Beyblade Fan Fiction ❯ Sooryavansham: The Dynasty of the Sun ❯ The Day Before ( Chapter 4 )

Chapter 4! For all you Kai lovers out there! Personally I think it's my best chapter so far, a little humor and a healthy dose of angst, all circumvented by deep introspection… eh… I'm thinking too much, tell me what you guys think!

Disclaimer: If I didn't own it in the last 4 chapters, do you really think I own it now? Beyblade is the property of Takao Aoki. The Huo family is mine however and I ask that no one uses them—or my plot line for that matter—without my permission. Thank you.

Reviewer notes are at the end

Enjoy!

II...blah...II denotes a change in language

Some things to note in this chapter:

1) The city of Moscow is occasionally referred to as Moskva. Why? Because that's how it's spelled in Russian.

2) For those of you interested in subliminal messaging, there are a few ironies throughout the story I didn't point them out because they were made purely for my own enjoyment, if any of you notice these, feel free to tell me in a review, I'd like to know who catches these weird things (unless it's all just in my head, sometimes even I don't know what I'm talking about...)

3) Finally, I realize my Russian is deplorable. If anyone out there sees a mistake that I have made in my rough translations, please do correct me. I am by no means an expert, having only studied out of a book…

Sooryavansham: The Dynasty of the Sun

By: Sholay

“Out of the crooked timber of humanity no straight thing can ever

be

made.”

—Immanuel Kant (1724-1804)

Chapter 4 The Day Before

Alright. It is four days before Christmas, two days before the anniversary of my employers and one day before that accursed reunion in the capital. Funny how life works is it not? Even better, here I am some few thousand odd kilometers away from Moskva in the somewhat remote city of Izhevsk getting ready for another long day of waiting tables.

Question of the day: How the hell am I going to travel to Moskva after working hours?

The Answer: …I don't know yet

I told Dranzer to think of something while I am working.

Speaking of which…

“Kolya!”

Right on time.

Slipping out of my room, I close the door cautiously—it collapses at the slightest hint of aggression, and I don't much appreciate its defensive mechanism: falling on my head—and walk through the adjourning unlit corridor; again, careful to step lightly, one can never be too careful in this place.

As usual, the staircase creeks ominously beneath my feet, with the banister providing more decoration than any real consolation, but I ignore all this, far too used to it to be affected. The light increases as I descend and once on the main floor I can clearly see the grey-blue hues of early morning as they struggle into view.

No sooner have I reached the floor am I immediately grabbed by two pairs of tiny hands.

“Sonya, Mikhail” I sigh their names softly. “Pashyemu nyeh viy stvoyay matu?” …Why aren't you with your mother? My words are Russki. Russian. I have not spoken much else in a year; the entire family speaks it fluently.

They let out a burst of identical giggles and I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Bending down, I scoop up the two five year olds, detaching them from my legs easily. They seem to enjoy this as they both squeal and clutch at my neck. Sparing a moment to be glad that I wasn't wearing my scarf—the last time they had got their hands on it had been stifling, to say the least—I then continue on my way.

Arriving at a small door, I shift Mikhail, not without some difficulty as he clings tightly to my shoulder, and pull it open, stepping into the main room: the dining room of the modest restaurant I worked in. In spite of the deteriorated look the back had, the restaurant itself is, for the most part, aesthetically pleasing. The room is of a fair size and during open hours there is always a fire curling in the corner hearth; that, added to the homemade burgundy drapes, soft, cushioned seats, and choice of table, private booth or bar, makes the restaurant almost homely.

Carrying the twins around the bar I enter the kitchen and finally spot what—or rather, who—I'm looking for: A thin woman in her mid thirties is rushing around the room opening and closing cupboards haphazardly as she frantically searches for something, or someone. I look down at the children in my arms and this time make my tone chastising,

“Sonya? Mikhail? Have you been causing trouble for your mother?” All I gain is another fit of giggling, and I desist at my pathetic attempt at scolding, preferring to leave the disciplinary methods to the young woman who is now walking quickly towards us, brushing back her long auburn hair—much of which has fallen out of her loose ponytail into disorderly strands. She looks both relieved and disapprobatory, a pure motherly look of impending doom. Smirking, I don't even have to look down to see the guilty looks the twins now bear.

