Destiny.

One word. Seven letters. And yet, that small word has such a profound impact on our lives.

Some people don't believe in destiny. Others wholeheartedly do.

Me? I believe in it.

...doesn't mean that I like it.

~~~~~

My name is Cole. Cole Brookstone.

Sound familiar? It's probably because of my dad. His name is Lou Brookstone. He's the leader of the singing and dancing group The Royal Blacksmiths. They're pretty popular around the city area, and some might say that the members are the best singers and dancers to come out of tiny little Jamanakai Village.

My dad was really proud of being a Royal Blacksmith. When he wasn't on stage performing, he was rehearsing with the other members. When he wasn't doing that, he practiced his part on his own in the little studio he had in the house. When he wasn't doing that...actually, that's about it. My dad lived and breathed dancing. So I guess it's only natural that when I was born, he had these high hopes that I would follow in his footsteps.

I can only imagine how disappointed he was when this was not the case.

~~~~~~

You know that one phrase most parents love telling their kids? You can be anything you want to be!

I never got that.

Instead, I got this: One day, when you're old enough, you'll be the new leader of the Royal Blacksmiths. You'll be the greatest dancer Ninjago has ever seen.

That was it. I couldn't be anything else. It didn't matter if that's not what I wanted to be. From the time that I could walk, my dad automatically assumed that this was what I was meant to do. Who I was meant to be.

I guess you could say, it was my destiny.

Hey, that rhymed!

~~~~~~

If you think that I was joking when I said that I was dancing since the time I could walk, think again.

My dancing career began not too long after I turn four. At first, it was actually kind of fun. My dad homeschooled me, which was pretty cool at the time. As soon as my lessons were done, we were in the studio, dancing. I remember how much fun I had putting on my first pair of tap shoes and copying my dad's movements, giggling whenever I tripped over my own feet. My dad would try to scold me a few times, but he was usually smiling and laughing along with me.

Two years passed, and, unfortunately for my dad, I started to lose interest in dancing. I wanted to spend more time outside, playing at the park and just being a normal kid. Instead, my dad forced me to spend hours inside the studio, running through the cha-cha, the waltz, even the tango.

I didn't like the fact that my dad wouldn't let me choose what I wanted to do. I started rebelling as only a little kid could. I hid my dance shoes around the house and claimed that I couldn't find them when asked about it. I threw tantrums whenever my dad dragged me off to practice. Sometimes, I would hide in the closets or underneath my bed in order to avoid practice.

It never worked. My dad soon figured out where all of my hiding places were. Shoes that I had hidden the day before would always appear in my room by morning. Throwing tantrums only resulted in longer practice hours, and my dad would always find me within ten minutes whenever I tried to hide.

Needless to say, I was kind of miserable.

~~~~~~

Things went from bad to worse when I turned seven.

My dad started getting really strict with me. My every move was scrutinized to the utmost degree, and every mistake was met with harsh words and disappointed looks. The dances started getting harder and more complicated, thus leading to more mistakes and more disappointed looks. Praise was rare, smiles and laughter even rarer. I often went to bed sore both in body and in heart. At the time, I didn't understand my dad's harshness. All I knew was that he was being a big meany-pants, which was the most evil thing that I could think of when I was that age.

Then, maybe a month after I turned seven, my dad came home smiling a wide smile. He showed me poster, advertising that there was going to be a talent show in a few weeks at one of the local high schools. There were different divisions depending on how old you were. My dad happily said that he had entered me in the division for my age.

My dad was ecstatic about the talent show. I was not.

Those weeks leading up to the talent show were grueling. My dad spent hours each day teaching me the routine that I was going to do. I went along with it only because I knew that protesting would be useless.

Also because, awesomely, blessedly, my dad decided to let me dance swing. Swing was one of my favorite dances, which was high praise coming from me.

For the most part, the dance wasn't that bad. Sure, there were a lot of complicated moves that I had to do, but they were pretty manageable.

Then, after my dad was positive that I had most of the dance, he revealed what he wanted me to do for the finale.

At the end of my dance, my dad and two of the other members of the Royal Blacksmiths would slip on stage and get on their hands and knees. From there, I was going to perform the Triple Tiger Sashay, using the backs of my dad and his group as little platforms.

I was absolutely horrified. My dad might as well have handed me a death sentence.

The Triple Tiger Sashay. Was he insane?! That was the hardest, most complicated dance move in the history of ever! And he wanted me to do it?! Me, a freaking seven year old! It was crazy! Absolutely crazy!

