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Oftentimes, Daina finds himself alone in his club’s headquarters long after the others have shuffled off to their dorms for the night. Part of it is the responsibilities of being captain — he has applications to review, offers to send out. With each battle that passes in the World League, the busywork becomes simultaneously more relaxing and more tedious.
The other part of it is simply that at the end of the day, Daina is still an introvert. He loves his friends and he loves his team, but no matter what he always finds himself stepping away eventually. Alone, he gets a chance to breathe, to reflect, to mentally catalogue the information he instinctively collects.
And of course, he just likes the dark.
The night is cold and bright, not a cloud in the sky to block the moon and stars. Daina breathes the chilly air deep as he locks the door behind him, finally leaving the office. He likes how quiet it is, how calm the world becomes once the sun sets. He thinks Deathscyther likes it too. Maybe that’s a little cliche for a Beyblade meant to represent the reaper, but Daina likes predictability. That’s why they're a team.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out Deathscyther. It rests perfectly in his hand, metal comfortably cool against his palm. He thumbs the edge of the top layer, pressing the pad of his finger to the signature scythe.
“What do you think?” he asks, voice low. “You want to go for a spin?” Casually speaking to his Bey is nothing new to him, but he’d be the first to admit witnessing Valt do the same in public certainly got him more comfortable with the prospect.
Besides, when he tilts Deathscyther to admire the moonlight on the clear plastic, he could swear that the Bey shifts in his hand. That it presses deeper into his skin, spurring him onward. Who would he be to not take that as a response?
There’s a stadium outside, in the center of the courtyard. The light shines just perfectly through the slats of the gazebo above it. It reminds him of the one in the park back home, and maybe he’d instinctively set it up that way. In any case, stepping up with his launcher in hand feels as familiar and exciting as ever. He takes his time, slow as he drops into his stance and mutters his countdown. He shoots Deathscyther harsh to the side with no goal but for it to spin.
Spin it does, taking a relaxed circle along the edge of the stadium. Daina remains crouched, content to watch with a smile, soaking in the sound of his Bey in the empty night.
Until something intrudes on his perfect scene.
Someone, actually, because footsteps are the first thing Daina notices. His head snaps up, but already he knows something is wrong. The steps are heavy, like flat boots he knows none of his teammates would wear. Metal shifts against itself, a sideways scraping not unlike a Bey twisting closer to bursting.
Red Eye, Daina realizes, just as he lifts his head. The light reflects much harsher off the metal of his mask and armor. Daina grimaces, scooping up Deathscyther as he stands. It takes a moment for it to stop spinning against his skin. He folds his fingers to hide Deathscyther, protective as always with his Bey. He knows what players like Red Eye can do, bankrupt on morals and hunting for a win. He’s seen Beyblades broken by a flick of a wrist before, balance ruined by the burn of acetone and moving pieces locked by strips of tack. Though Daina knows Deathscyther is safe in his hand, hiding it from an ill-intentioned Blader is an instinct that will never burn out of his bones. He only pulls Deathscyther closer as Red Eye waltzes right up to the stadium.
Daina is silent, running through questions in his mind. How did you find me? Where else would Daina be other than Paris? What do you want? He heard from Wakiya about reports of a mysterious masked blader picking fights with team captains. How could you dare to face me again? Red Eye has no reason to care. He holds no respect for the Blader he murdered and he holds no respect for a team scattered without their ace.
Daina is no stranger to death. His father is gone, and with Souta in and out of the hospital most his life, Daina has spent plenty of time pondering the concept. Deathscyther steadies him, its representation of the beauty of the process a sort of hope. He knows more than most the respect death deserves. The respect the dead deserve.
Red Eye is stained with blood. He ought to get Shu’s name out of his mouth.
(Though, even Daina isn't entirely convinced Shu is dead. People like Shu don't just die. He stood strong with blood in his eye on that stage. He wouldn't just die.)
(Right?)
