A small one-shot I got inspired to. Hope you all like it.

But before I start with the fic, I gotta warn you: This fic contains Character Death. No like, no read.

And another little announcement I've got to make: This fic kinda's settled in the future. Well, not exactly – the person telling the story's already grown up, just like everyone else of the group is. But the story itself is settled in the past. So, as things told happen, the characters are about 18/19 years old, after G-Rev. Also I wrote this story as if the last episode in which Dranzer's back never happened. Hope it's clear now – I'm not very good when it comes to explanations…

By the way – another warning: I'm German, so English is not my mother tongue and I'm still looking for a beta – therefore please bear with me and my mistakes… and if someone out there wants to do this job – just let me know!

Last but not least – what has to be done: Don't own! Wish I did though…

.: In Loving Memory :.

I still remember that day as if it were yesterday. Each detail is branded indelible in my memory and it seems still vivid, even after all these years. And still it hurts just like it did that day. The day that I understood who he really was. The boy to whom we offered our friendship every so often and who always turned us down. Until it was too late. That day I finally understood why…

The cold winter sun barely shone through the heavy velvet curtains. I was thankful for it. Thankful, that the thick fabric allowed only sad twilight to light up the rooms, thankful that the heavy snowfall outside darkened the sunlight, thankful, that the cold of the Russian winter outside the windows companied the cold inside of me like a good old friend would do.

I suppose the others felt the same way, because none of them seemed to even think of pulling back the curtains. We all were grateful for this almost eerie scenery that spread itself here in front of us and that fit our dejected mood so perfectly.

By saying 'here' I refer to the almost oversized mansion in one of the wealthier quarters of Moscow, in which he had spent his last two years.

Two years… Had it really been that long since I had last seen him?

At that time, after we had finally defeated Boris one last time by joining forces, we had all said goodbye to each other. I remember him not being very talkative that day. But then again how could he be? He never had been a man of many words and after losing Dranzer, his loyal and probably best friend, in a fierce battle against Brooklyn, he had withdrawn himself from everyone and everything surrounding him more than ever. Well, who could have blamed him for doing so? I don't know what I would do if I ever lost dragoon.

However, as much as I understood his behaviour, it still hurt. We were his friends after all. But even after all this time we knew each other, after all we had gone through, he didn't think of us as friends. Not really.

On the other hand – wasn't it exactly this behaviour, which made him who he was? Him being a loner and such? Wasn't it his cold, distant and sometimes almost harsh exterior that hid his warm heart so perfectly, wasn't it exactly that we all grew to love so much? To miss so much? Weren't it his pitiless training methods that motivated us to give our best, even if we thought we couldn't do it?

What would I give for receiving one of his famous death glares once again for doing something stupid, for enraging him in one way or another? What would I give for hearing those words again which he spat almost daily at me? "Stop whining, Tyson!" Or perhaps his ever so famous "I'm surrounded by idiots!" He would role his eyes while saying it and just disappear round the next corner, his scarf trailing mockingly behind him as if nothing had happened.

What would I give for that? … Everything! Everything I have. And more.

Perhaps it would have changed things if we had recognized earlier that something was bothering him. But he never gave us a chance to.

He just disappeared out of our lives. On a rainy Monday morning at Tokyo airport I last saw him. "We'll stay in contact, won't we?" I had asked him and he had given a sharp nod and this strange sounding grunt which had already become a trademark of him. This special "Hn", which expressed nothing and everything at the same time, and which I had grown that accustomed to that I still can't believe I'm never gonna hear it again. Sometimes when I'm lying in my bed at night, wide awake and not able to sleep at all, I could swear I can hear it right beside my ear. And there's slight annoyance clearly in his voice as if he wanted to say "Just go to sleep already, I've got tough training in store for you tomorrow!" But when I turn around, my gaze meats an empty armchair. It's standing beneath the only window of my bedroom, half covered in worn clothes that were carelessly thrown over it. The moonlight falls through the window and makes it clear that there's nobody sitting in this armchair, that I have once again imagined his voice. But nevertheless I find myself drifting of to a deep and calm sleep filled with dreams about old times, about our battles, our adventures. For I know that he's watching over me like he always did.

Cause although he would have never admitted it: He was always watching over us. He made sure we weren't getting in any troubles, made sure we learned to take care of ourselves. And even so we got ourselves into trouble more than one time he had always been there to help us pull through.