I pleaded with my dad, trying to change his mind. But my dad stood firm. Nothing would get him to change his mind. Not the fact I failed to perform it every practice. Not the fact that the talent show was only a week away. Not even the fact that I nearly fell on my head on one of my many attempts.

By the time the day of the talent show arrived, I was no closer to being able to do the Triple Tiger Sashay than I had when I first started. I really wanted to bail on the show, but my dad was adamant that I get out on stage and try my best. He helped me put on my dress shirt and vest, and combed my hair until it was neater than I've ever seen it. When we got to the school that was hosting the talent show, he stayed with me backstage and, admittedly, helped calm my nerves a little. When it was my turn to perform, he hugged me and told me that he knew that I would make him proud.

I hugged him back, and tried not to think about the huge pit in my stomach.

When I got on stage and the music started, for a while, I temporarily forgot that I was dancing in front of a (pretty decently sized) crowd. I was back in the studio at home, with my dad and the other members of the Royal Blacksmiths. I was smiling for a majority of my dance, and I think I might have even laughed once or twice.

Then, too soon--way too soon--, I saw my dad and the others make their way on stage. My heart plummeted. It was almost time for my finale.

I swallowed thickly and, praying to the First Spinjitzu Master that I didn't completely screw up and fall on my face, raced towards the kneeling forms of my dad and the Royal Blacksmiths

I jumped as high as I could into the air. I was suspended in the air for a second before gravity took effect and I landed on my left foot on my dad's back. So far, so good. The next leap went pretty well too, with me landing on my right hand.

But then, before I could push off and go into the final stage, my hand slipped.

I felt myself flip over and, acting on an instinct, tucked my body in so that I went into a somersault and ended standing up. The song ended and the audience applauded.

I bowed to the audience before fleeing offstage as fast as I could without looking ridiculous. Guilt and a little disappointment threatened to drown me, and the guilt only got worse when my dad and the others approached.

The other Royal Blacksmiths surrounded me with hugs and claps on the back, praising me for doing such a good job and keeping cool even when I flubbed the ending. I managed to smile a little, though I cringed at the reminder of my failure. My dad didn't say anything for the longest time, just staring at me until I sincerely wished the ground would swallow me up.

Then, he let out the tiniest of smiles and ruffled my hair, saying not to worry about it, that I would get it next time.

My smile grew a little more sincere, though I desperately wished that I would never have to attempt the Triple Tiger Sashay ever again.

~~~~~~~~

Unbeknownst to me, my dad didn't just enter me into that talent competition just for fun, or to get used to the stage, though I suppose the latter did somewhat play a role in it.

A few weeks after the talent show, my dad received a letter in the mail. When he opened it up and read it, his eyes got big and he started smiling widely. Curious, I asked him who the letter was from. Looking at me, my dad grinned and said that it was from the Marty Oppenheimer School of Performing Arts, the dance school that he went to when he was young. Innocently, I asked him if they had asked him to perform at the school or if they wanted him to teach a small lesson.

My dad's smile grew even wider. He told me no, that the letter was actually about me. As it turned out, a few of the teachers from the school had seen me perform at the talent show and were pretty impressed. This upcoming fall, I would be officially enrolled at Marty Oppenheimer as a student.

My jaw dropped, and I suddenly felt the urge to pass out. But not from excitement, oh no, from fear.

I protested that I didn't want to go to Marty Oppenheimer, that I'd much rather stay at home and learn from Dad, which, given how much I hated a majority of my dancing lessons, was pretty big for me.

My dad didn't fall for it, though. He said that at the Marty Oppenheimer, I would be learning a lot more than he could ever teach me and at a much faster pace. Plus, since he was a former student, I was receiving a scholarship for my education.

I really wanted to protest more, but I caught the slight gleam in my dad's eyes and slowly shut my mouth. I knew that whenever that gleam got in Dad's eyes, any protests or complaints spoken would fall on deaf ears.

Later that same day, it was official. My fate was sealed.

I was going to Marty Oppenheimer.

Whether I wanted to or not.

~~~~~~~~

That spring and summer passed by quickly. Much too quickly. Before I knew it, many of my possessions were packed into a suitcase and a small duffel bag, and my dad started the drive to my new school.

