A/N: Sometimes when I brainstorm, I have no idea where the ideas come from. This is one of those times. I actually really liked this prompt. It stood out to me as soon as I read the list, and I knew there were a few avenues I could go down. Ended up here:

Day 5 | Claude | Rated: K+

Crane

Claude started it for something to do. Injured on purpose and forced to play it up for the foreseeable future, he needed something to focus on to keep his mind from racing down dangerous, self-destructive avenues – ones lined with guilt and regret.

He'd been feeling the pull on and off since they beat the Majestics. The desire to peel back the curtain and examine how he truly felt about the direction Barthez was leading the team.

The paper cranes helped.

The first one he folded was in the locker room, after his injury. He hadn't made one since he was taught in some faraway memory of his childhood and he couldn't say what made him pick up a spare piece of paper and start folding then.

Maybe it was all of Barthez's talk about how he might never regain full use of his arm – a show he put on strictly for any news outlets that might've been listening in. Or maybe he'd been seeking escape from the sickly combination of emotions churning in his gut.

It had felt less like cheating to lose on purpose, but he'd never forget the way the crowd booed the All Starz out of the stadium. He remembered it every time his arm throbbed. It was always the plan to capitalize on Rick's temper to win the crowd, but forcing an injury and letting him take the fall for it seemed unnecessarily cruel.

So Claude folded cranes. He was out of practice. It took a lot of concentration, and he found himself forgetting, for a few blissful minutes, that he hated nearly every decision he'd made since joining Barthez's team.

There was a time where it wasn't complicated to be a part of Barthez Battalion.

When he'd first heard that somebody was seeking bladers to team up and act as a worthy rival to the Majestics in the Qualifiers, he'd jumped at the chance. It seemed like the perfect opportunity to overthrow the team that had, more or less, monopolized the European beyblading circuit for years.

At first, it was everything he'd thought it would be. He got along with his teammates and Barthez was strict without being callous. He promised to make pros out of them, if they put in the work. So they trained together, day in and day out, pushing each other to improve and fostering some of the best friendships Claude had ever had.

They tore through the Qualifiers as certified underdogs. None of them doubted they could win the right to represent their region, and they were excited to maintain their stride through the World Championships. It was fun and freeing and everything that had made Claude fall in love with the sport in the first place.

All of that went downhill when Barthez kindly informed them they'd be cheating their way through the final battle against the Majestics.

Of course, he didn't call it that. He disguised it as some last minute part swaps, and it wasn't until their beyblades sliced through the Majestics' like they were made of tissue paper that any of them realized how far he was willing to go to win.

"Maybe it was just a one time thing?"

He couldn't remember which of them had said it and it didn't matter once Barthez began to show his true colors. He wanted them to win, said he could make it happen, that they needed his expertise. All they had to do was trust Barthez and do whatever he asked, without question.

The one time any of them did try to question his judgment, it was made abundantly clear that Barthez would happily turn any of them in for cheating if they made trouble for him.

"After all, I merely provided certain tools. You're the ones that used them to such an impressive effect."

They were expendable to him.

Claude found out just how expendable the hard way, and would have the scar to prove it.

It would have been so easy to disobey Barthez and move out of the way, but he didn't. Maybe some twisted part of him still clung to the idea, from the early days, that Barthez had his best interests at heart. Maybe he did it for the good of his teammates, to keep Miguel from arguing with Barthez and getting into trouble, to keep all their names from getting dragged through the mud.

Maybe he was scared to start refusing this far in.

The more cranes he made, the faster he got. He folded so many that his carry-on bag was stuffed full by the time they made it to Italy. He emptied them into the hotel trash can only to fold more after their TV spot aired. His arm hardly hurt at all anymore and exaggerating his injury for the cameras, at Barthez's request, left a sour taste in his mouth.

Claude was probably the most preoccupied out of all of them, but Miguel was the one that Barthez hit.

The sour taste in his mouth worsened after that, and it was all he could do to keep from throwing up. He was sure Barthez would call the cameras back in if he did.

He left a paper crane in Miguel's locker afterwards, a quiet show of solidarity. When Miguel found it, he packed it in with his things. Claude hoped that meant it offered him some small measure of solace during their well-rehearsed battle against the White Tigers. Another charade he didn't want to be a part of.

Claude had entered the tournament yearning for strong opponents and honest battles. Now he found himself just wanting to make it through. Win or lose, he wanted it to be over. But there was no easy escape from Barthez's mania.

The mind games were slowly becoming too much. And the list of people they were hurting in the process – Rick who was never destined to be a crowd favorite, but who Claude didn't dislike as an opponent, and Lee, who seemed to take his loss particularly hard – was growing.

"Do you guys have any idea what he's making you do?"

