;'
"From now on, you are the property of BIOVOLT. We own you: we tell you when to eat, train, sleep and when to think. You will not disobey the orders of BIOVOLT. Or you will die. You will not associate with anyone outside of BIOVOLT. Or they will die. You will not incite treachery of BIOVOLT in any of your brothers. Or your heart will be cut out and fed to the dogs.
This is your life now. You no longer have any connections outside of BIOVOLT.
You will follow the teachings of the priest and you will follow the teachings of the Lord. Any action of blasphemy will be punished with a hundred lashes on the pole.
Hear me! Believe me! And fear me! From now on, I am you truth, and I am your Master. You will refer to me as such."
"We live to hear and obey your command, Master Boris!"
I look out at the new recruits. Many are orphans and street kids, with no discipline or skills. They will not last long. But here and there I see a spark of talent—this is significantly subdued by the presence of fear, but it is normal. All the new recruits go through this process. Boris believes it instils a healthy humility in the otherwise cocky, arrogant bastards. I have no opinion either way.
"You will show your skills to the Abbey, you will put your talent on exhibition for us to judge. Those deemed worthy will be admitted into the elite folds of our association. Those deemed unworthy, will face punishment administered by our Blue-Fourth."
Here, every eye in the room turns to me. I maintain my empty stare, gazing out into the crows with cold, apathetic eyes.
It is all part of the act. In reality, I am treated no better than the lowest grunt in the Abbey. But during times like this, Boris likes to show off my talents, and toy with the minds of the impressionable.
I know very well what I look like, standing up on a raised platform and looking out on all the others as though they were beneath me. For these particular occasions, Boris takes great enjoyment in decking me in a garment made completely of black. With black shoes, black pants, black shirt and a black mini-cape that drapes around my shoulders—fastening at my collarbone with a high, severe neck and reaching as far down as my elbows—my already too-pale skin looks positively ghostly. That, offset by the feral, relatively new tattoos on my cheeks and my bloody red eyes makes me look like nothing short of a demon.
This vision, of course, is helped along by the practiced, emotionless stare I continue to bestow upon my audience.
I hear hushed whispers circulating below me. Already the rumours are spreading. I wonder what they will say about me this time.
I watch in a detached, disinterested fashion as one after another the new recruits fail to overcome the standard computer tests. They are embarrassing to watch, really, each time the talent gets less and less, and yet the number of desperate, hungry orphans never wanes.
And desperate they must truly be, to want to get into the Abbey.
The testing continues, for hours, until one of the boys breaks line and starts to scream nonsensically. 'Enough, enough', he cries. 'No more.' The guards have to come out and physically remove him from the room.
I let my eyes follow his form as he is dragged out of the room. I too, have a very specific part to play, and I have no doubt that the remaining boys are watching me trace the path of the fallen boy with my eyes. Boris planned it all, specifically to incite overactive imaginations and gossip. I heard a rumour once, where I had been thought of to be a vengeful demon, sent down to devour the souls of the poor and unkind, that I constantly hungered for more, tasty souls to feed on, fresher souls, cleaner souls…
My eyes move back over to the group.
Finally, after many more hours and a string of consecutive matches, a young boy—probably barely a couple of years older than me—is hauled in front of me and dropped at my feet.
"What? This is it? You wan' me to fight THIS guy? He's awfully puny up close, I gots dogs bigger then 'im." The boy grins down at me in a typical, cocksure, streetwise way. My quiet, impassive stare seems to unravel him after a few minutes though and he looks vaguely uncomfortable. "Hey," He says, fidgeting. "Doncha' talk or something? You some sort of mute or something?"
"The Blue-Fourth does not need to waste his breath on someone as unworthy as you." Boris says smoothly as he glides up behind me. I don't look up at him, don't even acknowledge him. This is the one time when my insolence is allowed, even expected. I am above anyone here, because I do not need to bow my head to Boris. It is a subliminal message, one I can see this boy does not miss. He looks more unsettled now, eyes darting back and forth.
"H-hey, what's goin' on here anyways? I thought you'd just get us to fight this guy then let us go or something…"
Boris chuckles. It is an unpleasant sound. "Oh, we'll let you leave. After you win."
"No prob!" The cockiness is back. "I could beat this little weakling with one hand and a blindfold over my eyes!"And he grins at me in a challenging way. His complete lack of revulsion and disdain is new to me. It is not often that I see someone who can look me straight in the eyes and not flinch.
For the first time, I feel a twinge of pain in my chest. This boy could have had potential. Maybe not as a Beyblader, but as something. He was honest, hardworking and—more than anything else— innocent. He could have gone far in life. The pain recedes though as I throw every part of myself, every emotion, every feeling, into a compartment in the back of my mind. I am empty.
That boy is going to regret ever saying those words.