Perhaps this was the reason why he never told us the truth. Why he never told us what was really bothering him. And perhaps it was the reason why he nodded 'yes' back there at the airport although I'm pretty sure he already knew he wouldn't stay in contact at all – with none of us.

Because he didn't want to make us worry about him. He wanted us to live our carefree lives, free of all the cruelty and evil that the world holds in store for some of us. Which he himself had endured during his life.

But in the end it was him who revealed this evil for us to see. By leaving us. Irrevocable. Irretrievable.

The moment Mr. Dickenson called to inform us of his death it became clear to us that the world wasn't just laugh and shine. It's a place as cold and cruel like the Russian winds that bit our faces at his tomb where each of us threw one last black rose to rest on his coffin seated six feet down in the muddy earth.

As we entered the huge mansion he had called his home for the last two years right after the funeral, the same cold greeted us.

His last will said that each one of us could choose one object here in this house to take it with him, notwithstanding its value – material or spiritual. Only one piece each. Everything else he possessed would go to charity. Back then I hadn't asked how all his wealth would be spent exactly. Only a few years later had I asked Mr. Dickenson and he told me that the money had been given to a foundation which took care of abused children – according to Kai's wishes.

We looked round the mansion for quite a while, everyone on his own, everyone busy with his own thoughts and memories. For each of us it was very important not to just take anything but to find something that would remember us of our dear friend. Something that we could see a piece of who he had been, a piece of his spirit lying within.

I remember finding Ray sitting on the couch in the living room after a while. He clung to a piece of white fabric which I recognized as the scarf which had been kind of a trademark of Kai. Yes indeed, there he had really made a good choice. Could you even imagine Kai without this piece of cloth wafting behind him? I can't. Sometimes it even seemed to mimic his master's mood. Depending on how he felt – angry, bored or simply looking forward to a tough beybattle – the fluttering of his scarf could look threatening, indifferent or pugnacious. I remember that sometimes, when we were once again fighting over something that mostly I had been to be blamed for, it seemed almost amused to me. I think sometimes he surreptitiously really enjoyed our little encounters.

I secretly envied Ray for his gem. But on the other hand I would never forget the sight Kai gave wearing this scarf, even without a piece of white fabric to help me remember.

Max's choice came to be something more profound. On his sad journey through the house he had discovered a small room somewhere in the back in which Kai seemed to have spent most of his time. He guided us there to show us the object he had chosen for himself.

Compared to the rest of the house this room was quite small with a low ceiling. Its outline was octagonal and through five of the eight walls led double-glazed doors to a small terrace overgrown with ivy. At one of the three walls left stood a big, undeniably antique oaken cupboard, the colour of which had become darker over the years. The other wall held a huge chimney, pieces of burned wood still lying in it, and the third one held the beautifully shaped door we had entered through.

The rest of the small room consisted of a thick blood-red carpet which certainly felt unbelievably soft under bare feet, a heavy looking chandelier dangling from the middle of the ceiling and a small table which stood right aside of Max' object of desire: An incredibly comfy looking armchair, covered in red velvet and with thick padded 'ears' on each side, where you could rest your tired head. Somehow I felt like I had seen it before.

While feverishly thinking about where I knew this armchair from, I saw a thick book with Russian letters on its cover lying on the small table. It seemed to be very old, the corners of the cover already battered, savouring yellowed pages. About from the middle of the book a golden bookmark stuck out of the pages and beside it lay silver rimmed spectacles with small rectangular glasses.

At that very moment I remembered. Of course I knew this armchair! Sometime between our second and our third World Championship we had staid at Kai's for a couple of days. At that time he had lived all on his own in that huge mansion in Bay City which had formerly been inhabited by his grandfather. We had had a burst pipe in the dojo and since Ray had been living there too, we both had spontaneously decided to drop in at Kai's for the time needed to fix the damage. After hearing the news, Kenny, Max and Hilary also dropped by. Gramps had moved over to Mr. Dickenson's for the time being.

In those days I had often seen Kai sitting in front of the chimney in exactly this chair, sometimes reading a book, but most of the time he just sat there staring into the flames that matched the colour of his eyes almost perfectly. In these moments he looked more peaceful and satisfied then I had ever seen him. Obviously this old armchair had been his most favourite spot. He must have taken it with him as he had moved to Russia.

