Chapter Text
So upfront hadn’t worked out too well—or not at all, Amber decided, as she stood in line waiting for her tea. Her eyes moved to the window seat in the corner of the cafe as she hoped and prayed no one took it before she could seize it.
There were two women and a child in front of her and, judging by the child’s screaming, they would not be staying, and there was an older boy, standing awkwardly with an earbud in one ear and a backpack drooping from one shoulder, she guessed he’d be moving on too. Still, she inwardly chanted ‘to go’, 'to go’. If there was any fairness in the world, they’d let her grab her seat in peace.
She felt rotten and confused. There she’d been, sitting in the office of the BBA all fired up to announce the Doom of the World—or just a part of it—and Mr. Dickinson had politely implied that she was a child playing imagination.
Faeries indeed, who would ever believe in such a thing?
You’re so melodramatic.
Here’s an idea, find a new host.
Impossible. I’m cursed with you.
Amber rolled her eyes, putting her earbuds in. No music played, but if anyone caught her mouthing to herself she could pretend she was singing. After all, she was cursed, not the voice in her head.
The two women with the screaming child moved to the waiting area and Amber released a relieved sigh when she saw two styrofoam cups being set up for their order.
Score one!
A new table was opening up in the centre of the room as an old couple rose to their feet, the husband carrying the tray of wrappers and cartons to the rubbish bin while the wife gathered their coats. A staff member quietly wished them well on their day and began to wipe down their table. The café was homey with terracotta walls, a red brick fireplace with a vase of flowers in the hearth for the summertime, with deep green booths lining the sides and walnut tables and chairs filling the middle section. It was cool inside; the large windows that looked out onto the street had been opened letting in the sunlight and warm breeze—and the odd wasp.
A group of teens bustled in and moved to the ice cream counter, breathing on the glass casing as they expressed what flavours they wanted in loud voices. Just last year that had been her. She’d been loud and exuberant, bouncing around with her friends with not a care in the world, except for school starting, and with a sense that her entire world revolved around her. Then the Voice began to speak, louder and louder until she couldn’t think anymore and she had no peace until she had promised to act once the danger approached.
It sucked. Amber wasn’t a hero—when she’d played make-believe with her cousins as a child she had never been the leader or the mother or the superhero, she’d always been the follower, the 'sister’ or the sidekick. She wasn’t the responsible type and, yet, here she was in charge of passing on the message from an invisible being that this tournament was going to cause problems. Yeah, that was going to go down well.
“You ordering?”
She blinked out of her reverie and nodded. “I want a big mug of tea.”
“The medium or the large?”
If she’d wanted medium, she would have asked for it. “Large.”
“Sitting in or take away?”
“Sitting in.”
“Take a seat. I’ll bring it down to you.”
Good because she was likely to spill it if she carried it. Her hands were still shaking from her encounter with Dickinson. It wasn’t that he’d scared her but she felt so disappointed and slightly humiliated from the whole thing. Even now her stomach was a churning mess, which was why she desperately needed tea.
She made her way to the window seat, and paused, hand on the back of the chair. What on earth were those two eejits doing? Hilary and the Russian munchkin stood across the street, looking up and down while muttering tensely to each other. Amber quickly sat down and eased behind the wall, angling herself so she could see them but they couldn’t see her. Hilary gestured furiously while Ian’s arms were folded, jaw tight, his words bit out through clenched teeth.
Now, Amber wasn’t paranoid—much—but what were the chances that they were coincidentally outside her cafe? Belfast was no New York, but it also wasn’t small enough for them to have tripped over each other like this. Heck, she could walk through the local town and not run into a single person she knew. But surely they hadn’t been following her… except she had been distracted coming out of the BBA office, and if she had been spotted, why wouldn’t they follow her to find out why she was there?
They’re suspicious.
Fantastic. That’s just what Amber needed. Her intentions to befriend the Bladers in the hopes of persuading them to leave of their own free will went up in smoke. So what did she do now?
Befriend them. You’re here for a cup of tea; why not invite them to join you?
Aye, and then what?
A tray landed in front of her and she jerked her eyes from the couple to glower up at the server stalking away. Taking the lid of the large teapot, she stirred the tea, feeling the steam dampen her fingers until they were slick with water. She had to rise out of her seat to pour tea into the huge mug, but, when she did, she hazarded a glance across the street.
They were gone.
Amber pursed her lips, set down the teapot and sat. Contemplating what she should do next. She took a drink of tea and flinched as she burnt her tongue raw.
Milk. She’d forgotten the milk.
She was cursed.
