Chapter 20

Hey guys, sorry I've been do slow! Here's another chapter, and the next will be coming soon.

The Beyblade Research Centre, California, USA – March 19th, 13:00

There are no differences between a beach and a mountain. Just like a child and an adult they are the same, just in different stages of life. Katya stepped down on her heel with the other foot, and slipped out of her warm shoes, as the taxi disappeared down the road, sending a cloak of dust towards the skies. The sand caressed her skin, like silk heated and graced by the sun. She closed her eyes and breathed in the ocean breeze. Thousands upon thousands of rocks underneath her feet. What giants once gazed upon them in awe, believing them to be gods and destruction alike? Fallen deities of past summits, rising their heads in joy and pride, with the clouds as their only crown. The sea claimed them in its depths, and let them sleep. Maybe one day, with their brothers and sisters to help, they will once more be the god in the sky, now wiser from having slept in the dark. Now stronger from having dwelt at the bottom. Now perfect in having been shaped by the waves.

One step, then another. If light was force and power, the sun must try to push the building into the sea, she thought, and shielded her eyes from the sunrays reflected in the windows. She pushed open the entrance doors, and the light was swallowed by cold, calm shadows. Was she once a mountain herself, now a grain of sand at the bottom of the world? Silence was all around her, and silence she became. If all felt, sounded, even tasted like a dream. She stopped to listen, and to understand. Just when she felt contempt and well in knowing she was moving underwater, in her sleep, something disrupted the waters.

"Sorry, can I help you? I haven't seen you around here before."

Katya looked up, blinked slowly, still in her dream, still slightly confused. "I'm looking for Kai," she said. The young man stared at her, wondering, trying to understand her.

"Why? Who are you?"

"Katya," she said. "And you are Enrique. I remember you from TV." He smiled and blushed, obviously happy to be recognised. The shadows moved with the sun, reflected, hidden, and enhanced. Every movement pushed the colours , floating like paint in water, or so it seemed.

"Are you alright?" he asked. "You seem a bit...pale." She felt pale. She felt sleepy and heavy. Her neck was slowly losing its strength, and her head became too filled with thoughts to lift. Straight lines melted into soft brushstrokes, and colours became dull and grey. How strange it all seemed. She grabbed the man's hand and held onto him, while he grabbed her shoulder, and fear grew in his eyes. He called out for someone she could not see, but all sound disappeared. The skin on her knees met the cold floor, and her hair shielded her face as she leaned forward, too tired to resist. Still she held his hand, still she felt a connection with the warmth, with the air above the deep. With one hand above the waves, she saw the daylight dwindle, and then nothing.

But life remained somewhere. Hands lifting her. Voices.

"We have no other choice, all the other rooms are occupied already."

"Who even is she?"

"Are you sure it's safe?"

"He won't be a problem. I'm more worried about the effects of the poison."

"And you're sure it's poison?"

"No doubt."

No doubt. I never leapt into the dark of my own free will. She tried to see, but only shadows danced across the sky. They moved like men, and spoke like men, but in her mind they were waves gently telling her to give in. Why stay awake when nothing important needed me to? Poison. A painless poison, spreading and growing. So she wasn't sunk into the sea. She slowly became the sea.

"What now?"

"Let her be, for now. She will be alright."

Sand. The wind swept her away, one grain of sand at the time. Until, in the end, the sea washed her clean of all poison, and she floated towards air and light and heat. She let her head fall to the side, and her eyelids slowly closed. She couldn't resist anymore. She had won the battle anyway. One last thought registered before it became just pure sand in the back of her mind. The blurred vision of her closing eyes showed her someone close, someone she knew well, someone lying next to her in the same sleep she now welcomed.

"Erik."

The Beyblade Research Centre, California, USA – March 19th, 13:15

"Erik."

His name spoken by someone, the sound jolted him awake, and there he was, in a soft bed, staring out into nothing until he regained focus. He breathed heavily, and felt his heavy, sleepy limbs come back to life. Blood rushed through him, oxygen flowed, and every sense worked itself to the limit. A machine beeped a little faster somewhere, but he paid it no attention. He wasn't alone. Next to him was another bed, the only two occupied in a white room filled with blinking lights from machines he had no name for. She blinked at him, slowly, almost at the threshold of sleep.

"I know you," she whispered. "I remember you fondly..."

Erik sat up in his bed and stared at her. How? How could she...

"I can't believe you're here..." he whispered back. "Why are you here?"

"To find..." she closed her eyes. "To find someone... Will you look for him? He must be here somewhere. I know it..." She breathed steadily, slow and peaceful. Sleep had embraced her completely. Erik sat in silence. "I thought you were dead," he whispered to himself. "I saw you die."

Long ago.

He let his legs slide out from under the covers, and sat with his bare feet against the floor. What awaited him here? A slow recovery. A swift trial. A lifetime behind bars in a country he loathed. Probably well deserved. But not going to happen. Not this way.