';.;' Flash ';.;'
I gasp out loud and shake my head, one hand coming up to curl tightly in my hair near my temple. A low chuckle makes me look up sharply, blinking the spots in my vision away as I focus on Boris.
"So it's true. Your memories are finally returning." Boris sounds smug.
"Be quiet." I order, turning away sharply while forcibly detaching my hand from my hair. 'How does he know about those flashes?... How… when did he see? How did he find out? Memories? Could it be true? No…no…' "Do not talk about things you don't understand."
"Oh but I do understand, Fifty-seven." Boris' voice is low and vile. "I know exactly what is happening to you."
I turn, just enough to pin him with a glare. Who does he think I am? Yes, of course I want to know why I am having these hallucinations. But never, never, will I lower myself enough to ask him for answers.
"Fool boy, didn't you know: in Russia, even the alleys have eyes." The smirk seems to be permanently plastered on his sallow face.
Then the words sink in.
'Of course.' I curse my thoughtlessness. 'When I collapsed in that alley… how could I have been naïve enough to think that no one saw me?'
"Whatever." A defensive fallback word, I know, but I am past the point of caring. "I'm leaving." I turn around.
"Fine." Boris' words follow me. "Leave, I won't stop you…" 'Yet' is the implied ending to that sentence.
I put my hand on the brass handle, opening the door with a wrench.
"II Don't you ever wonder, though, II" Boris switches to Russian as loud chatter from the adjoining room flows in; he won't stop speaking. "II Why you feel the urge to curse? And why—when you're upset or agitated— your speech gets more informal… more… vulgar? II"
I leave the room.
';.;'.;';.';.;'.;';.';.;'.;';.';.;'.;';.';.;'.;';.';.;'.;';.';.;'.;';.';.;'
End Chapter Twenty-Three
… To Be Continued
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Heya! I added new dividers, what do you guys think?
fawks136:Yeah, Mariah and Emily completely got out of hand describing Kai XD. In a way I kinda aim to inspire all sorts of different reactions in my writing, and Mariah and Emily are actually supposed to be sort of in-your-face like that… so in a way I'm kinda glad you were unsettled by their blabbing (it means I'm doing my job XD) . I know it sounds weird… XP That explanation really did make more sense in my head :D
juut Telcontar: (Grin) Yep! Poor, poor Hilary… and to think, she hasn't even talkedto Kai yet! XD Hope you enjoyed the chapter!
WolfRain: Hey! I'm glad you like the character developments so far. I really enjoy writing details and going into lots of depth when describing characters (particularly why certain characters do what they do, why they do it and what motivates them to do it, that kind of stuff) and sometimes I wonder if I'm boring you guys by going into too much detail… so it's really nice to hear that you like it :P Oh, and yeah, Montreal was fun, the language thing was a bit of a problem (I can understand French.. but speak it? Notso much XD), but now I'm going to Portugal! And I know absolutely NO Portuguese, so I have NO idea how that's gonna work! (Wish me luck! :3)
Sciura: (Large grin) Heeey, I know that starting a new story might make it seem like I'd have less time for this one, but really, I've actually been writing that story in my spare time anyway XP See, when I get a story idea I have this tendency to be bugged and bugged by it until I write it down… that's what happened with that story… so I figured that if I was gonna write the story anyway, I might as well post it, right? Thanks so much though for your comment, it means a lot to me that you like this story so much (hope you liked the chapter!).
Irish Potatoes: Yay! Awesomeness! You wouldn't BELIEVE how long it took me to write that chapter (I got a major case of writer's bock, then had to scrap the entire thing, rewrite it and completely change the order of the scenes… it was a total mess XD). So it's so, incredibly great that you liked it! Yay! So, more action, drama and manipulation in this chapter, hope you liked… I had a little trouble writing Voltaire's speech, what did you think?
See you all when I come back from Portugal!
Oh, and please tell me what you thought of Voltaire and Kai's interaction! I slaved over that section for hours and now I have gone completely blind to it XD Was it effective? Clear? Understandable? And also: Boris, what did you think about him? I know it's used, but did I at least manage to deliver his character in a relatively original manner? Or even creepy? XP
Thankies to everyone who reviewed! Your reviews drive me to keep writing: Yuliya, Canyx, terraconnon876, Kais-lil-lover, BloodRedViolet, d1bontemp, kavbj, grimnessreaper, fawks136, juut Telcontar, lady KCassandra, En-En-chan (How far along the story are you now? :D), WolfRain, Nameless Little Girl, FlamingIce94, The Demon Puppeteer, XSilentX-XShadowsX, bladz-liska, Sciura, phoenix-falling, StarShinobi, Irish Potatoes, Retaro0, wolf's lament, Black zodiac, Kai's-Suzaku, silent-kei and Chibi-Lothlen!
Adio!