“In just a minute, we’ll go live to Alice McElreevy at the Odyssey Arena in Belfast, where the World Beyblading Championships are due to open in the next few hours. The buzz is incredible for a sport that has only just begun to take root here in Northern Ireland. So much so that we do not have any representatives for our small nation, but our backing will naturally be behind Irish Blader: Eoin McCafferty. Alice, what can you tell us about this sport and, indeed, what can be expected for any of our watchers who visit the tournament?”
The screen focused on the well-dressed woman with blonde hair who stood outside the grand entrance of the Odyssey arena. She smiled as she held the microphone beneath her chin and gestured for the camera to scan the crowd of people milling around the barricade.
“As you said Dermot, the buzz here is intense for such a little-known sport. I had actually never heard of it until my nephew came back from holidays last year with a beyblade. This sport is, on paper, very simple, almost like the games our parents played in the playground. You have a bowl known as a Beydish and you launch the beyblades, which are much like spinning tops, and try to force your opponent out. It could not be easier, but,” — she continued to enunciate her words over the cheer of the fans, pushing hair away from her mouth — “just a few years ago at the World Championships, Tyson Granger, the reigning world champ, who is due to arrive here at any minute according to our sources, managed to level actual buildings in his final battle with now retired Brooklyn Masefield.
"Now that kind of damage came about through the use of Bitbeasts, and I kid you not, these are spirits that live inside the beyblades themselves. The sheer intensity of their energy has managed to destroy many architectural structures.” She paused for impact. “Now, there have been protests and concerns broached with the BBA about the safety of these spirits being used within the game and the official report from the spokesperson of the BBA has assured us that there is nothing to worry about. I am hoping to speak with Ming-Ming Love, a retired Beyblader and international singing sensation, who is the Ambassador to Beyblading about these concerns. I’ve been told that she is currently doing some sound checks, so bear with us while we see if we can get some answers to these rather pressing concerns.”
The screen split to show Dermot, the anchor, nodding gravely. Clearing his throat, he laced his fingers in front of him on the desk. “And, Alice, what about Eoin McCafferty?”
“Well, Eoin McCafferty is an unknown element to these games and this is bound to be an advantage to him, mainly because his stats and methods of play are a complete mystery to his competitors. He seems to be a secretive player and I have yet to see any sign of him. In fact, we tried earlier but couldn’t get in contact with his parents or family. Eoin is very much keeping under the radar for this tournament. He is reported to be part of the European team with other well-known, and perhaps more experienced players, such as Enrique Giancarlo from Italy and Julia Fernadez from Spain. There were reports that this team would be led by Miguel Lavalier but the BBA has vehemently denied these rumours.”
Dermot nodded and consulted his notes, “And, tell me, Alice, will Eoin be at a disadvantage without a Bitbeast or do all players have one?”
“All major players in the World Championship, or so I have been reliably informed, have a Bitbeast so no one person will be at a disadvantage to any other. The main skill that comes with Beyblading is how the player and their Bitbeast work together as a cohesive unit to win that battle.”
“Hmm, I guess that didn’t happen in the previous tournament.”
“Now, Dermot, I can’t comment on that.” Alice laughed, and then she sobered, appearing earnest and sincere. "Even though we’re all wishing for Eoin to do his very best, the majority of the crowd here are waiting on Tyson Granger, the current World Champion. He is due to appear tonight for a special bout of battles between players and the public without Bitbeasts.”
As Ming-Ming watched the coverage in her office within the arena, she tapped her stiletto-clad foot against the navy carpet and scowled. “Who told them about Miguel?”
Hikaru, her assistant, quickly grabbed a file from the desk and scanned the notes. “I see nothing Ming-Ming, but why would it matter? Leaks are to be expected-”
“No, leaks are expected when I leak them. I did not leak this and Miguel…” She pressed a fisted hand to her hip and rounded on Hikaru, finger pointing in justified fury. “Oh, I bet he had something to do with this. He is doing this on purpose, you know. Just because I refused him an interview. Well,” —her brows narrowed— “we shall see who has the last laugh.”
Hikaru exhaled a long breath and tugged out her laptop. “Is there anything you want updated on the site? And you have fifteen minutes before you are needed outside for the media.”
Pressing her knuckles to her lips, Ming-Ming studied the screen propped on her office wall. “Hmm, it might be good to give the locals an exclusive, a little bit of Ming-Ming charm might drive up the audience numbers. How is the set-up going?”
