Regaining Freedom
By: Black Dranzer
Summary: A chance of renewal..how will it be treated? The Demolition Boys have been given the opportunity to start anew at a private school, all expenses paid for. Will they be able to leave behind their past torments? How will new discrimination take their toll on them? And what will happen if someone offers them the chance to become the holders of an unimaginable power? Will they accept? If they don't, how will they handle the consequences? No pairings.
Disclaimer: I do not own Beyblade.
Note: This story has no ties with my other story, Emptiness whatsoever; please do not connect this story to Emptiness in any aspect.
A/N: Thank you for all who reviewed to show your support. Here's the second chapter. Not much is revealed of the plot, just getting to know how I'm going to portray each of the Demolition Boys. Tala's POV won't be included in this since his 'opinion' is already revealed in the first chapter. I hope you guys enjoy this chapter and will continue to support this story. This is the first time I've used POV (point of view) to write a story, so it may sound weird, please bear with me .U.
Chapter Two
---Ian's POV---
I cracked open an eye and looked around. There wasn't much to see, other than the dark form of Bryan opposite me. He's just sitting there, not doing anything. But I guess there isn't much to do. It's been more than 6 hours since we boarded the train, and we've got about a few more hours to wait before we actually get to the train station closest to the school.
I don't look forward to arrival. To me, a school is just another building crammed with a bunch of people, like the train station.
I hate crowds, especially when they're tightly packed and moving in various directions. Even if I manage to dodge someone walking towards me, there's always someone pushing from behind. Contact with another person is sort of a fear I suppose. There are many unnatural things you acquire when you live in a closed abbey for so long.
Leaning back on the seat, the comfort feels unusual. I am more used to those steel and wooden chairs back at the abbey. They were rougher, yet once you get used to something, it's hard to change. Then again, that man, Mr. Dickenson, said that 'change is good'. I don't know how much of his words I can believe. Though he is providing us with financial support, I still doubt that there's anyone who's willing to give up so much money just for a bunch of orphans. There's a chance that he might stop sending us money, or even forget, we are a long ways away from where he lives in Japan. True he has opened up a new bank account under our name, 'Ivanov' – where the hell did Tala get that name anyways? – But he can also shut it down without notice and leave us broke in the midst of recovery. How optimistic am I? Not much judging by what I've just thought about. There's more than just one downside to everything, that's how I'd like to think. Maybe that's too much caution on my part, but it can't hurt.
Like I said before, I don't look forward to arrival. Truth is, I'd rather just sleep in this chair – it's getting rather cozy – for a long time to come. I have no desire to meet any of those crowds of people at the school. I'd probably just find out they're all not worth my time and want to leave before we've been there for a week. Maybe even less. Hmph. Aren't I a positive creature?
---Bryan's POV---
The train is unusually silent. Too silent. I hate it when there is no sound, like there is no one at all.
But there are lots of them. All around me. Gathered so close. I sit still, I'm not going to let any one of them get near me.
This whole trip has been torture. From the start I never wanted to leave the abbey. The quiet sanctuary of the abbey.
But the others just had to drag me here. I should have used Falborg on them, but something had kept me back.
The more I think the more I sound like a weakling. I hate that.
I don't act emotionless so people would fear me. I do it so people would leave me alone. I thought that if I showed no signs of emotions, no one would notice me, nor react when they see me.
I guess I was wrong.
Balkov seemed to think that a lack of emotions was the perfect weapon. It wasn't so bad when I first started training. There was nothing new to experience from the times I had to endure living on the streets. All I had to do was be myself. That is, until I was introduced to Falborg.
I did not think much of it at first, keeping it inside its bit and ignoring it completely. But its stupid whining kept me awake at night, not human speech of course, but those sharp screeches that only I, its master, could hear.
I probably made a big mistake when I finally got enough and let it out. It never thanked me and I never asked for gratitude.
That was when I started to become jealous. Jealous of its speed. Jealous of its strength. But mostly jealous of its freedom.