The other members of the Royal Blacksmiths came by the night before I left, congratulating me for getting into Marty Oppenheimer and telling that they knew I would "do them proud". I hugged each of them at least three separate times before they left, desperately wishing that this was all a dream and that soon, I would wake up and get dressed for my daily dance lesson with Dad. But the next morning at dawn, I was shaken awake by my dad, who was urging me to hurry up and get ready so that we could get on the road.

The drive to Marty Oppenheimer was four hours long. My dad would try to make small talk a few times, but for the most part the only noise was the music playing from the radio. I spent the car trip trying to ignore the fact that my life was about to change forever and getting lost in the fantasy world of a comic book. Occasionally, a song that I knew would come on and I would hum along. A few times, if I really liked the song, I would softly sing along underneath my breath. When this happened, my dad would glance sideways at me and smile fondly, reaching over and turning up the volume slightly.

All too soon, we had arrived on the school's campus. Someone who worked at the school--I can't quite remember what she did--showed us around campus for a little bit before taking us to where boys aged twelve and under stayed.

My dorm room was on the third floor, and the second door on the left. My dad and I had come up here about a month ago to look the dorm over. The rooms were kind of small, especially since most of them were split in half, with two beds on each side of the room.

I couldn't help but quiver a little with fear. It was like I was being sent to college...when I was not even eight years old. I was going to be living in a dorm with a roommate, and my dad wasn't going to be there.

My dad and I slowly put away my things on the left side of the room. I did things mechanically, without thinking, dread pooling in my stomach.

Finally, all of my stuff was put away and I had to say goodbye to my dad. I remember clinging onto him, burying my face in his chest while I quietly sobbed. My dad let me for a while before gently prying my arms apart. He cupped my face with his hands and wiped away my tears with his thumbs. He told me that it would be okay, that the teachers would take care of me and that I would do just fine. He smiled and told me that it would only be a few months before a break would come, and then he would come and bring me home for the break. He even promised to bake me a cake for the occasion--marble cake, my favorite kind.

The promise had made me smile a little. My dad smiled before gently kissing my forehead. He stood up and ruffled my hair one more time before walking towards the car.

I watched him go, hugging myself tightly as the car pulled out of its parking space, turned around, and sped down the road

I had to force myself to turn around and not run after it.

~~~~~~

I soon discovered that attending Marty Oppenheimer wasn't as bad as I thought it would be.

It was worse. A whole lot worse.

I had thought that the dance lessons that I had to go through with my dad were bad. The teachers at the Marty Oppenheimer made my dad seem really tame by comparison. Breakfast started at 6:30, and dance lessons for the kids twelve and under started at 8 o'clock sharp. Which meant getting up early if you wanted time to wash up and enjoy breakfast before you had to hurry to class. You got one freebie for being tardy. But after your first one, if you're ever late to class again, you can expect a private one-on-one session with the teacher after all your classes are done. And considering the fact that we danced for about six hours everyday, on top of doing schoolwork on the side, you can understand that unless you were an overachiever, nobody wanted more than one tardy.

Also, when I say that we danced for six hours everyday, I do mean that. We danced from 8 to 12, took an hour to break for lunch, then from 1 to 5, we were in regular school lessons, learning math and english and all that other crap. Thankfully the homework load was light because after another hour break for dinner, we danced for two more hours before they finally let us do whatever. But we had to be back in the dorms no later than 10:30, and lights out were at midnight.

My first two weeks at school, it was all I could do to drag myself to bed, and I would always wake sore, no matter how much stretching I did.

The teachers were really strict too. Everything had to be absolutely perfect. Every move had to be synchronized to the nth degree, each brush of the foot and tilt of the head was taken into account. Some of the instructors were pretty nice about it, gently reminding us to keep in a straight line and to make sure to stay with the beat. Others noticed every little mistake and didn't let the fact that most of the kids in the class hadn't even hit puberty yet stop them for criticizing us and yelling at us to start from the beginning.

Smiles and laughter were rare and reserved for when classes were over and we were left to our own devices.

I honestly don't think I smiled much during my first year at Marty Oppenheimer.

I was always getting in trouble in class. Don't get me wrong, I was only late to one class once and I was never a prankster. But most of the dances that we had to do were new to me, and unfortunately, I was a bit of a slow learner compared to everyone else. More times than I would like, I would miss a beat and trip over my own feet. I would often bump into my other classmates and sometimes would even cause a pileup. It was kind of funny the first time it happened, but after that, it became less funny to both my teachers and my fellow classmates.

Speaking of my classmates, after the first month, most of them started avoiding me. I was always the one who ended up without a partner, and the person who was selected to be my partner always looked like they would be rather be with literally anyone else. I was always by myself during all of the short breaks we had, since nobody wanted to sit next to me. Heck, my roommate even started to avoid me by sleeping in the dorm next door.

By the time the first break rolled around, I was more than ready to go home and stay home. But my protests, like always, would fall on deaf ears, and my hopes would be dashed time and time again by my dad.

It's okay, son, he'd say, clapping a hand on my shoulder in what he probably meant in a comforting way. The first few months are always the hardest. But just you wait. It'll get better, and before you know it, you'll be a Royal Blacksmith!

I would just sit there and nod, hoping, praying that he would eventually get his head out of the clouds and notice how miserable that school, heck my supposed destiny, was making me.

But he never did.

