LAST CHAPTER.

Now I only have two on the list. Sweeeet. If anyone has an idea for something, I'm taking requests now?

Enjoy!

DISCLAIMER: Not mine, actually. Beyblade belongs to...whoever, and the idea is actually xChewy's.

The Things I Do For You

I pull up to a stoplight and lean back into the coarse upholstery.

Steve looks back at the body in the backseat and turns around quickly, like he's been looking at something he shouldn't.

"What, Steve?"

He fidgets with his seatbelt for a minute, apparently trying to decide whether or not to risk a question I might deem stupid. "How do you know no one will miss him?"

"It, Steve. And I know that the White Tigers are broken up because Mariah called me yesterday morning from a hotel in Paris and told me."

"But they'll miss him?"

"Not if he was drinking in a seedy bar in effin' Chinatown."

"Oh."

I sigh and pull through the intersection. "You have to stop questioning this, Steve. It happened, it's over, the end. No changing it. It'll drive you crazy if you keep mulling it over."

"Have you ever...killed anyone, Em?" He sounds quiet, and almost scared.

"How is that relevant?" Looking over, I give him a small smile. "But if it makes you feel any better, he was an ass and he deserved it."

"Here we are," I say with a sarcastic cheeriness, really wanting to get this over with so I can go take a shower and grab breakfast and a cup of coffee before going back to work. "Get him."

Obediently, Steve gets out of the car and opens the back door. "Hold on, I'm coming," I tell him over the roof of the car.

Together, we pull the body out of the backseat. I toss the jacket back in the car and lead the way to the end of the dock. Steve follows warily, carrying the body.

"Put him down here for a second." I find a cinderblock and an old length of rope and drag both over. "Thank heaven for Girl Scouts," I mutter to myself, tying a complex knot around the the block and the body's ankle.

Steve moves over to pick up the cinderblock and the body.

"Wait," I say, holding up a hand.

He steps back again, waiting for my command.

Slipping my fingers around the body's neck, I untie the string of beads and claws around his neck and hold them up to the faint glow of the streetlight. "Now, Steve."

He doesn't move. "What're you gonna do with those?"

"They're an identifier. I'm going to dispose of them somewhere else."

"Oh."

I stand up and push my hair out of my face. "Toss him," I order again, somewhat off-handedly this time, channeling my inner Italian mobster. Secretly, I'm beginning to enjoy this. I'd forgotten how much fun this was, especially with underlings.

Steve obediently hefts the body on his shoulder and picks up the cinderblock, carrying both to the edge of the dock. Seven steps... Six steps... Five steps...

Behind me, I hear whistling.

"Steve, move!" I look behind the car and see a man in overalls walking toward us. Just a dock worker, I try to tell myself.

Grunting quietly, Steve takes the last few steps toward the edge. He drops the cinderblock in the water. The body follows, sounding to my nervous ears like a thunderous splash.

I move closer to the edge and watch it sink to where I can't see it anymore (which, considering the water quality, isn't saying much), and then lunge into action. We're not safe just yet.

I grab the collar of Steve's t-shirt. "Move," I hiss, pulling him along back to the car.

He stumbles before sinking to his knees behind the car with me.

"Stay quiet," I warn him softly, listening to the whistling get closer.

He nods quickly, wide-eyed.

The whistling stops just as the man steps close to the car. Against every doctrine I hold, I close my eyes so tight they ache and begin to pray fervently.

Through my prayers, I hear the man mutter, "Stupid kids. Damn thing'll be towed by noon, serves them right." The whistling continues, and he walks away.

Several long, semi-silent seconds pass, broken only by the sounds of city life speeding up again and our own harsh breathing.

Steve laughs, nervous and high-pitched and startled. "We did it," he says, awed.

"Yeah," I say, my back against the rear tire and my eyes on the sun peeking over the line between the bay and the sky.

More silence stretches between us. There's something unreal about the sunrise, in light of our night escapades.

And, all too soon, reality comes crashing back like Steve in a glass shop. I have reports to file, and meetings to go to, and a million other things I can't do in my fifteen-hour day and am expected to complete anyway. Standing up briskly, I pull my hapless companion to his feet and pull open the car door.

"C'mon, Steve. I need to get to work."

"Hey, did you guys see this?"

Michael hands me the paper and taps the sports page. "Scary stuff," he says, sitting back in his chair.

I look around at the rest of my former team around the restaurant table and read the headline of the short article out loud. "Chinese beyblading finalist disappears without a trace."

"Which 'beyblade finalist'?" Max takes a bite of his apple and stares at me with interest.

"Lee Yin," I say shortly, not even needing to read the article.

Steve looks up to me from his swiftly disappearing omelet, remembering our adventure from several weeks previous.

I stare at him hard and shake my head as imperceptibly as possible, hoping he gets the message.

We're not going to speak of this to anyone.

He gives me a tiny nod and goes back to eating, like nothing happened.

I sigh and answer Max's request for me to read the article by handing him the paper.

The things I do for these boys.

And another one bites the dust. xD

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