“Last I heard everything was almost completed. They were sorting out lights and counting the chairs to be certain they won’t overfill. Though I hope we do get ticket sales, the sport is so unheard of here. I’ve also reserved seats for the Bladers and the media has been told that they can stand down on the floor behind the barriers. The cable sports networks are still petitioning to gain rights to show the matches—”
"It’s not happening,” Ming-Ming interrupted, shaking her head. “This is a BBA sport and we’ve told them that people can watch for free on the website or come to the matches and experience it live. It’s not going to the TV networks.”
She couldn’t risk that. If there was a chance of an incident she wanted to be able to control what people saw and be in a position to spin it in a positive light.
Plucking Venus from her open briefcase, she thumbed the bitchip and decided that everything would be a success. She had not come as far as she had without positive thinking.
“Right, I want to run through the trailers for the media, the music we’re going to be playing during the matches and between rounds, and I want something really dramatic for slow action replays. Oh—” She caught herself and switched on her headset, calling through to her man on the floor. "Jason? Yes, yes, I know you’re great. Now, I need you to make sure that Tyson Granger shows up here, at the very least, half an hour before everything kicks off. That boy has the late gene and I refuse to have my plans spoiled because of him.”
Switching off the phone call before Jason could muster up an excuse, she turned back to Hikaru and made a mental note to coax her PA into changing the tint of her lipstain. The dark shade she wore washed out her complexion.
“Let’s go people, I have an opening ceremony to prepare.”
“This is your fault.”
Ignoring the disgruntled muttering from her irate companion, Hilary bypassed the onlookers standing behind the barriers, the police presence there to control the crowd, the ambulances, and the figure of Ming-Ming in a suit talking to the press. She swept around the corner to the players’ entrance near the back with Ian trotting behind her. Catching the ribbons around her neck, she fished out her ID—a laminated square card sporting her team logo with her photo and her name on the back. The security man scanned it and waved her through.
As she stepped inside, she heard Ian’s feet squeak as he came alongside her.
“All your fault,” Ian repeated.
Sighing, Hilary swept her bangs out of her eyes. “It wasn’t my fault.”
“If you weren’t so humongous—”
She rounded on him, eyes flashing fire. "Excuse me, I am not big.”
“She-Hulk!”
She gasped and clenched her fists. How rude! She wasn’t even sure how she had attracted his attention. She figured he’d followed her because he was lost. Sincerely, she had believed that he would just leave her once they got to the arena but no, he was a steady presence at her elbow, grumbling and accusing and making rude remarks about her height. She refused to lower herself to insult his smaller status, but it was so tempting.
From the arena, she could already hear the pounding music, the gathering chatter of the crowd as the Warm-up Act informed them of the itinerary. Soon Ming-Ming would make her entrance and sing her songs. Hilary just hoped that Ray and Max had made good on their promise to get Tyson to the Green Room in time. She did not want to see him bursting in late to the party as was his MO.
Hilary approached the security man at the fire exit door to the main arena and showed him her ID again as Ian did the same. She could hear the dull pounding of the bass until the guard opened the heavy door and the sheer volume of the pumped-out music and the roaring crowd slammed into her eardrums.
“So how about it?”
“How about what?” she asked, pitching her voice over the noise, as she picked her way downstairs between the throngs of seated people, guided by the LED lights along the edge of the steps.
“We join forces, so to speak, to find out what she’s up to.”
She? Oh, Amber. She had seen the girl leaving the BBA building and, curious, she’d followed, hoping to ask a few questions. After all, why had Amber been visiting the BBA office? She’d claimed she knew nothing about Beyblading, and yet, there she was at their HQ. Something was wrong with Amber’s story. However, before Hilary could catch up, she disappeared into the throng of pedestrians.
It made sense, Amber knew her way around the city and Hilary had just arrived. As she’d been stumbling around the streets, scanning signposts, she’d almost collided with Ian, who had been seeking Amber as well. Which made Hilary wonder just who was Amber. Was she a friend, or was she an enemy?
But when Ian phrased his question like that, it all sounded so surreal and far-fetched. “We could be overreacting. Maybe we’re so suspicious because each year something terrible has happened—”
"Nothing bad is happening this year!”
Hilary spun to find Ming-Ming, moulded into a blue sequinned dress, standing behind them with a fist on her hip, and her finger, tipped with pink, pointed at them in a warning. Her glamorous look made Hilary feel plain and dowdy in her shorts and sweater.
Ian scowled at her. “Aren’t you supposed to be on stage doing that squawking thing you do?”
Hilary sighed and covered her face as Ming-Ming skewered the Russian with a vicious look.
“I’m just making sure that Mr. Dickinson and his guests are settled. We have the Mayor of Belfast visiting as well as the Minister for Sport… or something. As Ambassador, I need to see to their every need and, since this is my tournament, I’m warning you all now. Nothing, and I mean nothing, is going to happen!”