Erik slowly rose to his feet, and winced at the sharp pain in his chest. A hole in body, draining him of energy and strength. He wore only a pair of white boxer shorts and a soft, white t-shirt. Every touch was like a shock, his warm skin against everything else which felt so cold and lifeless. He glanced once more at the girl in the bed next to his. But she was no longer his mission. He was done. It was over. The only thing left was...to escape.

He opened the door, entered a plain white hallway which smelled like medicine and plastic gloves, and raised an eyebrow at the sight of an open double door, barely hanging on its hinges after being kicked open. He easily recognised such things. Oh well, thank you kind fortune, he thought. Had he felt stronger, he would have gone looking for more appropriate clothes, but he felt like he was going on fumes, and moved cautiously, but swift, through the corridors, down stairs, and through empty rooms. And there was the sunlight welcoming him. His eyes widened, and a faint smile played on his lips. Every atom in his body longed for it. He ran through the lobby, pushed the entrance doors open, and felt himself consumed by light. It swallowed him, blinded him, and painted his world white. He ran. He couldn't help it. He knew the sound of his footsteps had to attract some sort of attention, but he was moving, he was running away, and even the aching pain in his chest couldn't slow him down. But the promise of more pain was what finally stopped him.

Erik slowed down, and stopped completely, as the person standing far away from him, by the entrance to the hangars, slowly came into focus. A ghost. A trick of the mind. A young man with blond hair, an arm bandaged and held close to his chest, and a gun pointed right at him. Erik observed him, as he was also observed. Slowly, he moved closer, until he could see the colour of the man's eyes. A grimace of absolute fury twisted his face. His hand shook slightly.

"You," he hissed at Erik. "Please, by all means, keep going. You have no idea how much I long to shoot you in the back."

"I can tell," Erik replied. His voice was hoarse. "I didn't think that was something you could do, Mr. Tate. How one plane crash can change a man."

"You shot me." Max's voice got deeper, more like a growl, different from his own. "You killed Kenny."

Erik raised his eyebrows. "So he didn't make it after all. He was brave."

"Shut up!" Max yelled, and pulled the trigger. The bullet hit the ground just by his feet, and Erik would have jumped backwards, had he not been too tired, to weak. The sound of a door opening made him look up, and a man with fiery red hair came running towards Max from behind. He held something small and rectangular in his arms.

"Max, what the hell are you-?" he suddenly noticed Erik, and stopped.

"Stay back, Tala," Max warned him. "This is not your problem."

"The fuck it is!" Tala grabbed his arm, and forced him to lower the gun. "I'm not gonna let you go to prison for murder, you asshat. And you," he pointed at Erik. "You stay right there. Max, here." He handed him a small laptop. Max took it, never looking away from Erik.

"So, what's the plan?" Max asked. "Run away and be chased around America?"

"No, that wasn't the plan."

"Then what?"

Erik looked towards the hangar, where the open door showed him a glimpse of the tail of a helicopter. Mentally, he was already moving towards it, taking a seat, and flying away. Max followed his gaze.

"That's not going to happen." Max opened the laptop. It was scratched and dented, but part from that seemed fine. A low hum escaped it as Tala reached for the power button and pressed it. Max kept frowning at Erik, as silence fell over them as they waited for a response of some kind.

"Dizzy?" Max asked. "Can you hear me?"

"Loud and clear."

The Beyblade Research Centre, California, USA – March 19th, 13:19

Reflections. They let you see yourself, but truly, you never really see yourself, do you? That would be close to impossible. Isn't a reflection only a reconstruction, then? A different Ray in a different universe, staring back at him in a cold mirror. But this other Ray. He looked nothing like he remembered. He was pale, sick with fewer, scarred and twisted. He was incomplete. He sat alone, in the room in which he had awoken only a few minutes earlier, on his bed, his legs hanging over the edge, staring into the wall completely made out of a mirror. They hadn't expected him to wake up now. His reaction was so calm and undramatic, the heart monitor had showed no change, and attracted no attention.

He looked down at his right leg. Gone. Cut off under the knee. No emotion showed on his face. He could see from his reflection how dull and lifeless his eyes looked. He hated it. He wanted to light a fire behind them, like in the old days. But nothing could light that spark. He let his fingers slide over the rugged, scarred skin on his face. The ice, in its fury, had bitten and clawed at him. Scars that would never fade.

He had fought so hard. He had truly wanted to escape, to survive and come home. Salt tears stung on his cheeks, and he made no effort to wipe them off. He welcomed the pain. The ability to feel in his body what he endured in his mind, was proof that this pain existed outside, and not only as part of the world on the inside. He would never be the same. No one would. His life would from then on be parted into what was before the plane crashed, and what came after.

"I'm here, Mariah. Just like you wanted. I came to my great reunion." Ten years of peace, and happiness. Ten years of marriage, and a child. Would she even recognise me now? Will I become the broken father with more time for inner pain and struggle than her youthful joy? He looked down at his hands. What am I now? What can I possibly be good for?

How can I live with this?