I perfectly understood why Max had chosen this object out of everything in this house. He also must have remembered Kai sitting in this chair. And each time I visit him our days I can see it standing in his living room and a small smile creeps over my face due to the memory of my Russian friend.

While we stood in this small room I almost regretted that Max had found it before I could. Now he would take that chair with him and with it a valuable piece of memory.

But there was something else in this house, something even more valuable. Something that would more than anything else keep alive the memory of Kai. Something that – although its core was long time gone – was almost a part of Kai himself. It was a sign for what he had been, a memento of all the battles he had fought in his life, at our side and as our opponent. A remembrance of everything he had believed in, everything he had fought for, everything he had tried to gain in his entire life. Perfection. Strength. Courage. And honour.

Dranzer.

I knew that – although its bit chip no longer held the picture of the mighty phoenix – Kai had always had his blade with him. Perhaps as a memory, perhaps because he still had hope that one day Dranzer might return to him like the phoenix he was, rising from the ashes. Perhaps just out of a sentimental habit.

Kenny had given it to him the day he left for Russia. I suppose none of us could imagine Kai without his beyblade, Kenny the least. And never will I forget the only honest smile I ever saw on Kai's face as Kenny lay the blade in his hand. A sad one – yeah – but a smile. It had vanished just as fast as it had appeared, but still it had been there. And in my memory it will always grace his handsome features.

Dranzer. It was the one object which I would have chosen out of all the treasures in the world. I knew it had to be somewhere here in this house, waiting for me to find it.

I have never found it.

Today it is carefully seated in a glass cabinet in Kenny's living room, surrounded by some old photographs of times in which we were still fighting side by side. And I think that's the place where it should be. After all – who could take better care of such a precious blade than Kenny – our genius when it comes to beyblading, and the one who had lend a helping hand each time Dranzer had once again been damaged in one of Kais breathtaking battles.

Yes, Dranzer was best with Kenny. I'm sure Kai would have agreed with that. For to say the least Kenny had always been the only one that Kai had ever allowed to lie a hand on Dranzer. Never would he have let anyone else touch his most treasured possession.

However when I saw Kenny enter the small room in which we were all still gawking at Max's armchair, Dranzer firmly pressed against his chest, my heart wanted to shatter.

Now, all three of them had found something special to keep the memory of our beloved captain alive for all eternity. The scarf in Ray's hands still smelt of Kai's deodorant, the armchair was already battered where Kai used to sit, and Kenny was holding the one object in his hands which almost seemed to breathe Kai's spirit.

And what about me? I was standing there empty handed. I had nothing. Nothing to remind me of Kai, nothing to fill the gap he had left between us.

I remember passing by the others, leaving the room with my head hung low, and aimlessly wandering through all the countless corridors, rooms and stairways of this giant building.

I don't know how long I was walking around mumbling words even I myself didn't understand.

But I still know that after some time I ended up in a room which magically seemed to call out for me. I could almost feel Kai's presence pushing me into the dimly lit chamber. Here the curtains also were firmly closed and because of the meanwhile quite late hour the room almost lay in complete and utter darkness. Nevertheless I could vaguely make out a bed, a small nightstand and a chair standing at one end of the bed. Obviously this was a sleeping room, and judging by the black short-sleeved jacket hung over the chair it had to be Kai's. But neither the chair nor the jacket was what caught my attention. It was the small wooden desk seated inconspicuously under the large window. To be more precise not the desk itself but what was lying on it.

It was a book. Small and plain, bound in black leather. Beside it stood a small ink-pot filled with black ink, and a white feather. The same ink-pot and the same feather I had once seen during the time we had been living in his mansion in Japan. This one day he had been sitting at a desk similar to the one now in front of me, writing with this very same feather. By looking closer I had been able to see a book, this book.

I remember making fun of him for writing a diary for days after that. It was meant to be a joke. That day when he had noticed me watching him he had explained that the book had something to do with his businesses – accounts I think. Yes, that was it, business accounts.

But here it was. The very same book, small, black, and suddenly I wasn't so sure anymore that he had really told me the truth that day. 'Cause it looked suspiciously like what I had first taken it as: a diary. And still it seemed to call me.

Slowly I got closer, picked it up and opened it. As I did so something fell out and down to the floor. A white sheet of paper on which I could vaguely see some words written in Kai's neat handwriting.

I bent down and picked it up. Due to the increasing darkness I couldn't decipher the words, but after switching on the small lamp standing on the desk I could read them easily. But what I read there made me wonder if I had ever really known Kai.