Leaning towards the children in my arms she raises her index finger in warning.

“You know you're not allowed to run off like that! Mikhail, you are only allowed to play your games in the same room as me, and Sonya, how many times have I told you: you are not allowed to leave the house, and not to drag Mikhail along with you! I don't want you two running around playing hide and seek without telling me, ok… ok?” She looks at them both in turn. Her Russian, much like her children's is heavily accented but not unintelligible.

Absently, I wonder how she knew what they were doing if they had been hiding from her. Meanwhile the siblings curl into me abashed, nodding, and chorus a sad “ezveneetyeh, Mummy.” Sorry Mummy. Mentally, I applaud her ability; proper credit is due to someone who can sedate these two.

I put the kids down and they immediately rush to there mother who holds them to her body tightly. Intoning a quiet: `Thank God you're both ok.' She strokes their heads and makes sure they are fine, and then her eyes fall to me. I wonder for a brief moment if I had any blame in this matter, pondering possible escape routes from her anger; but I am surprised when she smiles gratefully.

“Kolya, you're a miracle! These two have been absolutely…incorrigible!” I swallow my smirk at her word choice, but can't quite suppress sending her a dry look. A strong word like that should only be attributed to people like Tyson… or maybe G—I quickly kill that thought, shaking my head slightly as it brings up bad memories, and concentrate instead on what the woman in front of me is saying.

“First Mikhail with his silly games,” she is saying, oblivious to my thoughts. “Then Sonya come with her crazy schemes… oh, never mind. I'm just glad they didn't leave the house. I hope they didn't give you too much trouble?”

Well, they didn't tackle me on the stairs, we can all be grateful for that, the experience would…not have been pleasant. Realizing she is wanting a reply, I close my eyes and give a small, single shake of my head.

“That's good,” she continues, smiling her unique broad grin. “I'm glad you found them, Kolya, I don't know what I'd do without you!”

I am not smiling, but at least there is no indifferent scowl—which actually, isn't as much of an oxymoron as one would think—and simply incline my head slightly in respect.

“It is no trouble, Mrs. Huo.” And I turn to return to my chores.

“Kolya,” she calls, and I turn. “You should smile more often; you look handsome when you smile.”

I nod my head again and turn back around. Behind me I hear Mrs. Huo sigh and internally I join her. Every day we go through the same thing and she never tires of it. I wish she would stop though, I made a promise. One I never intend to break again.

I step past the swinging doors and leave my troubled thoughts behind with Mrs. Huo. Glancing around the restaurant I mentally stock what needs to be done: Tables are wiped, that's good, the placements need to be set, the floor could use a mopping, and if I recall properly, Mrs. Huo had wanted Table 8 moved, something about-…

“Oie! Tet!” My train of thought interrupted by the voice behind me, I turn and see Mr. Huo standing nearby rinsing his hands. A sturdy 30-something year old, Mr. Eligio Huo, Eli to his friends, is the proud owner of this establishment. Tall and awkward with large wire rimmed glasses and thick cobalt blue hair that falls into his eyes more often than not, Mr. Huo does not cut a very intimidating figure. His humor and easy going attitude are reputable however, as is his strange penchant for calling people nicknames and he went through quite a few with mine. First, middle or last name, none of them were safe from Mr. Huo's scrutiny; `Kolya Zarakovich Tretyakov' was abysmally inexhaustible in its choices. He called me everything under the sun—even toyed with `Zara' for awhile, before I finally put my foot down. I refuse to be referred to by a girl's name—until finally settling on `Tet'. Why, I'm not quite sure, but it amuses him, so I humor him. It's easier on everyone that way.

“Get to work over there, yesterday customers were complaining about cockroaches, so I need you to clean that area up.” His words unlike wife and children hold only a very slight accent, one I have never been able to identify.

I looked over to the area he was pointing at, Table 8, of course, and scoffed silently `Whoever heard of cockroaches this far up north?' Just as I finish that thought in my head I spot a suspicious dirt brown smudge making its way lazily across the tabletop.

`And I stand corrected…so much for the aesthetically pleasing factor. There's always Mr. Huo's stand up comedy to fall back on…strike that, the cockroaches are probably better, at least they don't cause mental trauma.'