The Beyblade Research Centre, California, USA – March 19th, 13:20

Something had changed. Warmth spread around him. He could smell the wood burning, the smoke raising towards the ceiling. He lay on the hard floor, wet floorboards like ice against his cheek. Unbearable heat pounded in his head, while his hands and feet were cold and shaking. He was curled up like a cat, held together with ropes around his wrists, ankles and neck. Something was tied tight around his chest, but not tight enough. The floorboards were wet, but not from melting snow.

Voices came from behind the open door, his only source of light and sound. He was in darkness. Kai wanted to scream, to release the pain which held him in place and refused to let go. It burned him alive, drowned, and devoured him. It wouldn't take long, he knew. Those voices were without mercy, without regret.

How can I survive this?

The Beyblade Research Centre, California, USA – March 19th, 13:24

The darkness belonged with the lights, and made them dance among its hidden fears, until they all became slumber. Silent gusts of wind played in his hair, arms held him in place, and he couldn't tell if the shadows were life, or the empty void for the lights to become all the clearer. Now he had stopped making sense, even in his own mind.

The first thing he understood was the sound of his own breath, calm and deep, like the eerie winds playing their prelude over grey waters, awaiting what storm may come their way. His lungs didn't sting from the touch of air, now warm and soothing. Every time he heard people passing by, or distant voices coming closer, he pretended to sleep, and kept this game going for a while. His heart pounded hard, and a bothersome beeping sound prevented him from dozing off. How he hated it. It was when the sounds of lots of people seemingly breaking into a room not too far off, that he opened his eyes and lay listening. Ten slow minutes passed. He knew, because he counted; the only meaningful thing he was capable of doing in this state.

But then there was something more, something quiet and different that disturbed his peaceful mind. It had been there a while, he realised, and as the minutes passed, he'd gotten used to it. Quiet sobbing, somewhere in the room. Who are you, he wondered. What's wrong?

"Hey, sweetie," someone whispered. He would have shown any sign of surprise, had he been able to move anything at all, but a sting of recognition caught his attention, and he gathered all his strength and awareness just to listen, and understand. Come on! Say something more! I know you; I know I do. I have heard your voice before. I have loved your voice before.

"I'm here. I'm right here." Where? He tried to find the source of the sound, but trying to focus only gave him a throbbing pain in the back of his head. Hilary. That is your name.

"You're going to be alright, Tyson. You will be just fine. The worst is over now." Every syllable painted a picture in the dark nothing behind his heavy eyelids. Brown hair framing gentle features. Eyes bright and welcoming. Lips warm and smiling. Hands soft and comforting, holding his own. He could feel it now, as if his senses slowly woke from a deep sleep. He felt his chest rise every time he breathed, the warm covers keeping him alive, chasing away the cold.

Dying is painful, but fighting your way back to life is torture. It felt like forcing himself through a brick wall; he clawed at the stone, and forced his way through, till light broke through the barrier, and he stood exposed and new in a strange place. The realisation that he had no name, no identity, no face, and no past, made him shiver. In his mind, he broke down in tears, covered his head with his arms and hunched down to disappear into what little cover he could create for himself. Everything out there frightened him. Everything except her voice, the one thing worth the battle with the wall.

Why did he ever think he could go on without it? How could he ever have pushed it away? His face was a grimace of a silent scream, and he felt every bit of darkness leave him with every tear.

"Hilary..." he sobbed. His eyelids were so heavy, his body so weak. She stood beside him, a hand on his chest, and her face only inches from his. He could feel her tears mix with his own and become a river down his cheek.

"Tyson, oh my god!" That was the blissful moment, which would always stay with him. She was to him only tears, relief and joy in that second, warm and real, and how he would always see and remember her. He put a weak hand on her neck and puller her closer, breathed her in, and caught her soft lips with his. No ice or snow existed anymore. She clung to him, afraid of letting go, scared he would melt without her to hold him together.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you..." Tyson whispered under his breath, before kissing her again; her lips, her cheek, her nose, her forehead. "Thank you so much."

"I thought you were gone," she said, in between sobs.

"I always come back," he whispered. "No matter how much we mess up, Hilary, we always give it another go, and I'm sorry I have been so stupid. But I'm done being stupid. I'm done being the one who makes a mess out of things."

Hilary smiled as she dried tears off her cheek. "We're both so darn stubborn and headstrong. We're going to spend our lives fighting about silly things just because we can't help bring out the worst in each other, and then we make up because we know we can't live without one another."

Tyson took her hand in his, and returned the smile. "It's the life I've chosen, because if it means being near you, it will be worth it. And I know it seems like I've had an epiphany because of what's happened, but I swear I've wanted to say this for so long. I… I even packed an engagement ring."

"Y…you what?" Hilary stared at him, her breath caught in her throat.

"I'm afraid I lost it. You're going to have to dig through a lot of snow to find it."

"Lost?" Hilary chuckled. "When have we ever bothered with diamonds to show that we belong together?" She turned to the nightstand, where Dragoon lay with its launcher and ripcord. "This is my ring," she said and put the ripcord ring on her finger. "It might not be made of gold, and it's pretty torn and damaged by previous battles; but I have never seen it give up, and I have never seen it break. It's the life I've chosen."