Wrote this yesterday at 5:00 in the morning, and for some reason still decided to post it. Eh.
This is one of those stories that I'm writing now but I feel like tomorrow I'm going to wake up, look back, and think "What the hell did I write?"

In any case, I figured I might as well add fuel to the flames by making this a beyblade story. However, there's a twist: the characters will all be using Plastic beyblades. Partially because I don't remember any MFB, partially because I don't care enough about that series to find out, haha. Regardless, please kick back and enjoy.

Chapter 1 (Click to View)

"Do you know why you're here?" He paces back and fourth in front of me, silhouetted by the single light in the room - the really bright one, shining right into my eyes. I blink rapidly, trying to adjust to the darkness and make the blue splotches in my sight disappear. I'm strapped down to some sort of really uncomfortable chair, and my head is down on a desk in front of it.
"I asked you a question," he prompts, "So that means answer!" He's holding some sort of stick, and he repeatedly taps it against his other hand. Bistool feels heavy at my side, and I know that if I can just free my hands from the ropes behind the chair, I can use it to escape this nightmare. He seems to sense this thinking, and turns to face me. "Oh?" he asks, "Security forgot to remove your plastic top, didn't they?" he makes a 'tsk' noise, and it reminds me of the sound a snake makes when it hisses. I shift in my chair. "No matter, I'll just remove it myself" he reaches down to grab Bistool from my side, when all of my struggling finally pays off - I free my hands from the ropes behind the chair, and push against the desk with my feet. This catapults the chair (And Bistool) out of his reach. His utter shock gives me enough time to whip out my launcher and beyblade into position, and hold it out like a gun. Still bent over, he laughs slightly. "Didn't see that one coming, did I?" he makes a groaning noise as he stands back up, and I notice his stick now to be a cane. It's bothering me for some reason, and I'm not sure why. Perhaps the oddity of him having a cane, but not using it to walk? Or the fact that he looks so healthy, and yet is in the possession of one. Something is not right...

I shake my head, realizing being caught off guard for even a second could result in my demise. I readjust my stance and slow my breath. Time for answers.

"Okay," I start, focusing my attention on every detail of his body. I'm looking for a target; a place to hit him that will injure him but not cause any permanent damage. Just enough for my escape. "Let's take this step by step. First off, who are you? And why am I here?" he lets out a hollow, echoey laugh that seems almost inhuman.
"I'd prefer you answer my question first. But this is...interesting. So it worked after all..." He seems to almost be talking to himself now, pacing back and fourth and whipping his cane into his palm. I steady my grip, and he laughs again.
"This is amazing! You have actually been 100% reprogrammed. This kind of technology could make me rich - and more! Power, yes, I see power..." he's completely lost in his own fictional world, but I'm still ringing from his words.
"You have been 100% reprogrammed" What did he mean by reprogrammed? What has he done to me? Suddenly, another question rolls into my mind. The realization falls on me like a ton of bricks, and it brings me to my knees and soaking with nervous sweat.

Who am I?

That's when I felt the pricking sensation jab into my neck, and I fell over onto the ground. Just before my eyes closed shut, I saw him walk over to me, hold out a gun, and pull the trigger.

Chapter 2 (Click to View)

I awake in a cold sweat, slashing the chilled air with my bare hands and screeching like a banshee. My head is throbbing with a dull aching pain, and a spot on my neck feels like it's been injected. I'm lying in a bed, covered in ghost-white sheets and strapped down at my waist to the mattress. Next to me, a machine beeps occasionally, marking my heart rate and therefore being the only reassurance that I'm even alive right now. There's an IV pumping sugar water through a tube that's hooked into my wrist, and I make one final observation: I'm freezing.

I sit back down into bed and pull the sheets tightly over my head, desperately trying to generate some heat. My pulsing head tries so make sense of the whole situation, but not a single memory comes to mind. Not how I got here, not where I am, or even...even my name.

It feels like my head smashed into a wall. I can't remember my identity? When did this happen? My hands instinctively go to my temples; rubbing them so hard that the skin starts to stretch. This is not good.

I lie there for God knows how long, just listening to my rapid breathing and searching for memories, all the while barely managing not to completely panic. All I end up remembering is that somehow, sometime, I'd been hit with a dart and then shot. But seeing as I'm still alive, I toss this aside as useless information. If I'd actually been shot, then how was I still here? It didn't make any sense. As a matter of fact, nothing made sense. I was all alone in a darkened room, with nothing but an occasional machine beep and a disturbing memory to keep myself from losing
my broken mind.

–––

It felt like days, but in reality was only a few hours before a knock sounded on the door. Since I wasn't really too sure what to say (Or if I could even talk), I just waited until the door creaked open. A trail of light flooded in, and my unadjusted eyes instinctively averted away from it. I rubbed them raw before I decided to look up.
In the doorway stood two large men, each carrying heavy-duty guns, and a smaller man trailing behind them. The smaller man seemed really familiar to me, but I couldn't quite place it. The two burly guys didn't strike any chords. I wasn't sure if they were friendly or not, so I decided to play it safe. This meant not saying anything; just ignoring them mostly and staring straight ahead as if oblivious to their existence. Not bad plan, in theory, if it weren't for the fact that before I even formed the thought, one of the bigger men hit me in the head with the barrel of his gun.