Sighing audibly now, I resign myself to the task at hand, grabbing bug spray, an apron, a cloth and whisk broom. Stepping quickly, I bend over, prepared to swipe up the offending insect when it decides it's against the idea, sprouts wings, and takes off into the corner where it happily scuttles under a booth.

I groan and kneel down completely, grabbing the whisk.

`This day is not starting well'

An hour later, the entire corner booth and Table 8 are clean. So clean, in fact, that I realize the rest of the restaurant looks dirty compared to it. The strange phenomenon is not lost on Mr. Huo who gazes around with a low whistle.

“Tet, I think you're gonna have to do a lot of cleaning after hours today.”

The day passes slowly. Customers come in, I greet them, seat them and take orders. I bring the orders back to Mrs. Huo, who's cooking is actually quite spectacular. Mr. Huo, as usual, moves back and forth between us, sometimes helping me greet customers and take orders, sometimes helping around the kitchen for Mrs. Huo. Usually he acts as damage control, often doing small jobs: such as running out for extra ingredients in the event that we have underestimated the inventory. Sonya and Mikhail meanwhile remain in the kitchen with their mother. Ordinarily they are relatively well behaved and play only within the woman's immediate sight.

On any normal day, not many customers visit the restaurant and today is no exception. Inevitably, I find myself sitting idly at the bar watching the remaining customers chat and laugh. Not for the first time I note their similar baggy white-beige outfits; communists. One of the hardest things to get used to when coming back to Russia was the drastic change in economy style. Not so much in Moskva anymore, but the smaller rural areas outside the capital are still quite obviously communistic, in spite of what the government claims, and the small freedoms allowed hither and yon.

Looking behind me I see Mrs. Huo in her bright red dress and flowery apron and Mr. Huo in his grey business suit and distasteful pink tie. Sonya and Mikhail too sport colorful outfits, even my somewhat plain uniform stands out. Altogether we make up one of the only, if not the only, anticommunist groups in the city. Some people would see this as an admirable act of courage, while others condemn it as foolishness. Personally, for me it is neither, it merely means that less people will come here and as a consequence my payroll drops.

“II You know, Honey, II” I hear Mr. Huo's voice floating from the kitchen and casually lean back to hear more. “II Sometimes I think it would have been better if we had never left China. II” He is speaking in Chinese and I realize the conversation was meant to be private. I don't bother to back off however; they are not aware I can understand the language, after all.

“II You know very well what would have happened. II” Mrs. Huo's voice is terse in her reply, seeming to dislike where the conversation was leading. There are some clinking sounds and I assume she is stacking plates for washing, silently I hope she does not drop any; Mrs. Huo gets clumsy when she is emotional and the plates are expensive to replace.

She makes a huffing sound then continues, “II We would have been incarcerated for our anti-communist movement. We would have finally given my family a solid reason to renounce me. Oh yes, and let's not forget that even if we did get out of jail we'd have been excommunicated from the society. Forced out or leaving of our own free will, either way we had nothing left in China. Besides, what would have happened to Kolya? II”

“II What about him? II” The man asks, choosing not only the most irrelevant point Mrs. Huo brought up, but the only one I had hoped he wouldn't. “II He's a strong, independent young lad. He's more than capable of taking care of himself. II”

“Eli,” she says slowly, condescendingly, “II when we found the poor boy he was starved, homeless, penniless and nearly delirious with fever. He was begging us for a place to stay and insisted on taking a job when he could barely stand! II”

`Definitely not one of my most meritorious moments' I think, wincing with my vague recollection of that day: I hardly remember anything—they had been chasing me for weeks and by then I was so far gone I could barely think straight—but what I do remember involves too much wretched behavior for my liking.

“II If we hadn't given that boy shelter, food and work, who knows what would have happened to him? II”

“II I know, I know! II” Huo's impatient voice cut through her soft one easily. “II But Shiori, you have to stop thinking about other people, stop being their hero. As of right now we are stuck here. We are too stubborn to change our ideals and too poor to cheat ourselves over the border without visas. You have to be wondering: what's going to happen to us? And Mikhail and Sonya? How are we going to survive? II”

Mrs. Huo is silent and I turn forward again in my seat. With my elbows on my knees and my chin in my palms I think for a second. Mr. and Mrs. Huo, along with myself, are the only workers in this restaurant. Sonya and Mikhail are too young. If I had told them my real age I would still be too young as well, lack of proper identification had helped with that. I know for a fact that without me the Huo's could not handle this restaurant; we are struggling as is. Living as `illegal aliens' in a foreign country doesn't exactly help the situation either. However, I know that I could very well be the only thing keeping them from trying to emigrate out of this country. If I am correct, their visa does not expire for another few months, but the time for that action is quickly running out and they still have to deal with one last problem: me.