“What makes you think I’m going to battle you?” Daina hisses in French. If Red Eye thinks himself good enough to walk straight into a captain's territory like this, Daina finds it only fair to use the language of the land. Red Eye had spoken Spanish before. He hadn't cared if he was understood then, and so Daina doesn't care now.
Red Eye presents Spriggan — arm straight out, top of the Bey facing Daina, as if he’s an opponent worth the formality. (Like hell Daina is letting him inspect Deathscyther, though.) “Because,” Red Eye says simply, mirroring his French. “You are alone.”
The surprise of his fluency only lasts a second. (It’s a common language in sports.) Daina bristles. “I’m not.” His team isn’t far; who’s to say they won’t show up to spar any second now?
“You spend all your nights alone. You, and Deathscyther.” Red Eye lowers Spriggan to load it into his launcher. Daina doesn't react externally, but a chill creeps down his spine. How do you know that? “You won't turn me down. No one else has.”
Daina shifts a foot back, hesitant. He can feel a pit of dread forming in his stomach, dark and yawning. Not letting his opponents get under his skin is Daina’s specialty — he’s trained himself to ignore their trash talk, to not let their assumptions get to him.
But these aren't assumptions. And Red Eye is much more than just an opponent.
He grits his teeth, glancing down at Deathscyther. He moves his fingers just enough to look at its face. What do you think?
Even Deathscyther feels unsure.
Red Eye rolls his shoulders and raises his arms into his launch stance. Daina bites the inside of his cheek. It’s a rock and a hard place; if he fights, he plays right into Red Eye’s taunting — if he doesn't, he might be missing his one chance to be up close and personal with the only person who knows the truth about Shu Kurenai.
His friend is worth more than his dignity, Daina decides.
…And Red Eye plans to fight him without a referee.
Daina reaches for his launcher. It still has the reflective tape on the flat of it. He clicks Deathscyther into place and tries to ignore the way the dread bleeds out across his entire body. “Sorry,” he whispers, too quiet to be audible. He hopes Deathscyther hears anyway.
He can’t beat Red Eye cleanly, he knows that. He saw how easily Spriggan had sliced through it before, even with Wyvern and Valkyrie at its side. Daina knows his own strength. He never had a chance against Spriggan in Shu’s hands, and now with its evolution…
If he wants to hold his own here enough to get any sort of answers, he doesn't have a choice.
It’s hard to feel bad fighting dirty when his opponent has blood on their hands.
(He’s regretting it already as he poises for launch anyway.)
The countdown feels like the tolling of death bells.
3. Red Eye tightens his grip.
2. Daina slouches further forward.
1. Fingers tense around rip cords.
And just as those cords are pulled, Daina flicks his wrist. A quick movement down, enough to catch the lights atop the gazebo, and then back up, levelling out to flare the light and give Deathscyther an even launch.
There’s no mislaunch. No waver nor stumble. Red Eye just keeps his head down, and Spriggan takes to the center of the stadium as aggressively as ever.
At first, Daina thinks he messed up. Maybe there wasn’t enough light, or he didn't angle his launcher right — but no, he's definitely pulled it off in worse conditions, and he saw the flare.
It's one of the oldest tricks in the book. Maybe Red Eye did his research, came across Daina’s history with cheating, and anticipated a move like this. It’s plausible enough, but Daina also knows he heard Spriggan hit the stadium before Deathscyther. If Red Eye had wanted to avoid being blinded, he would’ve hesitated too, looked away for a moment. Spriggan would have hit second. Which means the timing was in Daina’s favor, too. The light had to have hit Red Eye. And even if he’d pulled off a steady launch through it, he shows no sign of disorientation at all.
The only way he could've not seen the light is if…
Daina has only ever seen a successful blind launch twice; feats performed by, of course, Shu Kurenai and Valt Aoi.
It’s eerie to think a stranger could have learned the technique that was, briefly, Shu’s signature. His only hope against an opponent he couldn't bear to look at, now weaponized against an illegal move most wouldn't ever expect Daina to know.