I was raised in the abbey to be ruthless. To kill all that I see. But I was never given a chance to destroy. The sight of Falborg tearing through weaklings' beyblades made me hunger to do it for myself. I did almost kill one of those young recruits, but Balkov stopped me and punished me. Hmph. Hasn't he realized that he has locked me up in a cell for doing what I was trained to do?
But Falborg was encouraged to destroy. Encouraged to put pain upon others.
At least the abbey allowed me to use Falborg to hurt, to damage. But this place we are headed for, that school, it will just serve as a second prison to me. Restrictions on my every move.
The only thing stopping me from tearing everyone from limb to limb at this moment is the fact that, if I did, that old man would probably send me to some home for the mentally challenged.
I hate that old man too, Mr. Dickenson, though I'd rather not remember his name. Hate that he's providing money and shelter for us. Hate that I have to rely on someone weaker than myself.
No matter how I look at it, I would rather die and rot along with the abandoned abbey than head to wherever we are going.
'We' - that word makes me want to scream. I hate referring to myself in a group. It makes me feel that I actually belong with them. But I know very well I don't, nor want to. Relying and belonging is for the weak-hearted and naïve. They don't know that they're leaning on a crumbling building that will bury you alive when it collapses. If you're lucky enough, that building may not crash on you, but fall away instead, but you'll still gain a few large scars.
There is no forever in this world. Let someone try to prove me wrong and they'll die first.
Someone had just started snoring. At least there is sound now. But not the sound I prefer to hear. Not the sound of screaming and agony that I crave.
I refused to open my tightly closed eyes. I know that if I were to set sight on Tala sitting beside me that I would really lose it. It's his red hair. That deep yet bright red, just like the color of blood.
I started to finger Falborg in my jacket pocket. Its sharp attack ring calmed me as it ran along my fingers, smooth and cold.
It hurt my head when I try to imagine how I will survive the next few years of my life. If it even counts as a life. There is almost no way anyone can tell me apart from someone dead. I already have unusually pale skin, dull eyes and my hair is close to white. If I were to lie down and close my eyes in a coffin, I could bet my life people would think me a corpse. But then again, my life's not worth enough to bet on.
Why not end my life now?
Simple. I don't have a weapon to use. Falborg would never let me use it to kill myself; it enjoys my painful suffering in life too much. The rest of my daggers that Balkov had given me had been confiscated by that old man. Why can't he just mind his own business? And choking oneself to death is not worth trying, you would loose strength in your arms before you're fully dead.
Luckily, forever doesn't exist, so I won't be suffering for too long.
---Spencer's POV---
There was an undeniable lack of speech between us – Tala, Bryan, Ian and I. But who am I to care? Conversing isn't my strong point.
Then again, re-reading newspapers as I am doing now is not very entertaining. There are hardly any articles worth reading and advertisements rein about 1/3 of almost every page. I take neither interest in the contents described nor the products being promoted, so I wonder to myself why I even bother flipping the pages.
Maybe it's to keep myself occupied. Or maybe I just want to prove that the contents of the newspaper are realistic enough to signify that this isn't some illusion that I've made up; that we've actually left the abbey.
To say the truth, I do consider the abbey as a cage. But a cage has two uses.
One is to keep its inhabitant locked up and unable to escape. Like how we were restrained from the outside world and only let out to compete in tournaments.
The second use is overlooked by most, but it does exist. Once someone thinks hard about something, there's usually a big chance that you will discover a side to that something that has never been revealed. But thinking for oneself is pretty much discouraged under Balkov's watch. But I, having completed my training early almost every day, had nothing else to do. I've pondered and came up with the fact that those metal bars of a cage can also be used to keep the inhabitant safe, away from the outside. To us four, the outside is like an obstacle course, a maze, full of the unknown and the unexplained. In our case, what we don't know can, and most likely will, hurt – and we knew too little.
I suppose associating me with the other three isn't entirely right. I've had more experience in 'life' and the outside than they do. I at least know how to use the different devices that were never introduced to those in the abbey. I at least understand what the 'laws' of the outside are – though they are far less strict than the abbey. And I at least can say I've lived more than one night outside of the dark abbey dormitories.