I do not belong here, not in Russia, not in any country, really. If the law found me they would do either one of two things:

a) Put me in an orphanage, or

b) Ship me back to Japan, for them to deal with me, which might lead back to a)

But if I did end up back in Japan, I would be lucky find myself in an orphanage. There are much worse things that could happen if I return there. Therein lies the reason why I continue to choose option c):

Do not get involved.

“Hey Tet!”

I'm startled by the voice that suddenly comes from behind me, but my body resists the urge to jerk and instead my mind interferes, identifying the voice and dismissing the threat. My head turns slowly and I consciously unclench my hand from the defensive fist it had curled into; which I believe is the only visible indication that I had not seen him approaching me. `Trained to the fault by that fastidious old man' I think dryly, not quite sure which fastidious old man in my life I'm referring to, there have been a few.

“Da, Mr. Huo?” Yes, Mr. Huo?I glanced at him apprehensively; I have an idea, a bad one, about where this is going to end up. The older man glances furtively between me, the customers and a dark corner, running a hand through his cobalt blue hair nervously. The sick feeling just solidifies. Like spoilt milk.

“I need to talk to you in the other room for a minute.”

I glance over to the customers with affected concern but am already standing by the time Mr. Huo says “They'll be fine for a few minutes.” I want to get this over with quickly. Nodding slightly I follow him through the back door into the narrow corridor near the rickety stairs. Once the door closes behind us the man collapses against the wall. He looks exhausted but I merely stand to his side, crossing my arms and eying him dispassionately. After a moment, he sighs.

“Listen Kolya,” he starts and I immediately know it's one of his bad ones. He never calls me that unless-

“I need you to look after Shiori and the kids. I'm going out tonight.”

I knew it.

Mr. Huo's greatest fault is his inability to deal with stress. At least once every couple of weeks he will crumple under the pressure and leave to go out and drown his troubles, leaving Mrs. Huo to clean up the mess afterwards. It never fails to disgust me how even the proudest man can be brought low by a few short hours of oblivion.

Silence reigns as I refuse to offer him the sympathy he wants; he runs a hand through his hair again. Looking from side to side, his eyes get a slightly crazed look to them.

“Look, I need to get some things off my mind, the guys having been asking for me. I'm tired, Kolya…”

I look away scowling. I shouldn't be in this situation. I feel like a parent holding the cookie jar away from an obstinate child. I've been able to stop him before, but this time he looks particularly driven… Mrs. Huo should be the one working out his problems with him…

But that is not an option. Should they end up fighting again…

“Argh!” I hear a heavy dull sound next to me and know that he has struck out at the wall.

It could have been worse.

I look back at him, and my eyebrows crease when I see him nearly entreating me, with hands open in front of him in a gesture I see as self-abasing.

“I won't drink too much, I swear it.”

I restrain a snort. The weak-minded fool couldn't say no to a free shot at a night club on his children's birthday. My silence proves detrimental though as he takes it for scorn—which I'm not denying, exactly—and his temper flares.

“Fine!” He yells loudly and I glance quickly at the door; the customers had better not have heard him. He takes no notice and continues to rant “Damn you, Nicolai, I don't need your permission! I'll do whatever I want.” He grabs the door and yanks it open violently.

It is at that very belated moment that my brain decides to apathetically point out the upcoming reunion and the ramifications of Mr. Huo's late night excursions. I can't let him go out. Without me, Mrs. Huo and the twins would be left alone, and I can't miss the meeting…

Already hating myself for what I'm going to do, I force myself to reach around Mr. Huo and halt the door in its path. He raises a disdainful eyebrow and lets out an irritated “What is it, Kolya?” Signifying that whatever I have to say it had better be quick, but he was back to calling me `Kolya', one step down from the raging mad `Nicolai'. The door closes and I face him once more.

I take a break and resolve myself to this. “Sir,” I managed that much, now for the rest, “Wait for a moment… pajalsta” Please.