And, now that he’s thinking about Shu’s signatures—Red Eye held his rip cord with his right hand, but the hinge on his launcher suggests he could flip it around and launch with his left if so desired. Shu had his launcher modified similarly after the debacle with his injury. Daina can't imagine there's that much of a market for high-quality ambidextrous launchers. Can Red Eye launch with both hands, too?
…And if he can do both those things, then it gets a little weirder he knows Daina’s solitary habits. He has to have been stalking Shu and his friends for longer than anticipated. It’s that, or—
Or…
Metal clashes against metal. Daina snaps out of his fugue state just in time to watch Deathscyther be flung from the stadium. It crashes hard into the concrete, coming to a startling halt with a sickening crack. There’s no other sound to muffle it.
Daina’s breath catches in his chest and burns.
Wakiya had said Red Eye was doing more than just defeating the Bladers he sought out. He’d implied, through too-tense wording and clipped intonation, that his real goal was something more sinister than proving a point. (Wyvern means more to Wakiya than even Daina can put into words. An inherent sentimentality — an almost brotherhood. Losing that Bey would ruin him. He’d once quietly admitted in the dark of an abandoned ring that the thought of Wyvern’s plastic snapping kept him awake at night longer than any altitude could.)
Daina tears his gaze away from Red Eye. He stares at Deathscyther instead, scattered in pieces on the pavement. It still glitters under the moonlight. (Wakiya is a coward. That’s why he hides, that’s why he makes Daina do the dirty work. Daina has to wonder, sometimes, if Wakiya knows that he's not the only one afraid.)
Daina picks up Deathscyther with shaky hands. He puts it back together out of habit as he goes, and swears his heart skips a beat with each click that resonates from the metal.
And there, on the surface of the top layer, is a crack. A hairline fracture, really, only so attention-grabbing on account of the dramatically chipped paint. Daina’s breath catches in his throat as he stares, wide-eyed and fearful, into Deathscyther’s wound.
Red Eye huffs, a guttural sound like something inhuman. Daina steals a glance back. Red Eye stares him down, goading.
“No,” Daina breathes. “No, it’s— this isn’t a proper battle. We’re not going again.”
A tilt of the head. “A resignation is a loss.”
Daina shakes his head fervently. He holds Deathscyther to his chest again, fingers pressed desperately over the crack like it’s a bleeding injury needing to be stemmed. “This isn’t real. You didn’t win anything.”
“Then, did you not cheat?”
Daina takes a step back. It feels as if Red Eye’s glare could suffocate.
(It can’t be Shu. It can’t be. It has to be someone else from Daina’s old ring — though none of them knew his out-of-battle habits — but — but it just can’t be.)
He needs to get out of here. He needs to call Wakiya.
Red Eye just keeps staring, drinking in his despair and dismay. It’s not until Daina feels his knees are going to give out from under him that Red Eye turns away, the ends of his coat flaring not unlike the light off Daina’s launcher. He says nothing else. For some reason, Daina hoped he would.
When Red Eye is finally out of sight, Daina lets himself sink down. His free hand splays on the ground to keep himself upright, and his other tightens enough around Deathscyther that its blades dig painfully into the folds of his fingers.
“Sorry,” he repeats, nothing more than a gasp. “I’m sorry. It— it wasn’t worth it.” If he hadn’t, he wouldn’t have known Red Eye closed his eyes. He wouldn’t have known Red Eye might be—
The sharp plastic threatens to break skin. Deathscyther stays quiet.
The calm night is punctuated with Daina’s sobs.
(And later, he’ll call Wakiya. He’ll let him in on what he learned in hushed tones like he’s whispering blasphemy to a priest.)
(And much later, Wakiya will call him, and Daina’s own worst fears will be confirmed. He’ll watch the International Blader’s Cup alone, and dig his nails into Deathscyther’s scar. He will remember that, what feels like a lifetime ago, Shu gave him a second chance, and hope he can do the same for himself.)