I have to admit though that they learn fast. Tala has already understood how to operate a cell phone and many others of the items Mr. Dickenson has given us. Ian has learnt his manners well, though he rarely ever uses them. Bryan on the other hand ignores anything and everything, so I can't really tell if he's adapted.
I think too much. It is what a brain and mind is for, but I still think an excess of thoughts is not a good sign. Thankfully, I can hide my thoughts well. Even in front of Balkov. He thinks that I concentrate completely on training when I am in the weight room, but I can multitask fairly well.
Another page full of ads – I am getting very bored seeing the same words printed in large letters that I doubt would attract much attention as opposed to what its issuers seem to think; what a waste of time and effort.
It may seem I am complaining a lot, but 'normal' people don't know how relaxing it is to be able to complain freely. Though I know I can disguise my thoughts, I still feel nervous when thinking in front of Balkov. Those red lenses he wears, they hide his eyes and make you think he can probe your mind at any given moment. It sickens me how easily he has made us fear him.
My fist curled and loosened, slightly crumbling the newspaper. I quickly folded the articles and placed it in my duffle bag.
I treasured how I just thought 'my'. It shows that something in this world actually belongs to me. Even if it were provided by someone else, I am free to use it how I like.
I never considered Seaborg to be mine, merely a tool given to me to use to Balkov's liking. It makes me wonder why I brought it along with me on this trip. I had wanted to leave everything the abbey had given me behind, including my old wardrobe – even if it only consisted of one actual combination of clothes. I had felt a kind of obligation to take Seaborg along, as if I thought it deserved to see the outside as well.
But it isn't alive – right? We have always been taught that the bit beasts are no longer living, being spiritual. Then why is it that they can feel pain? And why does it have to look like a real animal?
I clenched Seaborg as my hand brushed it in the duffle bag. I looked at it as it lay there, still, unlike the way it is in battle. For a second, I thought it gave off a soft, golden, glow. I stared at it for a moment more before setting the duffle bag down again.
I shouldn't think too much..
---To be continued
By: Black Dranzer
Summary: A chance of renewal..how will it be treated? The Demolition Boys have been given the opportunity to start anew at a private school, all expenses paid for. Will they be able to leave behind their past torments? How will new discrimination take their toll on them? And what will happen if someone offers them the chance to become the holders of an unimaginable power? Will they accept? If they don't, how will they handle the consequences? No pairings.
Disclaimer: I do not own Beyblade.
Note: This story has no ties with my other story, Emptiness whatsoever; please do not connect this story to Emptiness in any aspect.
A/N: Thank you for all who reviewed to show your support. Here's the second chapter. Not much is revealed of the plot, just getting to know how I'm going to portray each of the Demolition Boys. Tala's POV won't be included in this since his 'opinion' is already revealed in the first chapter. I hope you guys enjoy this chapter and will continue to support this story. This is the first time I've used POV (point of view) to write a story, so it may sound weird, please bear with me .U.
Chapter Two
---Ian's POV---
I cracked open an eye and looked around. There wasn't much to see, other than the dark form of Bryan opposite me. He's just sitting there, not doing anything. But I guess there isn't much to do. It's been more than 6 hours since we boarded the train, and we've got about a few more hours to wait before we actually get to the train station closest to the school.
I don't look forward to arrival. To me, a school is just another building crammed with a bunch of people, like the train station.
I hate crowds, especially when they're tightly packed and moving in various directions. Even if I manage to dodge someone walking towards me, there's always someone pushing from behind. Contact with another person is sort of a fear I suppose. There are many unnatural things you acquire when you live in a closed abbey for so long.
Leaning back on the seat, the comfort feels unusual. I am more used to those steel and wooden chairs back at the abbey. They were rougher, yet once you get used to something, it's hard to change. Then again, that man, Mr. Dickenson, said that 'change is good'. I don't know how much of his words I can believe. Though he is providing us with financial support, I still doubt that there's anyone who's willing to give up so much money just for a bunch of orphans. There's a chance that he might stop sending us money, or even forget, we are a long ways away from where he lives in Japan. True he has opened up a new bank account under our name, 'Ivanov' – where the hell did Tala get that name anyways? – But he can also shut it down without notice and leave us broke in the midst of recovery. How optimistic am I? Not much judging by what I've just thought about. There's more than just one downside to everything, that's how I'd like to think. Maybe that's too much caution on my part, but it can't hurt.