The use of entreatment is what catches his attention. He frowns at me over his large circular glasses, but at least I have his attention. I grit my teeth...as much as I hate begging…

“You mustn't go out tonight.” Eh, old habits die hard I guess, that still came out as more of an order, at least I'm not flat out pleading.

“Excuse me?” His voice has a warning tone to it, but is also suspicious, meaning I still have a chance at this.

“I have certain… obligations that I must attend to tomorrow. I must leave tonight.” I notice his frown deepen and quickly continue before he can accuse me of lying. “Please, sir.” Now I've crossed the line into pleading, and I suppress a wince at the word `please'. “I've worked here for a year and have never taken so much as a sick leave. Mrs. Huo said that whenever I wanted a day off I could take one. I choose tomorrow.”

“Why?”

A question so simple, and yet becomes so complex. I try to phrase my answer in the least stand-offish manner:

“There is,” I start, “a personal matter—”

“Can't it wait?” The man waves dismissively. I ignore my irritation and realize that I'm going to have to convince him of the importance of this matter. Hopefully he won't require proof; that could lead to a few problems. I was lucky enough when they didn't recognize me the day I showed up on their doorstep, even luckier still when it turned out that they had previously been poverty stricken and isolated, not having any access to the television or international news. They wouldn't find out about me any time soon, but flashing the name `Bladebreakers' and `International Beyblading Association' might as well equate to me jumping up and down with a banner saying `I'm not who you think I am!' Back to the matter at hand though…

“There is an important meeting that I am expected to attend tomorrow, in Moskva—”

“Moscow!” He crows incredulously, his odd accent making the name come out more in its western translation. I sigh and look away. “Since when have YOU been important enough to get invited to meetings? In MOSCOW, no less. You're foolish Kolya, either they're playing you or you're delusional again.”

The comment shouldn't have stung as much as it does; after all, to them I am just an orphaned street rat that they've charitably given work and board for… But even so…

I take a breath and attempt to be appeasing. Uncrossing my arms I hold them out in much the same imploring, self-abasing gesture Mr. Huo had not moments ago.

“Please sir, could you go the day after tomorrow? I won't say a word to Mrs. Huo. I promise I'll be back before the restaurant opens and I'll look after it completely when you go out.” Disgusting, I should just complete the act by getting down on my hands and knees and kissing his feet. I'm lower than the mud on his shoes. Disgusting.

Mr. Huo looks surprised, as though he's never seen me before; silently I hope he doesn't get any ideas to use my conceding behavior to his advantage.

“This meeting must be important to you.” He states in a low voice.

I say nothing, I refuse to say anything. He will either agree with me or disagree with me now; I refuse to debase myself further.

“Eli! Kolya! Where are you?! DID YOU FORGET THERE ARE CUSTOMERS HERE?! HURRY UP AND GET OUT HERE BEFORE I COME AND GET YOU TWO MYSELF!!”

We both start and look up at the door, then each other. We realize at the same time that our conversation must have lasted longer than either of us had expected and the customers had been neglected.

“Well, then Tet, we better listen to the lady and get out there!” Mr. Huo suddenly says in a much too chirpy voice. He opens the door with a flourish and walks out, but not before halting half-way with a few parting words:

“I'm taking your word for it, Tet. The day after tomorrow it is. I better see you out there soon.”

He exits, leaving me in the hall feeling quite despicable.

It isn't even more than a blink of an eye before my switchblade is out and flashing a thin pink line across my lower arm, which quickly reddens, swelling with overflowing blood. My sleeve is already rolled up past my elbow, before I had even consciously thought about it, so it was not stained. Another flash and then one more and two cuts, this time shallower, have joined the first, swelling but only beading with the red liquid, not dripping. It hurts more that way.

Empty.

It is gone. All emotion, all sensation: the harsh coolness of the blade on my skin, the sting of the cuts, the relief of the blood flowing out and the disgust from before, all gone.

Some people say that when they cut themselves, the destructive feelings vanish, flow outward with the blood, or that the sight of blood lightens their burdens. The feeling is then chased by the consuming remorse at having drawn one's own blood. Such is not the case with me. From the moment the blade touches my skin to the moment the blood is flowing I am driven for one reason and one reason alone: to punish my weakness. The emotions that accompany the act become diluted, muted, after the act; bearable once more.

