Hey everyone! It's been a while since I updated, ne? sweatdrop I'm very sorry... I was revising the ending for chapter five, and couldn't come up with something that I liked, so, in frustration, I decided I would just come back to it another day--and then I forgot about it, LOL. I finally decided on an ending I like, so...here it is. I hope everyone likes it! (Personally, this is one of my favorite stories I've written.)
Thank you so much to ghostymangarocker, Clare, Lyrikkal, Tala's-Soul, storm-of-insanity, SOMEONE2003, Demenior, and DM666-san for reviewing! You guys don't know how ecstatic your reviews make me, they're all so kind. Thank you so much! And thank you so much to everyone who's reviewed me and supported me throughout this fic! I hope you've all liked it!
Now, I have no idea how I managed to stretch this last chapter, only for the purpose of loose-end-tying, to be around the same length as the others, but it works for me. Hope you all enjoy the last installment!
Disclaimer: I don't own Beyblade; it belongs to Aoki Takao.
Start Chapter Five:
Beginning to Break Free
General POV
Feeble morning sunshine gave dim light to the bland dormitory of the Demolition Boys. The said boys lay asleep in their beds, sunlight not bothering them in the least.
Not a sound was heard inside the quiet room until a guard came clomping down the corridor and knocked on their door.
"Time to get up, Demolition Boys," the burly man called loudly in a bored tone. "You got an extra hour and a half to sleep, so you're expected to be eating your breakfast in less than ten minutes, ready to go to the tournament!"
Being the light-sleepers they were, the adolescents awoke instantly at the man's voice, absorbed what he said—interestedly or not—and listened to his footsteps resound down the hallway.
Usually, the teens would spring into action to dress so they could hurry and eat without being late, but today…the four boys sat silently, each gazing at something unseeingly. It was like a mutual, unspoken agreement to remain quiet and still. None of the boys were feeling up to moving; not because they doubted they could claim victory, but because they were nervous and excited, non-too-sure about their fates after the tournament ended and Voltaire had his desired control over the world.
Finally, the stillness was disturbed by the team captain. "We have to get going. Quickly."
xXx
Within seven minutes, each of the boys had changed their clothes. Within another two, they had fixed up their beds. And, taking into account their initial hesitation, they had already used up their ten minutes and then some.
So, by the time they made it to the Abbey's near-deserted dining hall (the other students were training), fifteen minutes had passed since they had awoken.
"You're late," a guard, leaning against the far wall, barked at them cantankerously. He marched over to the table their table, where their breakfast was placed, and pointed at the benches impatiently.
Tala, Ian, Bryan, and Spencer stared at their filled plates, a bit surprised they had received so much food. Usually, they were given only small portions, but today their meal was somewhat hearty.
"Probably cold by now," muttered the irritable guard, leaning once again against the wall. "And Master Boris has been so generous, with the extra sleep and food. What do you four do? You arrive late."
Bryan dared to shoot the guard a heated scowl, earning him a kick under the table from Spencer.
"You're already in trouble," reasoned the blond when Bryan turned the deadly look on him.
"Quit yappin' and eat!" the guard ordered, stalking hurriedly to Spencer so he could jab the boy in the back with a finger.
"Now, now," said a familiar voice, "don't be too harsh on them. They're going to win everything for us, aren't they?"
All five males looked round and spotted Boris sweeping toward them.
"Sorry, sir," the brunette guard mumbled, inclining his head respectfully. Boris dismissed him with a wave, which the guard responded to immediately, scurrying out of the dining hall.
The four Demolition Boys had instantaneously stood at attention upon noting their mentor. Boris shifted his concentration onto them, and an ugly grin plastered his features.
"Sleep well?" he began casually, studying their apathetic faces.
"Yes, sir!" they chorused monotonously though loudly.
"Excellent. And I trust your meal will be suitable?"
"Yes, sir!"
"Brilliant."
The purple-haired man paced about in front of them, looking deeply contemplative. The teens appeared rather stoic, gaping straight ahead, mostly unmoving.
Pausing in his pace, Boris fixated his gray gaze on the shortest member of the team.
"Ian…you have served your purpose well in this tournament. Every order we gave you, you completed flawlessly. Your work in our plan is completed, and I congratulate you on a job well done."
"Thank you, sir!" This praise lifted Ian's spirits and made him momentarily forget about his slight anger at Tala for acting uncharacteristically and especially superior. And thoughts of his quarrel with Bryan flew from his mind as well. For this, and the fact he was anxious about Voltaire's dreams to be fulfilled, Ian was left with a temporary giddiness.