"I knew you would find it.

Take it, Tyson. It's yours now. I hope it will answer all the questions that I could never give you the answers to.

Farewell, my friend.

Kai."

I felt tears welling up in my eyes. He got it. After all this time, after all those years full of effort and strain he had finally understood that we had always wanted just one thing: his friendship. In the end he had given it to us. No. Not to us. To me. He had given it to me. The letter was clearly addressed to me, Tyson. Not Ray, not Max – Tyson.

With shaking fingers I reopened the book at the first page and began reading.

There right on top in the right corner it read "December 12th, 1992". 1992. At that time he must have been around ten or eleven years old. Quite excited and with my heart pounding against my rips I continued reading.

"I found this book in one of the many rooms in this huge house. I think it belongs to the old man who declared himself as my grandfather. I hope he won't miss it…

Is it true? Is he really my grandfather? As I looked into the mirror I couldn't see any similarities between him and me. But then again my own reflection seems so strange I can't be sure. After all that I know he really could be telling the truth.

I hope so because it doesn't look like I've got another choice then believing his words.

I don't remember anything. They call me Kai but the name sounds as strange as if I'd never heard it before. They say my parents died in the very same car accident due to which I lost my memory some weeks ago. Perhaps that's the truth. I don't know. Perhaps I don't want to know. My grandfather – if he really is my grandfather that's that – says that the reason why I can't remember is that the accident was that terrible, therefore my mind just blocks the memories. Perhaps I should be glad for not remembering.

But I know I should remember. For I know that I have forgotten something really important. Something I mustn't forget. I know it's there but I can't grasp it.

Dranzer's my only comfort. I can't remember where I got him or why but somehow I just know that he's my friend. He watches over me, of that I'm sure, and his soft red glow is the only thing I'm not afraid of at the moment. And I don't want to be afraid anymore.

I've got nightmares. Grandfather says – I'll just call him that as long as I can't prove something opposite to that – he says that that's normal. He says that in my dreams I can see pictures of the accident which I can't remember while I'm awake.

But I don't dream of the accident. I dream of cold walls crumbling all around me and of a man with glowing red eyes. He frightens me. Somehow I know that I have to be afraid of this man. But why? And why do I know that? And why is there always this strange feeling that grandfather holds the answers to my questions but doesn't want to give them to me?

Each time I ask him grandfather tells me that some day my memories will return. I don't know if I should look forward to that day. Perhaps the truth's even worse than what grandfather tells me. If the truth is like what I see in my dreams, then I don't want to know.

But my reflection I would like to remember again…"

This entry he must have written shortly after he had left the abbey. Mr. Dickenson had told us once that Kai had destroyed half the abbey by launching Black Dranzer and had been buried underneath the remains. He said that Kai had been saved nearly unharmed but that he hadn't been able to remember anything. It wasn't until our first World Championship, when he returned to Russia and to the abbey that his memories came back. I had never been able to imagine how it must feel not being able to remember anything of your life, not even your own name. But these thoughts of a ten year old gave me quite an impression.

Now curious but also with a strange shuddering feeling in the pit of my stomach I flipped some pages until a certain date caught my eye.

"August 23rd, 1996."

It was the date of our final battle in the Regional Championship. Our first real battle against each other. That day he had defended his title, I myself still had been a blank paper. A nobody challenging the reigning Champion. I still remember how good I felt after that great victory. But what I was about to read now should add a bitter taste to this triumph.

"Like grandfather told me to I once again took part in the Regional Championship.

As I had already expected most of the competitors were nothing but some stupid amateurs. Botchers not even knowing what a Bit Beast is, let alone how to use one. No real opponents for Dranzer. Grandfather would call them an insult to a Bit Beast like him.

Worse though that I lost the finals.

This kid – Tyson – appeared again. He has courage I must admit. And he's quite good. Miles away from being a serious blader but still – quite good. He has everything a good blader needs and I'll have an eye on him. Well, I won't have much of a choice really for Mr. Dickenson insisted on making me captain of the team that will be sent to the World Championships. There will be five of us.

A Chinese boy called Ray. In the semi-finals he let Tyson win by giving up in the third match, but I think he really shouldn't be underestimated. He seems to work hard for his goal and his blading techniques are pretty good. His defence is miserable but that's something one could work on.