I look closer at the blood on the largest cut as it congeals in blotches on my arm. The blood fascinates…satisfies me in a strange way. Is it intoxication? No, it is not that intense… one would—could—call it curiosity. I feel no remorse or regret now. I suppose psychiatrists would shake their heads and allege to one another in a dogmatic drawl: `He simply has not reached that stage yet. Once we work on him for a few days he will understand, eta kak dvazhdy dva' it's as easy as two times two.

I feel empty as I stare down at the blood on my upturned arm. I hold it, with my elbow bent and the lower arm pointed away from my body, my other hand is held right underneath, catching any drops that may have otherwise fallen to the ground. The cuts are strategically placed: not too low that they would show beneath my blue shirt cuff, and not so high that they show above the red arm guards I wear when not in uniform. It is strange, I suppose. I guess one could say I have a problem, spout some nonsense about self-esteem and less destructive ways to vent emotion. I do not see the problem though. What I do does not hurt anyone, no one even notices; I have no emotional issues, the scars fade and no permanent damage is done. Some people say that only girls cut themselves, while boys fight. All I can say to that is at least I am not leaving a trail of dead bodies in my wake.

Quite spontaneously, I abruptly give myself a shake and break out of my reverie. What strange, nonsensical thoughts I am indulging in. I wonder if psychoanalyzing oneself while pushing a blade into one's flesh is normal behavior, or if I am just special. Of course, it's not as though it is a question that could be brought up into conversation. Oh yes, I can imagine the gob smacked response to `what do you think about when you cut yourself?' bright idea, a real bright idea if I have ever heard one.

In the background to my thoughts I hear Mrs. Huo calling for me again, the warning in her tone clear. Finally I realize I'm just standing in the middle of the hall with blood rolling down my arm. If anyone is to come into the room—

Almost running, I rush to the bathroom, closing the door—locking the door—without a thought. Ignoring the tap, I instead reach for the toilet paper and unroll a fair amount. Twisting the tissue so that it can soak up more blood, I then examine my arm, noticing with satisfaction that some of the blood had dried over the cut, not allowing any more to seep out. I had held my arm facing upwards for that exact desired result. Grabbing a few more squares of paper, I wet them and rub off some excess blood that had spilled over. I discard the tissue into the toilet and flush it immediately. It simply would not do for Mrs. Huo to accidentally find bloody toilet paper in the garbage.

I wrap the twisted paper around my arm a few times then make a light knot, careful not to rip the tissue, and tuck the ends in neatly. I give the makeshift bandage a tight squeeze ignoring the slight sting as paper slides into the wound. This way I can make sure the tissue could hold the excess blood and disallow it from leaking through or around the bandage accidentally. Flicking the sleeve of the blouse down lightly, I raise my arm to regard it closely, and am appeased to find that not only does the bandage not show through the shape of the shirt, but the only discomfort I felt, really, was a sticky feeling on my arm, perhaps a negligible amount of numbness in the tips of my fingers as well, but that was easily ignorable.

It is not the cleanest way to deal with a cut, but using water would have made the cut bleed again, taking much too long. Besides, my body does not come by infections easily, so I am not really concerned. Placating the scolding voice in the back of my mind—which could have been my conscience or Dranzer, I am not sure—by deciding that I would clean up the scratch later, I quietly shut the bathroom door and walk into the restaurant.

“THERE you are!” Cries Mrs. Huo as she passes my quickly, looking harassed. I feel a twinge of guilt as I realize how long I had left her to handle the crowd alone.

“Tables 3, 5, 9, 8, 4, 12, 6, 10, 16: bill, order, bill, bill, order, cleanup, order, menu… new cutlery.” She scrambles out in one breath, muttering the last part venomously, adding “apparently it's not clean enough for them” in a deadly tone. It takes me a moment to understand and I blink at her.

“Well? What are you waiting for? Go!” She shoos me off with an exasperated, but thankfully not angry, voice. I nod and quickly walk away. For now it's just another day.

TBC

!!!!!!Oh yeah, and please, please tell me if you guys are okay with my Original Characters. The Huo family is my own creation and depending on whether you guys like them or not, they could become more important (but they will NEVER take away from the main characters!), so yeah, review and tell me what you think!!!!!!

Adio