Justification of Evil

By TheImmortalDoll

Chapter Two: Climbing the Ladder

My childhood is not of much importance. I was born into a split-race family with a German father and a Russian mother. An only child. We were the typical family, we went to church every Sunday. We worshipped and lived by the bible. I was sent to a public school, we could afford nothing better.

We only owned a small house on the outskirts of St Petersburg. My father claimed he built it with his own two hands, the look on my mother's face told me much different every time. But she never spoke out against him, she would never dare.

Hitting children was never thought much of back then. A slap was a suitable punishment to put a wayward child back in line. People today believe it to be barbaric, if anyone thought that back then, no one much cared to do anything. My father had no qualms about giving my the odd whack if I was considered out of line, but I was a calm and obedient child for the most part. My father never spent enough time with me for there to be many moments between us that a disagreement would be caused. I was never close to my father. He went out to work, came home, ate dinner with my mother and I, then I was sent to do my homework or entertain myself in any means otherwise.

Social skills were not a well-developed part of my childhood. I never had any other family other than my mother and father, never spoke to anyone but them and my fellow students at school. Life was hard and I quickly learnt you got out what you put in. No time for pleasantries, no money for social gatherings, to get up and work, go to sleep and start the day over. That was the regime of life in my early years.

We lived in a small community where people kept to themselves. What was one person's business was no one else's. No friendly sense of a neighbourhood. It was a poor and rural area and people fought for what they could get, there was no room for gratitude. No one outstretched the hand of friendship and generosity because people did simply not have enough to share.

When I graduated from the basic school system, we did not have the money for me to be sent on to higher education. I was sent out to work to earn for the family. I did various jobs like a street urchin, shoe-shining, cleaning jobs, unpacking stock in small corner shops. This was my life for several long years until I reached the age of twenty-four. Hard labour was the only way to get by and I quickly learnt that the harder you worked the more you got out of it. Call it my motto for life.

Both my parents had passed away a couple of years ago with not much emotion felt on my part and I lived alone in the small house which was by now in a rather poor condition. At this time, I was working as a cleaner in a small Beyblade shop. I barely understood the items sold in the shop. I knew nothing of the sport and it had no interest for me. I saw kids rush in and out every day, I saw them outside with these spinning tops, looking as if they were having the time of their lives.

The owner of the shop was an elderly man. I didn't even know his name, he said I had no reason to. I was to call him Boss, because he was the Boss.

Every so often men would come by, they would go into the backroom with him and leave a while later. My curiosity got the better of me one time and I peered round the doorframe to see what was going on.

Bags of white powder were exchanged for money. I wasn't gullible. I knew it was drugs. I knew it was illegal. And I knew it was no concern of mine if I wanted to keep the job I had which I so desperately needed.

Then one day the old man collapsed. I found him on the floor behind the counter after I'd come in from sweeping the front door step. I called the ambulance, the paramedics arrived with no other job to do but tell me it had been too late.

The old man was dead. I never did find out the cause, but I would have guessed drug overdose.

Of course, the bags of white powder found in his residence were investigated. The shop was ransacked, too.

Not knowing what else to do and badly needing money, I continued to run the shop and it was eventually left in my hands after a contract was found that stated should anything happen to the owner, the shop would be left with any working staff. I was the only employee.

I was also interrogated about the drugs. They tested me to ensure I had had no contact with the substance and was not using it myself. I was clean, of course.

I was told about the results of drug usage. I believe the intention was to scare me off from using anything of the sort, but instead I was fascinated. I had no intention to use the stuff myself, but I was intrigued to hear how it could affect people. How it could weaken people and strengthen them in such incredible ways. And under such an influence, people could be manipulated and used. What power.

I continued to run the shop and in doing so I inevitably learned more about the sport.

I talked to the kids that came in, I examined the products on the shelves and read the books on the structure and mechanics. These were not mere toys as I had first thought, but rather tools. Weapons, even.

But my most amazing discovery came from merely watching the kids battle with their beyblades outside. This discovery was, of course, that of the bit-beasts.

They amazed me on the few precious occasions I witnessed this miracle. The bit-beasts. It was the bit-beasts that I fell into a passionate love affair with. Always the bit-beasts.

