1001 Things
It was all Zeo could do. Sit in front of the TV with a notebook and a pen, watching Tyson fight a beybattle he would win. Watching Tyson for flaws, for the slightest something he couldn't do.
The slightest something Zeo could maybe do better.
If inspired, he'd write it down: for example, Tyson couldn't tap into vast reservoirs of strength lent by mechanical innards. But that was kind of cheap because if Zeo used it in battle he'd be cheating, and if he used it outside of battle he'd scare the crap out of people.
Uh…For Example, Tyson couldn't tame a rock bit beast like Cerberus. …But that was little consolation when you weren't even human and stuff.
…Example: Tyson couldn't play the violin. Small comfort when Zeo's mom had crashed the car while he was playing violin in the back seat, making it kind of the soundtrack for his life's various disasters.
So far, that was all Zeo had written down. But Tyson had once said, yelled, more like, that there were, no doubt, 1001 things Zeo could do better than he ever could. And because Tyson had said they were there to find, Zeo looked. ...Zeo hoped.