Like I said before, I don't look forward to arrival. Truth is, I'd rather just sleep in this chair – it's getting rather cozy – for a long time to come. I have no desire to meet any of those crowds of people at the school. I'd probably just find out they're all not worth my time and want to leave before we've been there for a week. Maybe even less. Hmph. Aren't I a positive creature?
---Bryan's POV---
The train is unusually silent. Too silent. I hate it when there is no sound, like there is no one at all.
But there are lots of them. All around me. Gathered so close. I sit still, I'm not going to let any one of them get near me.
This whole trip has been torture. From the start I never wanted to leave the abbey. The quiet sanctuary of the abbey.
But the others just had to drag me here. I should have used Falborg on them, but something had kept me back.
The more I think the more I sound like a weakling. I hate that.
I don't act emotionless so people would fear me. I do it so people would leave me alone. I thought that if I showed no signs of emotions, no one would notice me, nor react when they see me.
I guess I was wrong.
Balkov seemed to think that a lack of emotions was the perfect weapon. It wasn't so bad when I first started training. There was nothing new to experience from the times I had to endure living on the streets. All I had to do was be myself. That is, until I was introduced to Falborg.
I did not think much of it at first, keeping it inside its bit and ignoring it completely. But its stupid whining kept me awake at night, not human speech of course, but those sharp screeches that only I, its master, could hear.
I probably made a big mistake when I finally got enough and let it out. It never thanked me and I never asked for gratitude.
That was when I started to become jealous. Jealous of its speed. Jealous of its strength. But mostly jealous of its freedom.
I was raised in the abbey to be ruthless. To kill all that I see. But I was never given a chance to destroy. The sight of Falborg tearing through weaklings' beyblades made me hunger to do it for myself. I did almost kill one of those young recruits, but Balkov stopped me and punished me. Hmph. Hasn't he realized that he has locked me up in a cell for doing what I was trained to do?
But Falborg was encouraged to destroy. Encouraged to put pain upon others.
At least the abbey allowed me to use Falborg to hurt, to damage. But this place we are headed for, that school, it will just serve as a second prison to me. Restrictions on my every move.
The only thing stopping me from tearing everyone from limb to limb at this moment is the fact that, if I did, that old man would probably send me to some home for the mentally challenged.
I hate that old man too, Mr. Dickenson, though I'd rather not remember his name. Hate that he's providing money and shelter for us. Hate that I have to rely on someone weaker than myself.
No matter how I look at it, I would rather die and rot along with the abandoned abbey than head to wherever we are going.
'We' - that word makes me want to scream. I hate referring to myself in a group. It makes me feel that I actually belong with them. But I know very well I don't, nor want to. Relying and belonging is for the weak-hearted and naïve. They don't know that they're leaning on a crumbling building that will bury you alive when it collapses. If you're lucky enough, that building may not crash on you, but fall away instead, but you'll still gain a few large scars.
There is no forever in this world. Let someone try to prove me wrong and they'll die first.
Someone had just started snoring. At least there is sound now. But not the sound I prefer to hear. Not the sound of screaming and agony that I crave.
I refused to open my tightly closed eyes. I know that if I were to set sight on Tala sitting beside me that I would really lose it. It's his red hair. That deep yet bright red, just like the color of blood.
I started to finger Falborg in my jacket pocket. Its sharp attack ring calmed me as it ran along my fingers, smooth and cold.
It hurt my head when I try to imagine how I will survive the next few years of my life. If it even counts as a life. There is almost no way anyone can tell me apart from someone dead. I already have unusually pale skin, dull eyes and my hair is close to white. If I were to lie down and close my eyes in a coffin, I could bet my life people would think me a corpse. But then again, my life's not worth enough to bet on.