I researched them and studied their origins and forms. I learned all I could and my fascination grew.

Beyblades. These were not mere toys. They held power. They held life!

I studied the products the humble shop sold further. I took some into the back and worked on them myself, developing improvements I believed would be beneficial. I became a Beyblade mechanic in the same status as that boy on Tyson's team.

Yes, Kenny had always been an interest to me. His intelligence is admirable, his understanding is impressive. I would have loved to have him as part of my staff.

But enough of Kenny, back to my early times in the sport.

I had been working in the shop for three years. I was twenty-seven. My knowledge of Beyblades had grown to an advanced level and I was giving advice and help to the kids that came in daily.

I even changed the services of the shop. I not only sold Beyblades, but I did work on them and fixed those that were broken best I could. I was receiving fantastic income- though no where near enough to come be considered distinctly wealthy- as the sport grew in popularity and it was even receiving television coverage.

While working on these blades, I always studied them for whether or not they contained a bit-beast. Not many did. And the few I did discover, I always noticed the kids that trusted these blades to me were always extra wary and cautious to ensure their blades would be in the best of hands.

I never failed to provide good service. I presume this was what caught the interest of one Voltaire Hiwatari.

I was much surprised to see such a man walk into my small and humble shop. I knew who he was. Everyone in Russia knew who he was. A prestigious business man. Russia breathed Voltaire's money. But the sources were questionable. Exactly how the man had made his fortune had always been a topic of debate among the gossips. I did not consider it a concern. I was hardly a man who was in a position to judge when Voltaire was a billionaire and I struggled for basic necessities.

Despite my rural up-bringing, I knew common manners and I knew the 'proper' way to treat a man of such high status.

"Good morning, sir. How may I help you?"

He smiled, or maybe smirked, I wasn't sure. He tapped the end of his cane on the wooden floor. "Boris Balkov, am I correct?" He spoke with such sophistication, such refinement. A man whose success was admirable, who I admired.

"Yes, sir."

He leant on his cane, posture proper and held with authority. "I have heard many things about you, Mr Balkov. Good things. I understand you are rather an expert in this sport of Beyblading."

"Well, I don't know if I would consider myself as such, but I use my skills as effectively as I can."

He nodded, eyes fixed on me with an intimidation that was more powerful than anything I'd ever experienced. "Well, Mr Balkov. I have a proposition for you. If you would kindly come to my residence, I would like to discuss this with you further."

He handed me a printed card with his name, number and address stamped in gold, next to what I presumed to be either a family crest or a company logo, maybe a combination of both. Either way the design of a royal red and gold phoenix before a shield was obvious a sign of success.

"Shall we say tomorrow for dinner?" Voltaire continued and I found myself nodding before I'd even thought it through. But he seemed pleased and gave me than same mix of a smile and a smirk. "Excellent. Good day, Mr Balkov."

I was stunned. What interest could such a prestigious and renowned man have in me? I was a nobody in the scheme of things, in the big world. And I'd heard the rumours, everyone had heard the rumours that shadowed that name. Hiwatari. You should never mess with a Hiwatari, that's what was said.

But the next day I dressed in my finest clothes, a grey suit and black tie with a stiff white shirt and made my way by bus to the large mansion to which my only previous interaction had been passing by the gates while walking the streets.

I gave my name at the intercom and the gates opened by some technology that seemed almost magic. I felt a small and insignificant man walking down that long path up to the house that loomed on the horizon. It hadn't seem so large, so utterly elegant and intimidating looking through the gates back on the street.

I reached the door after a good five minutes of walking. Descended the steps to the large double, wooden doors, carved from a deep oak. I pressed the doorbell, which I'm certain was made of real gold, and waited.

A butler answered the door. Sure enough, I hadn't expected Voltaire to come to greet me personally. "Boris Balkov?"

I nodded and was permitted inside. Into a grand entrance hall with stairs that ascended on both sides, carved from the same deep oak the doors appeared to be made from, further inside doors seemed to be all around on the richly papered walls and the carpet, a deep red, the colour of blood. The crystal chandelier loomed above and lit up the area with a hue of golden light.