"That's not...very nice..." I moaned, and my body slumped down like a dead weight onto the bed, knocking me unconscious.

It would be the last words I'd say as myself.

Oh, how I've missed you FanFiction! [/sarcasm]
This wasn't too great, but not the worst I've done. I'll upload the next chapter on Friday when I have time, but for now some critique and comments would be great. Thanks guys.

---

"Life isn't about how hard you can hit;
it's about how hard you can get hit, and keep moving forward"
{[YT]} [|BEYBLOG|] (â—ŠSoG-My Bookâ—Š)/<DA>\

I believe I promised an update, but I'm a little busy packing for vacation (I leave tomorrow, early). So to hold you off, I'll post most of it. Once I type it up, I'll try to put the rest of it here - hopefully by tomorrow night. We'll see, though.

Chapter 2 (Only 1/2 Uploaded) (Click to View)

I awake in a cold sweat, slashing the chilled air with my bare hands and screeching like a banshee. My head is throbbing with a dull aching pain, and a spot on my neck feels like it's been injected. I'm lying in a bed, covered in ghost-white sheets and strapped down at my waist to the mattress. Next to me, a machine beeps occasionally, marking my heart rate and therefore being the only reassurance that I'm even alive right now. There's an IV pumping sugar water through a tube that's hooked into my wrist, and I make one final observation: I'm freezing.

I sit back down into bed and pull the sheets tightly over my head, desperately trying to generate some heat. My pulsing head tries so make sense of the whole situation, but not a single memory comes to mind. Not how I got here, not where I am, or even...even my name.

It feels like my head smashed into a wall. I can't remember my identity? When did this happen? My hands instinctively go to my temples; rubbing them so hard that the skin starts to stretch. This is not good.

I lie there for God knows how long, just listening to my rapid breathing and searching for memories, all the while barely managing not to completely panic. All I end up remembering is that somehow, sometime, I'd been hit with a dart and then shot. But seeing as I'm still alive, I toss this aside as useless information. If I'd actually been shot, then how was I still here? It didn't make any sense. As a matter of fact, nothing made sense. I was all alone in a darkened room, with nothing but an occasional machine beep and a disturbing memory to keep myself from losing
my broken mind.

–––

It felt like days, but in reality was only a few hours before a knock sounded on the door. Since I wasn't really too sure what to say (Or if I could even talk), I just waited until the door creaked open. A trail of light flooded in, and my unadjusted eyes instinctively averted away from it. I rubbed them raw before I decided to look up.
In the doorway stood two large men, each carrying heavy-duty guns, and a smaller man trailing behind them. The smaller man seemed really familiar to me, but I couldn't quite place it. The two burly guys didn't strike any chords. I wasn't sure if they were friendly or not, so I decided to play it safe. This meant not saying anything; just ignoring them mostly and staring straight ahead as if oblivious to their existence. Not bad plan, in theory, if it weren't for the fact that before I even formed the thought, one of the bigger men hit me in the head with the barrel of his gun.

"That's not...very nice..." I moaned, and my body slumped down like a dead weight onto the bed, knocking me unconscious.

---

"Life isn't about how hard you can hit;
it's about how hard you can get hit, and keep moving forward"
{[YT]} [|BEYBLOG|] (â—ŠSoG-My Bookâ—Š)/<DA>\

Just want to point out, this looks more like that new movie Total Recall combined with Beyblade (in which case, the beyblade influence is very, very little).

Haha, did you dream something that involved both of them and decide to write this?

---

"In many ways, the work of a critic is easy. We risk very little, yet enjoy a position over those who offer up their work and their selves to our judgment. We thrive on negative criticism, which is fun to write and to read. But the bitter truth we critics must face, is that in the grand scheme of things, the average piece of junk is probably more meaningful than our criticism designating it so. But there are times when a critic truly risks something, and that is in the discovery and defense of the new. The world is often unkind to new talent, new creations. The new needs friends. Last night, I experienced something new: an extraordinary meal from a singularly unexpected source. To say that both the meal and its maker have challenged my preconceptions about fine cooking is a gross understatement. They have rocked me to my core. In the past, I have made no secret of my disdain for Chef Gusteau's famous motto, "Anyone can cook." But I realize, only now do I truly understand what he meant. Not everyone can become a great artist; but a great artist can come from anywhere."

-Anton Ego/Peter O'Toole (1932-2013)

Actually, I have no idea what Total Recall is about. I got some of my influence from the Hunger Games, actually, as you will start to see. The rest of it just came from a good ol' brainstorming (;

---

"Life isn't about how hard you can hit;
it's about how hard you can get hit, and keep moving forward"
{[YT]} [|BEYBLOG|] (â—ŠSoG-My Bookâ—Š)/<DA>\