"Nothing there," Berwald reported. The silent crowd murmured; quickly, it became the disorganized clamor it was moments before. The fighters began to push each other inside, trying to find a clear view. Berwald stood in the doorway with Tino, neither wanting to be trampled.
"What the hell?" Ludwig cried, stern face contorting with rage. "There's nothing here!"
"What was the point of locking it?" Yao wondered. Vash fought his way to the front of the room, incensed by the sight of the empty barstools and vacant boxing rings.
"We went through all this trouble to find nothing? Where the hell is my sister? I am not drinking, sleeping, or fighting until Lilli Zwingli is found!"
Tino turned to Berwald.
"Mm?" Berwald asked, hyper-aware of those violet eyes. In the panic of the evening, it was easy to forget that he had held Tino in his arms. His cheeks burned as Tino observed him thoughtfully.
"You're unusual, Berwald." He said this vaguely, yet Berwald knew exactly what he was talking about. He hadn't meant to be different. He hadn't meant to fall in love, either, but he was no stranger to situations he couldn't control. "It's not a bad thing!" Tino reassured him, suddenly very panicked. Berwald found this adorable, but now was not the time to think about his affections. Wordlessly, he grabbed Tino and sat him on his broad shoulders; Tino gave a squeak of surprise but accepted the nice view of Alfred, who stood on the bar counter.
"Well guys, I really thought that would've gone better. I mean, sure there are about five other locked bars we haven't checked—"
"Then check them!" Vash interrupted, anxiety replacing the impatience in his voice. Alfred glared at him.
"Nobody goes to those! That's why we checked here!"
"If nobody uses the other bars, then they would've hid there!"
"Why are they even hiding?" a quiet, innocent voice rose from the crowd. Feliciano raised his hand, like a schoolboy. "Why don't they want us to find them?"
"Feliciano, that's just another thing to add to the list of things we don't know." Just then, Toris scampered awkwardly onto the countertop and joined Alfred.
"I think I know," Toris announced. Even Vash's arguments faded from his lips. "In case you didn't notice, most of us are ranked at the top."
"You're not," Gilbert scoffed. "You're about as good as Feliciano."
"Oh please, we are not playing 'see-how-many-people-in-the-room-I-can-insult-at-once'." Gilbert promptly stopped laughing at his own, humorless joke. "Do any of you know what it's like to be at the bottom?" The room was eerily silent. Everyone had started in last, but everyone standing in the room except Toris and Feliciano had quickly increased his rank. "In the bottom, no one takes you seriously. No one ever earns a chance to prove his or herself. There are circumstances we can't control, like when we're Player One, or the gamer's rampant sexism. I have a very vague idea of what's going on with the missing people."
"Revolution!" Francis called, pumping his fist into the air. Toris shook his head.
"What would revolution do? You guys aren't oppressing them. Fighting us would be useless. Their aims are higher, less possible . . . and extremely dangerous." Toris paused to think, possibly of how to speak Berwald's thoughts. Berwald defied direct orders, so can we . . . "They are contemplating how to alter the game in a way that would force them to battle." The silence fell and everyone began to talk at once. Toris waved his arms, trying to restore order, but it was useless. Alfred tried yelling a couple times, but it only added to the volume. Berwald's head began to ache; he hated crowds for good reason.
"LISTEN UP, PEOPLE! THIS IS SERIOUS! SE-RI-OUS! TORIS HAS MORE TO SAY, GUYS!" Along with some ungodly stomping, the attention of the room shifted back to Alfred and Toris.
"Thank you, Alfred. Now, I know you're all worried, but keep in mind that we don't even know if their aims are even reachable!"
"We didn't know if those doors could open until Berwald opened them!" Mathias cried. "Not to mention, he downright refused to fight!" Berwald felt sick; every pair of eyes in the room fell onto him. He hated people, he never knew how to act around them in a way that didn't involve punching them in the face. Now, he was the sole reason why the world was screwed.
"Didn't mean to," he stammered, his voice growing quieter with each word. "Kind of happened."
"So you just so 'happened' to put dangerous ideas in people's heads! Did you just so 'happen' to destroy the world?" Berwald tried to protest, but found himself unable to speak.
"Hey guys, that's not fair," Tino said, but nobody seemed to have heard him.
"We are all going to die!" Francis cried melodramatically. Arthur didn't bother to shut him up.
"Berwald is dying first!" Vash insisted. A few angry cries followed. Berwald tried to stare at his shoes, but this move was met with opposition.
"Tino," he murmured. "Help me." But the crowd did not listen to whatever Tino was trying to tell them. Their protests collided with each other, but all of them were cruel, threating, and aimed at Berwald. His entire body felt weighed down. He'd realized he'd messed up from the moment Raivis mentioned his name in that alleyway, but now, the consequences were ringing in his ears, accusing him, punishing him. Stop it, he insisted, sick of the noise. But this anger wasn't a locked door or a forced fight. This anger would never go away.
"What happens when those traitors try to follow your example? This game will go down, and we'll never fight again!"
"We'll be unemployed, and it's all because of you!"
"How stupid to you have to be?"
"What the hell even happened to you?" Everyone accused him at least once, except for Tino or Toris, but he knew both of them thought that way. Tino's counterarguments were weak, defenseless—and not well-thought of. And poor Toris—betraying his friends because of their differences, because he proved that the impossible could happen. He did not know him well, but his heart still ached when he thought about him, telling the mob of the runaway's plans. How hard was it for him? Self-loathing returned, and all Berwald could feel was hatred. If he could shout with everyone else, he would. Trouble is, he'd be shouting at a brick wall—he knew what he did wrong, what could become of it. What he needed was a solution.
"Who the hell do you think you are?" Arthur almost spit in his face as he spoke.
"Berwald Oxenstierna, Swedish fighter." That was all he could say. It was barely audible. Arthur examined him skeptically, his emerald green eyes calculating.
"Swedish fighter my ass! That's your ploy, isn't it? You present yourself as 'normal' for a couple of weeks, and then one day you reveal your true nature!"
"What?"
"Don't be stupid, Berwald! Everyone knows what you are now! You're a virus! Something in programming went wrong, and now you're stuck here to destroy—" Red warning lights drowned the bar, silencing everyone. Not a single character moved; the accusatory words died on Arthur's lips.
"Console is now on. Please report to the Selection Stage." The mechanic woman's voice rang through the air. Tensions were still high, but no one said a word. Dutifully, everyone began the walk towards the arena, forced to move. Nobody could look Berwald in the eye. He stared at the ground, trying to take his thoughts off of guilt, off of false accusations. He knew he wasn't a virus. He was a fighter. Yet, his body grew colder with each step. He couldn't prove he wasn't a virus. He had the power to refuse. He was a freak.
The Selection was already filled with the missing players. Perhaps they were here this whole time, but everyone had been so preoccupied with chaos that no ne thought of continuing the search. Berwald looked at them painfully—what did they have planned? The last thing he wanted to do was endure work, but now more than ever, he had to do what he was told.