Though he made sure he would not display this feeling at all costs, which proved somewhat thorny.
Boris smirked widely, and turned his gaze upon the large blonde.
"Spencer…you too have served your purpose well, especially in the fact that you have defeated the traitor."—Boris didn't seem to want to mention Kai's name these days—"Your task is complete, and I applaud your great performance."
"Thank you, sir!" Spencer, too, felt somewhat giddy with these words of praise. After all, the boys rarely got such uplifting things said to them. Standing a bit straighter, Spencer was determined to keep his emotions in-line so his happiness did not deflate too quickly with a chastisement.
Moving on with his plan, Boris—smirk fading—brought his focus to his most ruthless student, who was still brooding and peeved over last night's events.
"Bryan…you always were a good student. But yesterday, you failed Master Voltaire and I. Your punishment will be finished up later. Other than your most devastating, foolish humiliation yesterday, you have fulfilled your purpose. And you did so well, I must say."
"Thank you, sir." Defeat was the ultimate letdown, the worst mistake. Unlike Ian and Spencer, Bryan did not feel anything remotely close to mirth. Instead, he was left angry at himself again, on top of the resentment he was currently feeling toward him teammates. Desiring nothing more than to sink away into a pit of oblivion, never to be seen again, Bryan resolutely kept all hints of a glare or scowl from his face. Pangs of rebellion resonated in his heart, and Bryan began, subconsciously, wishing he were anywhere in life than he was now, believing emotions weak and having to be the loser.
Proud, gleeful smirk returning, Boris solely centered his attention on Tala then.
"Tala…you are our top student here at Balkov Abbey. You have fulfilled every commitment given to you, including your expert captaining skills. Today, I much look forward to your success in the beydish. Congratulations on a well-done job thus far."
"Thank you, sir!" Tala sounded just as excited as Spencer and Ian. The human part of his brain was filled with a rush of glee and exhilaration at these praises and for his upcoming match. But the robotized half of his mind insisted he keep his eyes on the prize, and not forget he hadn't won yet…though his victory was 99.5 likely.
"Attend to your meals now," Boris commanded, attitude transforming back to harsh mentor just as rapidly as it had become praising and truthful.
xXx
The stone room was far from inviting. On the contrary, it was dull and bland, not to mention chilly and cobwebby. A large beydish, an orangey-brown color, like vomit, was dug into the floor. It was into this 'dish that a dark purple beyblade was launched.
Ian watched his beyblade spin round and round, still smirking about the praise he had received a half-hour ago.
From the other side of the 'dish, Tala launched his beyblade with perfect accuracy. The redhead studied Ian's 'blade as well as his own then, and mentally formulated a plan, using science and math, to claim the win, as he mumbled under his breath, "Processing".
As Ian made his move against Tala's gray beyblade, Spencer watched with some boredom, mulling over the coming Championship battle. Bryan was leaning against the wall next to where Spencer sat, lost in his own thoughts about what his punishment was to be (He had strong faith that Tala was going to win, and he therefore saw no point in pondering it the way Spencer was.).
The shortest member of the Demolition Boys was about to call forth his bitbeast, Wyborg, when Tala interjected.
"You know, Ian, you have a more than ninety-nine percent chance of losing this battle after I make my next move."
Briefly flabbergasted, Ian blinked. Regaining his poise, the red-eyed boy sneered, "Yeah right, Tala. Just because you're a robot—sorry, cyborg—doesn't mean you can make analyses and believe that they are correct."
"They are correct, Ian. I am correct. The robotic portion of my brain ensures so. Wolborg! Attack!"
Tala's colorless 'blade circled about Ian's before abruptly lunging forward. Ian was about to respond, but once again was interrupted. This time, though, it was because his beyblade had just been rammed by his captain's, resulting in it wobbling furiously.
Renewed determination crisscrossed Ian's face as he knitted his eyebrows together, preparing to summon Wyborg.
"Wy—"
For the third time, Ian was cut off, but only because Wolborg had appeared in-the-flesh, snarling, and, with a swift command from Tala, attacked Ian's 'blade head on with its Blizzalog.
"What?" muttered the loser of the battle incredulously, watching his beyblade spiral from the 'dish and clatter to the stone floor. "How'd your beyblade get so quick?"
"The scientists enhanced it, increasing its agility and strength…like me I suppose," Tala mused, carelessly flicking at one of his scarlet bangs. After Wolborg returned to dwell inside his beyblade, Tala held out his hand and the gray object flew into it obediently.