~~~~~~~

A year passed by painfully slowly. My eighth birthday came and went without a celebration aside from a small homemade cake sent from my dad and a birthday card that he and the other Royal Blacksmiths signed. I made the mistake of telling a few of my peers early on in the year when I was born and had gotten teased mercilessly about it. Thankfully, they had forgotten about it long before I turned eight.

When's my birthday, you ask?

I'll never tell you.

Finally, summer came, and I was able to go home. I was relieved. Two and a half months in which I could just stay at home and not have to worry about my mean classmates and strict teachers. I was more than ready to just stay at home and relax.

My dad, on the other hand, had other plans.

While it was nowhere near as bad as back at the Marty Oppenheimer, my dad still insisted on spending long hours practicing in the studio at home. He wasn't quite as strict as my teachers, but it was just as bad since he was my dad and I had to listen to him.

That summer was awful. I started rebelling again, except I went as far as to escape the house before my dad had a chance to force me to practice. I didn't go anywhere dangerous, just to the park that was just a short walk from where the house was, but it still made my dad furious. He and I got into a lot more fights. I tried to convince him to let me drop out of Marty Oppenheimer, but he refused to listen. Not even when I promised to never complain again about his lessons if he would just let me quit. He told me that Marty Oppenheimer was the best place for me, that it would help me realize my destiny

There it was again. Destiny. By that point in my life, I was really starting to hate that word, especially when it was aimed at me.

One day, towards the end of the summer, I completely lost it.

I shouted at my dad, Screw destiny!

Except I didn't say "screw". I said something much worse. Wanna know what I said? I'll give you a hint: it starts with an "F" and rhymes with "duck". I didn't know what it meant at the time, but I had overheard many of the older guys at my school say it in that context, so I thought if I said it, then my dad would finally listen to me.

Needless to say, I ended up getting my mouth forcibly washed with soap and water that day and grounded for a week.

That was also the last time that I ever cursed out loud, aside from the occasional "crap" and "piss".

~~~~~~~~

Fall arrived slowly, yet quickly at the same time. My second year at Marty Oppenheimer started, and, unfortunately, it was even worse than the first.

For one, the dances got even harder, which didn't seem possible until then. The teachers also got a lot stricter, which, again, didn't seem possible before then. I tripped, stumbled, and fell even more than I did last time. My classmates stopped ignoring me, but only in favor of teasing me and calling me nicknames. Klutzy-Cole, Slipstone, and Screw-up were popular ones, given how much I messed up during class.

I tried to tell my teachers about the name-calling, but once they started to notice it, the other kids started doing it discreetly and behind their backs. This earned me the nickname Snitch. I tried telling my dad about it, but he just told me that the kids were just jealous. I ended up crying in the shower that night, which someone overheard and thus I was soon also dubbed Cry-baby.

I was so miserable that it wasn't even funny. To this day, I still don't understand how no one noticed how depressed I was becoming. I started to withdraw into myself. I started to consciously distance myself from my peers. I would take my meals and either eat in my empty dorm room, or I would seek out another place where I could eat in peace. While others socialized during the short free periods we had, I busied myself with either homework or with reading a book from the school library. There were times that I would lie awake at night, staring at ceiling, my heart aching and yearning for a friend. I childishly tried to make myself believe that tomorrow would be better, that tomorrow, someone wouldn't tease at me or laugh at me when I would make a mistake. That someone would say a kind word to me and be my friend.

I would always wake up feeling disappointed and depressed. My head would pound and my eyes would sting from crying, and my heart would sit in my chest like a stone. A cold, heavy, aching stone.