In another timezone, Brooklyn awoke. His vision latched onto the off-white ceiling and the spinning fan as his mind frantically worked to place him.
A hotel. Not in Ireland. There was still time.
He glanced across the room to where Mystel slept half a foot above the bed. Muffling a yawn, he rubbed his gritty eyes and studied the line of sunlight pressing against the dark curtains. A quick glimpse of his watch told him that it was still early but he was reluctant to sleep more—there was no solace to be found.
Besides, he was utterly awake now. There was nothing so stimulating to a mind than a vision that made no sense and ended in the same disturbing manner. Lots of flashing images, a cacophony of noise, angry beasts, and the abrupt death of a girl at his feet. Yes, Brooklyn had had better dreams in his short life. At least he didn’t know the girl, which was some relief.
He threw off his covers and swung out his legs as he sat up, scrubbing his hands down his face. Sadly, the dream was becoming clearer; he’d even recognised some of the snarling, battling beasts this time, which of course linked it even closer to the sport of Beyblading. Where else would there be an Ice Wolf and a Salamander?
He paused. Time to check the rosters to find out who was actually scheduled to partake. There was no reason for Apollon to be there, unless… no, he wouldn’t ask anyone to get involved, not knowing the danger.
Brooklyn rubbed his hands over his face again and swallowed, feeling the sick slime that coated his dry mouth. Getting up, he went to the bathroom and filled a glass of water, taking a few gulps to clear out the taste. As he did, he caught his reflection in the mirror before quickly looking away.
No, the visions did nothing for his overall health.
He headed back into the room and contemplated waking Mystel up. The floating was weird, like something out of The Exorcist.
He grabbed his phone and checked the time of their flight to Ireland. Another two hours before they were due at the airport and already his back was beginning to cramp. Nothing bored him as much as a trip on a plane but at least Mystel was relatively good company, especially when he slept.
Strangely, despite everything that Boris had put them through, he had created the one thing that had guaranteed Brooklyn’s sanity: a team of friends, more family than comrades. Naturally Boris could never have predicted such an outcome: that Garland had a paternal streak, that Ming-Ming had an obsessive need to communicate, or that Moses was family-orientated. The group had become glue, keeping each other united despite the world turning against them. After a crap day, it was nice to fall into bed in another run-down motel to find an email from Ming-Ming updating him on her life and using him like a personal journal. It made him feel connected.
“It’s a little creepy that you’re standing at the bottom of my bed in your boxers.”
Brooklyn snorted. “You’re so pretty when you sleep.”
Mystel stretched his arms over his head and chuckled sleepily. “What time is it?”
Tugging on his jeans, Brooklyn sat on his creaky bed to pull on his shoes. “It’s ten, we need to leave in two hours to be at the airport on time, so I figure we have time to find a place to eat.”
“Mmm, we could have just flown straight to Ireland. Any idea when this whole end of the world thing is going to happen?”
Brooklyn made a face. He hadn’t figured out how to fine-tune his visions to give him exact locations, dates, times or anything vitally important. He just got pictures and feelings of impending doom. Still, he could use logic.
“I'd guess it'll happen during the finals. Everything happens during the finals. Ming-Ming said they're having the opening tonight, GMT.” He glanced at his watch and made a face. “Which should be in the next hour or so, if everything goes smoothly. We have plenty of time.”
“Well, I hope so,” Mystel said, with a huge yawn. “I can’t imagine showing up to tell everyone after it’s happened. That would be quite terrible, but hilarious.”
Brooklyn shook his head. Mystel’s form of humour was something different to most people, not that Brooklyn was an expert on people. He figured that was another thing Boris had given them because none of them were normal. Crusher had slight anger problems and a sister complex, Garland had inferiority problems and a deep desire to work out to the brink of exhaustion, Mystel… was Mystel, no explanation needed, and Ming-Ming was an obsessive-compulsive with a dual personality. He was, in actual fact, probably the most normal of their team.
Not that the other teams were shining examples of normalcy either. Tyson Granger had a bottomless pit for a stomach and an equally bottomless well of faith.
Which was why Brooklyn had to help. He needed to make sure that well of faith didn’t dry up because there was no doubt in Brooklyn’s mind that it would be needed to save another lost Blader—the sport tended to attract the bizarre.
Mystel slipped from the bed and grabbed his clothes, murmuring about needing a shower. As he left, Brooklyn pulled up the coverage from the tournament and his mind replayed the final scene of his vision, the one where the young girl with black hair died at his feet.