Ian, a bit huffily, gathered up his fallen beyblade and shoved it in his pocket, striding defiantly toward the two onlookers.
Frost-blue eyes scanned over the other three boys, examining them closely, observing them the way Spencer so often did to his teammates. In his mind, Tala longed to overcome the other half and push away the thoughts centered on victory—he had something important to say to his teammates…his friends.
Closing his eyes lightly for a moment, a voice inside of Tala told him he shouldn't have friends, shouldn't care about them, should only think of victory. The redhead struggled against this, and finally managed to take control of the cyborg in his mind.
"Guys," he muttered, before anything internal prevented him from speaking, be it anxiety or the desire to win as he opened his eyes.
Instantly, the other three adolescents gazed up, impassiveness etched on their features.
"Bryan, Ian, Spencer…," Tala continued, looking them each in the eye. "Listen. My victory is guaranteed, I know it is, I know I can win…and not just because I'm genetically enhanced. I have the willpower and I have the proficiency. I'm not going to be humiliated by losing to a snot-nosed amateur."
Their captain took a deep, shuddering breath. "But…still, even if—even when—I win…I don't know what's to become of us. I'm not sure if we'll stay here, or be forced on the streets, or whatever. But I wanted to let you guys know"—again, he gazed into each pair of eyes individually—"that we're going to stick together through it. Even if relationships are weak, even if they're problematic, even if they're useless, even if we don't want them…we have them. One, anyway. The four of us have a bond…whether we like it or not."
Tala folded his arms as he finished his speech, meaning every word he said, and hoped that his teammates would agree. The other three boys seemed contemplative as they absorbed what Tala had presented to them. A silence descended upon the boys.
Finally, something happened. Something unexpected…but significant.
Spencer smiled. No, not a smirk, but a genuine smile. No matter how small. None of them had smiled in years, labeling this as a potential breakthrough….
And, with that smile on his lips, Spencer said, "I know exactly what you're saying. We're in this—we're in life—together."
And in another precious moment, Tala returned Spencer's smile with a tiny one of his own.
Bryan appeared a bit sickened at all of this, but Ian seemed to feel right at home. He straightened out from his position against the wall, and added to the smile-fest.
"Together," he put in, extending a hand toward Spencer.
Perplexed, Spencer eyed Ian's outreached hand. Then, smile reappearing and broadening, he clasped his hand on top of his shorter companion's.
Tala strolled toward them, and casually placed his hand on top of his two teammates' right hands.
All three, lame smiles on their faces, looked toward Bryan, who was ogling at them skeptically. "You don't think I'm going to join in your pathetic, girlish friendship circle, do you?"
"It's not a circle, it's a triangle right now," Ian reasoned, immediately feeling like a moron after saying that…but he refused to show it.
With a glower adorning his face, Bryan stalked toward them and slowly reached out his hand…but quickly pulled it back. Closing his eyes, he turned away, glaring at the wall.
Ian recognized some truth in Bryan's statement, but didn't want to stand for it. It felt as though they needed to do this, needed to make that bond Tala spoke of physical and not just emotional. The short teen thought of something then, realized something, and, on a whim, decided he would speak out about it: It might sew holes in the fabric of their friendship, he reasoned.
"Bryan…," began Ian, though he trailed off.
The lavender-eyed boy scowled at his teammate. "What now?"
"…I'm sorry…for calling you a robot."
Ian gazed downward, any hints of emotion gone, as he hid his shame well.
Tala and Spencer managed to mask their curiosity, and pretended to disregard the scene playing out before them.
After a few interminable moments silence, Bryan mustered a, "What did you say?"
"I'm…sorry." The tiny boy dared to look back at Bryan.
Looking a tad incredulous, Bryan mulled over this statement. He knew Ian would never say such a thing unless he meant it in all sincerity. All of a sudden, Bryan felt like a normal teenager, an ordinary boy, for a fleeting moment, and allowed himself to think like one.
The teenager shrugged in reply to Ian, turned about, and placed his hand on top of theirs.
And so, each of the Demolition Boys knew that the fact they had basically admitted their friendship to each other in this gesture of piling hands—like a friendly team would do—was against everything they had been taught about relationships at Balkov Abbey. But this bond that the four of them shared was something special, something that they only sometimes realized was there, and since they were confessing it to each other through this gesture…they were making their very first step down the road to recovery, beginning to break free of the restraints the Abbey placed on them.
:End Story
Have a beautiful day and God Bless!
CyborgRockStar