I was taken through a side door and along a corridor to the dining room. I'd never before been to a house large enough to have a dining room. But this was massive, with a finely carved table down the centre and high windows lining the walls. Expensive, padded wooden chairs were all around the table and it was in one of these which I was seated.

I was not left waiting for long. I was soon joined by Voltaire who took the seat opposite me with a kind greeting. "Welcome, Mr Balkov. I trust you find my home favourable."

I nodded and waited for him to be seated and give orders of dinner to his servants. He then turned back to me, poised with all the superiority and arrogance of the successful man he was.

We engaged in light conversation and I told him about myself with as much dignity as I could. I told him about my interest in the sport of Beyblade and how I had developed my knowledge.

"Your knowledge is indeed impressive," he said. "And this is where my interest in you lies, Mr Balkov. I see you are a well-organized man and you have the right mind for business. Therefore, I have a business proposition for you."

"Oh?"

He nodded. "I have also seen the benefits of the popularity of this Beyblade sport. And what I envision is a facility where children can be trained in the sport, develop their talents in it. A school, if you will. There are tournaments in this sport now. And we will train winners, the money they win in the competitions will continue to fund the facility. This is what I envision. To develop championship Beybladers and to invest in their training with the financial return being gained from their victories."

I was intrigued and amazed by this idea. I had never envisioned such a grand project could be centred around this humble sport of spinning tops. But how did this concern me?

"But you see, Mr Balkov. I am a busy man," he continued. "I have already purchased a facility where this will take place, but I do not have the time, or the knowledge to run such a place. This would be your job."

I was stunned. I sat back in my seat as dishes for dinner were placed before us. I sat and considered this stunning proposal.

"Of course, you would be paid for your work. A full time job," Voltaire said. "I would manage your wages personally. Wages which I imagine would be, if you'll forgive me, far superior to your current income."

He gave me the figures and I was basically convinced there and then. I had never even seen such money to be earning it was more than I could imagine.

"What would I have to do?" I asked.

Voltaire shrugged, picking up his fork. "Train the children than we select for our facility. Teach them your knowledge and help them to develop their abilities. Discipline them and make them into the perfect Beybladers."

"Discipline?" I questioned. "What need is there for discipline in this sport?"

Voltaire's disagreement was clear. A frown instantly formed on his face as he took a sip of wine that was blood red. His voice had fallen to a chilling baritone. "Children need discipline, Mr Balkov. I detest those without it. Screaming wretches that run the streets with no respect. Pathetic parents that are too afraid to give their children the harsh slap that some deserve."

I was not shocked by this concept. I was by far no stranger to physical discipline of children. It was all I had ever known.

I considered the proposal as we ate a lavish five-course meal. By the end of it, I had made my decision.

"Mr Hiwatari, I have considered your offer and I would be delighted to take the position."

Things seemed to go in fast forward from there. Before I knew it there were arrangements being made for me to move to and live in Russia's lavish capital city of Moscow. A house had already been brought for me. A fine house near where I would be working, fully furnished and with every requirement I could ask for and more.

It was the facility where the Beyblade school would be that needed work. The site was an abandoned abbey, used for religious rituals many years ago. Now deserted. The structure and main building was all in tact and clean, but the rooms were empty.

Soon hundreds of lorries arrived, all carrying advanced technology and all the equipment that would be needed. I was required to do nothing but stand by and watch this as it all went on and the simple, abandoned building was transformed into the biggest advanced Beyblading facility ever built to date.

The preparations took a full year to complete. Over that time I was introduced to many people by Voltaire, all good contracts that I would come to use in the future. I also got to know Voltaire himself and we reached a first name basis.

I was nearing my twenty-ninth birthday by the time the facility opened. I thought it would be named as one of the many Hiwatari co-operation buildings. But Voltaire insisted, much to my pleasure, that it would be named Balkov Abbey. So Balkov Abbey it was.

The first students came. Boys only, as Voltaire insisted they were the stronger half of the population and more suited to our purpose. They were trained and had some success. The results were good but not excessive. I was sure we would improve in time, but Voltaire was an ambitious man and wanted immediate results.