Then there's the American – Max – whom I'll most likely strangle by mistake someday because he has an annoying habit of laughing 24/7 for no reason at all. Nevertheless his blading's not that bad. His defence is almost perfect although I have this strange feeling that he acts out of bare instinct rather than following a certain strategy. Also his attacks are very weak but that again is something one could work on. Only question is if he would be able to stop laughing long enough to manage a serious training…

But the one I worry about the most is this little computer geek. I think his name is Kenny. He seems to be quite a coward although his knowledge concerning beyblades could come to be not entirely useless. At least I'm sure that he's to be blamed responsible for the modifications in Tyson's blade without which he wouldn't have won.

Tyson. He too will be a member of the team. News that haven't exactly helped grandfather's reaction to my loss. The gashes his whip caused on my back are still bleeding. I doubt that I will be able to sleep tonight with these cuts still stinging like hell.

So be it. Probably I hadn't even slept without them.

Dranzer's soft glow tells me that he's sorry. It wasn't his fault though. I underestimated my opponent. You mustn't underestimate your opponent ever. Grandfather made sure that I won't forget about that for the next few days.

Next time we'll win. And if not then at least grandfather won't be nearby to punish me. We'll travel to China to battle in the Asian Tournament.

China is far away.

Far away from grandfather.

I just fear not far enough…"

No wonder Kai always took loosing so seriously. But what shocked me the most was that we had never noticed anything of what he had to deal with in his life.

I noticed that both entries mentioned Dranzer in some way. Both times he seemed to be the only thing that was actually good in his life, the one thing giving him the strength to endure everything else.

I flipped back some pages and glanced them over without actually reading them. Later there would still be time to read them properly. At the moment the only thing I wanted to know was if and in what way Dranzer was mentioned in the other entries too. It didn't take me long to find out that my suspicion had been correct. In each and every entry there was at least one sentence referring to Dranzer. And most of the time they read things like "Dranzer's my own comfort now" or "Dranzer gives me the strength to move on". He didn't always use these exact words but the meaning was always the same.

Gradually I began to understand that the relationship between Kai and Dranzer went deeper than I had thought. I came to realize what losing Dranzer must have meant for Kai.

At last I flipped forward again until I reached the last entry of the journal. It differed slightly from the others, not as long, the handwriting a little smudgy, the ink in some places a bit smeared. And what it read was completely different to everything I had read before…

"January 2nd, 2001.

That's the date that will be engraved in my tombstone. The reason why I'm so sure about that is because this day's today.

Today's the day I will die.

How pathetic. If Boris could see me now he would tell me what a piece of worthless shit I am. Useless and weak, not worth to be named a Hiwatari.

As if I had ever asked for it.

I never wanted to be a Hiwatari. I never wanted to be a part of this sick plan of my grandfather. I never wanted to be strong.

And yet I think I have been strong my entire life. Because I had to be. And because I had someone at my side who could give me this strength.

Dranzer.

He was my strength. My power. My lifeline.

Now he's gone. And I'm the one who killed him.

And with him I lost the only friend that had ever been able to stop me from doing what I am about to do now.

I've reached a point where I have already been so many times before. And he has always been there to stop me, to make me go back.

Not this time.

This time no one will be able to stop me.

I never asked for being Kai Hiwatari. And today will be the last day I am Kai Hiwatari.

Pathetic, I know. But why shouldn't I too be allowed to be pathetic for once?"

My tears were long since flowing freely. But it wasn't until now that I realized them. I didn't mind.

I cried for a friend. A friend whom I had never really come to know 'til now, whom I just now for the first time really understood. And I cried for what could have been if only he had let me see earlier who he really was.

On January 2nd, 2001 at exactly 5.47 am out on the balcony of his mansion in Russia Kai had shot a bullet through his head. The last thing he saw had been the sunrise above the roofs of Moscow. The one sight he had loved the most.

Later I found out that Ray, Max and Kenny too had found a letter lying with there chosen objects, each one similar to the one I found with the diary. And all three of them had had the same strange feeling I had: the feeling that Kai showed them the way to these objects, that his spirit was guiding them.

He must have foreseen what objects we would choose, what would remind us the most of him.

He had chosen a suitable piece for each of us and given it to us as a present.

But I think with mine he made the best choice…

Kitschy – I know. Mistakes over mistakes – I know. All in all really crappy – yes, I know.

Would be pleased to get some reviews anyway – feel free to flame… they're gonna hold me warm in the upcoming winter…

Bye

siliana