Why not end my life now?
Simple. I don't have a weapon to use. Falborg would never let me use it to kill myself; it enjoys my painful suffering in life too much. The rest of my daggers that Balkov had given me had been confiscated by that old man. Why can't he just mind his own business? And choking oneself to death is not worth trying, you would loose strength in your arms before you're fully dead.
Luckily, forever doesn't exist, so I won't be suffering for too long.
---Spencer's POV---
There was an undeniable lack of speech between us – Tala, Bryan, Ian and I. But who am I to care? Conversing isn't my strong point.
Then again, re-reading newspapers as I am doing now is not very entertaining. There are hardly any articles worth reading and advertisements rein about 1/3 of almost every page. I take neither interest in the contents described nor the products being promoted, so I wonder to myself why I even bother flipping the pages.
Maybe it's to keep myself occupied. Or maybe I just want to prove that the contents of the newspaper are realistic enough to signify that this isn't some illusion that I've made up; that we've actually left the abbey.
To say the truth, I do consider the abbey as a cage. But a cage has two uses.
One is to keep its inhabitant locked up and unable to escape. Like how we were restrained from the outside world and only let out to compete in tournaments.
The second use is overlooked by most, but it does exist. Once someone thinks hard about something, there's usually a big chance that you will discover a side to that something that has never been revealed. But thinking for oneself is pretty much discouraged under Balkov's watch. But I, having completed my training early almost every day, had nothing else to do. I've pondered and came up with the fact that those metal bars of a cage can also be used to keep the inhabitant safe, away from the outside. To us four, the outside is like an obstacle course, a maze, full of the unknown and the unexplained. In our case, what we don't know can, and most likely will, hurt – and we knew too little.
I suppose associating me with the other three isn't entirely right. I've had more experience in 'life' and the outside than they do. I at least know how to use the different devices that were never introduced to those in the abbey. I at least understand what the 'laws' of the outside are – though they are far less strict than the abbey. And I at least can say I've lived more than one night outside of the dark abbey dormitories.
I have to admit though that they learn fast. Tala has already understood how to operate a cell phone and many others of the items Mr. Dickenson has given us. Ian has learnt his manners well, though he rarely ever uses them. Bryan on the other hand ignores anything and everything, so I can't really tell if he's adapted.
I think too much. It is what a brain and mind is for, but I still think an excess of thoughts is not a good sign. Thankfully, I can hide my thoughts well. Even in front of Balkov. He thinks that I concentrate completely on training when I am in the weight room, but I can multitask fairly well.
Another page full of ads – I am getting very bored seeing the same words printed in large letters that I doubt would attract much attention as opposed to what its issuers seem to think; what a waste of time and effort.
It may seem I am complaining a lot, but 'normal' people don't know how relaxing it is to be able to complain freely. Though I know I can disguise my thoughts, I still feel nervous when thinking in front of Balkov. Those red lenses he wears, they hide his eyes and make you think he can probe your mind at any given moment. It sickens me how easily he has made us fear him.
My fist curled and loosened, slightly crumbling the newspaper. I quickly folded the articles and placed it in my duffle bag.
I treasured how I just thought 'my'. It shows that something in this world actually belongs to me. Even if it were provided by someone else, I am free to use it how I like.
I never considered Seaborg to be mine, merely a tool given to me to use to Balkov's liking. It makes me wonder why I brought it along with me on this trip. I had wanted to leave everything the abbey had given me behind, including my old wardrobe – even if it only consisted of one actual combination of clothes. I had felt a kind of obligation to take Seaborg along, as if I thought it deserved to see the outside as well.
But it isn't alive – right? We have always been taught that the bit beasts are no longer living, being spiritual. Then why is it that they can feel pain? And why does it have to look like a real animal?
I clenched Seaborg as my hand brushed it in the duffle bag. I looked at it as it lay there, still, unlike the way it is in battle. For a second, I thought it gave off a soft, golden, glow. I stared at it for a moment more before setting the duffle bag down again.
I shouldn't think too much..
---To be continued