I was under pressure and needed to improve my methods, I knew. So training became harsher, working days longer and those who did not do as well as I hoped, were treated rougher.

I had a hundred employees under me. Guards and workers that were situated all over the facility. I gave them orders and they obeyed.

But my orders were sometimes carried out in different ways. I passed rooms and witnessed boys being hit. I saw boys dragged and thrown around and yelled at.

Where exactly Voltaire acquired his staff I did not know, but the doubts that surrounded the Hiwatari family were quickly becoming clear to me. But I did not oppose. I could not oppose orders that came from one such as Voltaire Hiwatari, one far superior to me. And it soon became part of the norm.

Things continued as such for a good five years. I had already produced a number of Championship bladers and the reputation of the abbey was growing quickly.

We provided students with full-time education, housing and, of course, Beyblade training. But the purpose of the facility did not seem to matter to some parents who sent their children to us. They did not care about the Beyblading angle of things. They merely wanted somewhere to dump their kids.

So our applications began to come from more vast places. Homeless children from the streets were knocking on our doors and we took them in as students. We even sent scouts out to find possible candidates. We picked up any children we found with athletic potential, those with a strong will and those we could use to our advantage.

Our students were disciplined. Well-ordered. Intelligent and trained to a high efficiency.

But I was thirty-four when I was presented with a set of students that would become our finest. I'm sure you have gathered I am talking about the Demolition Boys.

Spencer came first. It was the typical routine of one of my scheduled appointments with parents who wanted to inquire about a place for their offspring. A rather shockingly tall man and his wife brought to me their five year old son. They were obviously a poor family, judging by their ragged clothes and all but desperate to offload their child because they had simply not the money to feed the boy. They were obviously saddened to lose him, but had they not made the decision, all three of them would have most likely died of starvation.

After seeing the boy's potential from the obvious athletic build he carried, I tested him and found not only fantastic athletic ability, but rather surprising intelligence also. He excelled especially in science and maths, immediately becoming a top student. His bit-beast came to him as soon as he launched a beyblade. I was ecstatic. Never before had I received a blader with a bit beast, despite continuing my strenuous research on them. I was delighted to now have an example to study up close and I assigned several of my staff to test the limits of this power.

Next was Bryan a mere month later. He came to us personally and by himself. After much interrogation, the child confessed to have run away from an abusive father and was seeking merely safer living conditions. He showed us a small battered beyblade which seemed to be the only thing he owned beside the clothes on his back. He instantly demonstrated promising skill with the blade, despite it being in awful condition. And most importantly to me, it contained the power of a bit-beast.

Ranks were being determined within the abbey and divisions made to section students dependant on ability. Bryan instantly fell into the top ranks, despite being merely six years old. He was assigned a room within the upper quarters and due to similar age and arrival time, was naturally made Spencer's room-mate.

The next bed filled in that small room was given to the only student I found worthy enough in a whole further year of recruitment. Ian was four when he was brought to us by a teenage mother who obviously could not care for a child. How the girl had managed up until that point I didn't know, but after many apologies to her confused offspring, she left young Ian in our care.

The boy had no education so was naturally a little slow to catch up on the academic side of things, but that was not the main priority at our facility so it was of little matter when I discovered his talent once a beyblade was placed in his hands. And only a few training sessions in, the presence of his bit-beast was discovered.

I was almost manically happy. I had three bit-beasts at the control of my students and ultimately, under my own power.

Two weeks after Ian had arrived, I was surprised when Voltaire came to the facility personally. His limo arrived outside and instantly had staff sent to greet him and show him around. But he did not come alone. With him was a child. A boy no more than five with two-toned blue hair and red eyes.

Kai Hiwatari, as I'm sure you've gathered.

Voltaire came to my office and introduced him personally. "Boris, this is my grandson. I want only the best for him and I believe your facility here would be best for his education. I will leave him in your care from today."

I was stunned. I had not even been aware that Voltaire had any children, let alone a grandchild. And I was even more shocked that he was entrusting his grandchild to my care.

Voltaire was never one to enrich in long conversations or reasons or details. The meeting lasted no longer than twenty minutes and I was left with this small, lost looking child.