Robert's question rang in his ears while he folded another dozen cranes.

They were in Spain. Mathilda was missing. Miguel was out looking for her. They were all late to their meeting with Barthez. And Claude was beginning to realize that he'd gotten really good at excusing his coach's actions.

Mathilda's beyblade, his arm, the public training sessions with a benevolent coach and the private sessions with a cruel taskmaster. It was getting hard to believe they were all worthy sacrifices for the good of the team when every one of them came at their own expense.

Maybe, he thought, folding a crane and hiding it in Mathilda's things, Barthez had played them from the beginning. It didn't matter, because they were too far in to call a quits now, even if his stomach curled in on itself when he thought of Pierce Hedgehog as a pile of rubble in the dish.

How far was too far? He could tell all his teammates were wondering the same thing, but none of them had the guts to stand up to Barthez.

Now when he folded cranes, his arm didn't ache.

Something changed after Miguel's battle against Tyson. Claude hadn't seen Miguel battle so freely since they were each trying to prove themselves worthy of the team in the first place. It was refreshing and scary and Tyson was right: Barthez was never going to let them stop cheating.

That was obvious when they landed in Egypt, Claude's pockets full of cranes he'd folded on the airplane, and Barthez dragged them through the crowd with a smile almost as tight as his grip on Miguel. There were repercussions for their disobedience. A tougher training regimen and a stricter curfew. A tension pulled taut in each of them when he walked in the room.

Part of Claude was scared for them all, but mostly Miguel who took the brunt of Barthez's anger and still urged them all to blade with purpose. In the heaviness of the moment, they were all wondering if Barthez's purpose belonged to them at all anymore. Claude had a feeling they all came to the same conclusion.

He folded lots of paper cranes that night. He was so good at it that he could do it without looking now. He folded them in the dark and dropped them, one by one, into his bedside table for the maid to find when they checked out – Barthez never let them in until then. He didn't trust the hotel staff not to snoop, just like he didn't trust his team to do their own cheating anymore.

Aaron started against the Blitzkrieg Boys. Claude had snuck a paper crane into his pocket for luck and courage. He could see the fear on Aaron's face. Could feel the same fear in his heart. Fear of disappointing Miguel and letting their team down. Fear of facing Kai with no safety net. Fear that they'd let themselves be alienated from the other teams for an old man's crazy pipe dream.

Mostly fear of Barthez and what he would do if they didn't follow his script perfectly.

Claude felt a bone-deep exhaustion that had nothing to do with how late he'd been up the night before.

He was sick of seeing his team torn apart. Sick of Barthez pulling their strings and making them dance how he wanted. What would happen after this tournament? When he'd used them all up, what would happen to the parts of them that were left?

How would they face themselves and all of the people they'd wronged?

When Aaron surprised them all by using his regular beyblade during the match, Claude suddenly felt lighter.

Maybe they'd had a choice all along, he thought, as Aaron faced Barthez after his loss with shaking hands and head held high. He could feel Miguel's pride and Mathilda's nervous energy, even as Barthez turned to look directly at him with a threat on the tip of his tongue.

Claude countered, without thinking, with the suggestion that Miguel should battle in his stead. It came out in a rush and he didn't think it through, jumbled the delivery, but Mathilda and Aaron backed him. Miguel was twice the leader that Barthez was. If any of them had a chance at defeating Kai and proving they could win without cheating, it was him.

He never imagined that Miguel would stand up to Barthez in front of a stadium full of fans and rivals, and fire their coach on the spot. For a second, he thought Barthez was going to hit Miguel again. He readied himself to step in, but the moment never came.

Instead, Barthez pushed past Miguel, spitting a venomous warning.

Miguel continued to the dish, looking like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. A quick glance at his teammates, and Claude could tell they all felt the same way. The feeling of freedom only intensified as they cheered Miguel on with the rest of the stadium. For the first time since the tournament started, it felt like being part of a community; they weren't the snakes hiding in the grass any longer.

The cheering didn't stop after the battle. The crowd was calling Miguel's name, in spite of his loss. A warm feeling bubbled up in Claude's chest and a genuine smile spread across his face. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so light.

"This is a start of a whole new team!"

Claude couldn't help but agree. Having it out in the open was a balm and, when he was alone with his own thoughts later that night, his hands didn't seek any distraction. Because they were going to see the rest of the tournament through on their own terms. Barthez be damned.

A/N: I rewatched a lot of G-Rev episodes (and parts of episodes) to write this lol I wasn't as familiar with the Barthez Battalion's timeline and I didn't want to get my wires crossed. It was worth it, because I do like how this turned out. I vividly remember starting a fic about Claude, probably at least ten years ago, that I never finished, so this can be my redemption arc.

Thanks for reading! :)