~~~~~~~

Halfway through my second year and I was done with Marty Oppenheimer. I wanted out. I felt like I needed to be out. But my dad refused to let me come home for good.

So, I decided to take matters into my own hands.

For a week, I planned it out. I snuck a few bags of chips, some apples, and some whole wheat blueberry muffins out of the cafeteria. I counted and recounted all of the money that I had earned up until that point. I picked out a few of my favorite clothes and set them aside. Then, I waited.

Finally, the day that I had planned for came. That day, I had planned to take the first bus out of here and start on my own path.

That day, I had planned to run away.

The minute that classes were let out, I raced to my dorm room to get changed. I put on a pair of light grey sweatpants, an orange t-shirt and a black hoodie. I pulled on my socks and sneakers. I packed up all of the stuff that I wanted to bring and was prepared to step out the door.

Goodbye, destiny. Hello, freedom.

I had just shouldered my bag and was prepared to walk out the door when something caught my eye. I paused for a second and turned my head to look at it properly.

The sun was setting, I could clearly see it doing so from the window in my room. The last few rays of light had caught the edge of a picture frame. Inside the frame was a picture of me and my dad, taken when I was six. My dad had his arms wrapped around my shoulders, smiling small, fond smile while I was giving the biggest, goofiest grin ever. Somehow, my dad's eyes, frozen though they were in the photograph, stared directly at me. In my head, I could practically see the disappointment on his face and hear the soft sigh he breathed whenever I did something wrong.

My hands shook. My eyes welled up with tears.

I tried to put it out of my mind, but it wouldn't go away. I took one step towards the door...then a second...before my bag slipped from my grasp and I fell to my knees. I buried my face in my hands and started sobbing.

Coward, my mind told me. You're willing to give away your one chance of freedom--your one chance at escaping your destiny--for what?! Your classmates hate you, your teachers think you're a failure. Why do you want to stay?!

Because I don't have a choice, I thought to myself, tears racing down my cheeks. I knew that deep in my heart of hearts, I would never forgive myself if I ran away like this. Running away, while it would give me temporary relief, would never last. Somehow, I knew that if I did run away, that I would have to come back to face my dad again someday.

Plus, the thought of seeing that disappointed look on my dad's face when he found out that I had run away was enough to make me balk.

Coward, my mind whispered.

I let it.

It wasn't going to change my decision.

~~~~~~

Eventually, I worked out a system.

Every morning, I would wake up early and get washed up. I would change, eat breakfast, and race towards my first dance class. Throughout the day, I would repeat a mantra to myself. I thought about it during class, when someone teased me, or when a teacher got mad at me. I would repeat it, and would feel my resolve get stronger.

What was my mantra, you ask?

Heh, well. It's really simple. In fact, I didn't even have to come up with it. I've been told it my whole life.

I am Cole Brookstone. One day, I'll be the greatest dancer this side of Ninjago and a member of the Royal Blacksmiths.

That's what I told myself each day, every day, for the past few years. I repeated it so often that I could probably recite it in my sleep.

Sometimes, I don't want to. Sometimes, I'm sorely tempted to take the next bus out of town and never return. But whenever I feel that way, I take a deep breath and picture my dad. Then, I smile and continue on my day.

There you have it. That's my story, just me waiting for my destiny to come true.

...at least, what I thought was my destiny. Until an old man with a ridiculously long beard showed up one day years later.

Because apparently, my destiny is like karma, and likes to screw with me.

Fantastic. Not.

~~~~~

Hello, peeps. Welcome to my new story, "Destiny: Unknown".

....yeah, the title sucks, but I can't come up with anything better.

Anyways, I had mentioned this story before but never actually had the courage to upload it because I was kinda scared to see how people react to this new Cole. The Cole in this story...he's NOT the Cole that you're familiar with. He's bitter, he's sarcastic, and he's been hurt. Which, I think, is acceptable given the circumstances. He's been bullied for a good portion of his life and his dad won't listen to him when he tries to talk about doing something other than dancing. 

Don't worry, Cole's still the same deep down. Our familiar and lovable Ninja of Earth will appear eventually. We've just got to chip away at a few barriers first.

Chapters in the future will most likely not be this long. This is just setting things up so that you know what's happened and so that way you can see why Cole acts the way he acts in future chapters. 

Next chapter, a wild Sensei Wu appears, intent on ruining Cole's surprisingly good day. And Cole's NOT gonna be happy about that, hehe. XD

Tell me guys what you think. Good? Bad? Meh? I really want to know. :)