(VS)

"Ugh. This is bloody—"

The same ugly screen glares up at them yet again:

VIOLATION: you are not allowed access to this page. Please contact your instructors if you wish to continue.

"They've blocked, like, half the sites on this stupid thing," whines Alfred, tilting back in his chair.

It's the fourth hour of fruitless searching on the Ethernet and both Arthur and Alfred are losing patience.

"Guess they just don't want us to know some things," sighs Arthur.

"Whatever, man. This is so freakin' annoying. Isn't that what the web's for? So people can actually learn things and stuff?"

"We could try asking an instructor…"

Alfred scoffs. "Sure. And get jetted off back to Earth in, like, two seconds."

"You don't know that they'd do that."

"Sure I do." Alfred swivels in the chair, checks again that no one's entered the library. Nope. It's just barely the start of the second week of the season, and everyone else is still hopped up and having fun outside. "Hasn't anyone in your House, just. Y'know…"

"No I don't know, thanks. Care to elaborate?"

"Just—disappeared."

"Uh. We don't have alien abductions, if that's what you're saying."

"It's totally not what I'm saying—"

"Okay, fine, fine. Seriously though, I haven't heard of anything like that happening."

"You sure? Ask around some time. There's players that just never finish the Circuit. They just fall off somewhere in the middle."

"Well they could've died," says Arthur, rolling his eyes. "That tends to happen here, in case you haven't noticed."

"But if they died it'd be on the record, wouldn't it? Stamped deceased, send the folks some cash and a nice apology letter and all that? They tell you those kinds of things in the House."

"Sure, I guess—"

"Well that's what I'm saying then."

"Wait a minute. It's not like you have access to the records. Only the teachers and people can see those types of things, right? So how do you know they didn't die? I mean, whenever anyone's gone, don't the people in your House tell you which battle they died in and all that?"

"Maaybe—"

"See what I mean. Then you're just turning this whole affair in to, in to some kind of a conspiracy theory."

"It is so not a conspiracy theory," gasps Alfred in mock-hurt. "Come on. You gotta admit, there is definitely something fishy about this whole system, there's more gaps than a—"

"Well I'm sorry,but until you come up with some evidence or something, from where I'm sitting this whole systemlooks just fine."

"How is a bunch of people killing each other over nothing fine?"

"Okay, okay. Let me just read this thing you were working on." Arthur seizes the mouse from Alfred and closes the futile VIOLATION window, opening up the report. "See, you said it yourself here, uh… yeah, 'it was evident that nuclear warfare was no longer a viable option for warfare—it was far too destructive,' blah blah blah, what would be the solution, blah blah. Oh, okay. Here: 'the Versus system would be the answer.'"

Arthur leans back and gives Alfred a look.

"So?" says Alfred.

"What do you mean so? There's your answer," he says, slapping the desk in front of the screen. "There's why a bunch of people are killing each other, because that's what war is, isn't it. This is just the new way to do it. A more—civilized, contained, fair way of fighting, what with us being drawn up here by lottery and all that. We represent our countries and we come here and we fight, and it's survival of the fittest and glory to the best, and that's it."

Alfred sulks, crossing his arms and glaring at the clean white text on the screen. Okay, the way Arthur puts it makes a lot of sense, and that's what his teachers are always saying anyways. Go, America, and all that stuff. While he sits here next to a British boy and contemplates treason, hah.

But his gut tells him there is something quite off about this whole thing.

"If there wasn't some issue, why would they be blocking the web all the time?" he shoots back, unable to get at the heart of what he feels.

What he means, is:

If there wasn't some issue, why would they always be hiding things?

Arthur has nothing to say to that.

(VS)

The next day, the last of Alfred's ten-day punishment, Arthur doesn't show up.

It's not until nightfall, when (after having hammered through the last few pages of his report wondering and alone and just a little resentful) Alfred returns to USA House with a headache and cold feet, that he hears it, that the first kill of the season has been made.

And for a realistic guy, Alfred really doesn't want to believe it when a laughing American hugs him by the shoulders and says:

"One of those British bastards, he got totally—"

The smile feels frozen on Alfred's face and his heart races as the image of Arthur dashes across the inside of his eyelids.

Is this what victory is supposed to feel like?

And it feels like his heart doesn't start beating again until one of the Americans tosses a recording of the match to him and Alfred sees that: One, it wasn't an American who made the kill, it was a first-year German boy with icy hair and icy eyes, and two, it wasn't a mop of brilliant blonde hair and empty green eyes lying in that pool of blood, it was—well, someone else, a different British first-year.

Still, an ugly feeling lingers.

Alfred feels guilty for feeling relieved, and neither feeling will let go of him.

And that question comes back to him again:

If I can feel relieved that Arthur didn't die, why am I able to stand this?

(VS)

Unfortunately, the space for contemplation is short, as Alfred has more immediate troubles to worry about.

"And… there, you're complete."

The teacher leans back in her chair and flicks the glowing projection floating between them around so Alfred can confirm it for himself.

Alfred finds himself reflected in an electronic mirror, a 3D photo of himself grinning from the upper left corner, along with a list of his basic stats and information. Near the top, right under his name and nation, there is a glowing bar freshly turned an eerie expectant green:

ACTIVE

Rank: D-373

Only one thing's changed but it feels like everything has.

"So, right now you're at the bottom of the D list of players because most of the other players have started," says the teacher, oblivious to Alfred's confusion. "D's definitely the lowest rank, but…"—she scrolls through Alfred's player stats, analyzing them quickly—"you did pretty well in the school, it looks. By the end of the first season you should be able to move up to C list, easily, as long as you don't get any more marks on your record." She folds her hands before her, tilts her head at him. "Any questions, Jones?"

Alfred eyes the incriminating letter and (recalling the conversation he had with Arthur in the library), asks, "What if I don't?"

"Excuse me?"

"What if I can't make it up to C? Ma'am?"

She squints a little at him. Alfred notices that she has mascara on.

"It's understandable if you're nervous," she finally says, closing the screen with a little zwip. "Most first-years are. But judging by your stats, you should be able to make C list as long as you work hard this year. You're not intending to slack off, are you?"

"No," says Alfred hastily. "No, of course not, I was just wondering—"

"Because this isn't a place for the lazy, or the weak, or the discontented. Some players forget how much of an honor it is to come here, to represent the United States. That's a mistake you don't want to make. The school was only the first part—this is the real test of your journey, and it would be of dire consequence to the nation if you were to disappoint."

"Yeah, yeah, definitely," agrees Alfred, wondering what he's provoked in this woman's mind.

Pursing her lips, she levels him with a dead-on stare. "I certainly hope so. Remember: he who will not play does not last."

Swiveling back around in her chair and pulling up another student's files, she turns her back on him.

"Dismissed, Jones."

Alfred emerges from her office shaken.

As he leaves, he glances back at the imposing building, the words "United States of America Headquarters" stamped on it, bright red-white-and-blue flags hiding large swaths of the steel structure.

Smiling queasily, Alfred gives the flag a quick salute and heads off, the Game looming large over his shoulder.

(VS)

Alfred's not one to give up so easily, though.

Every morning the little screen above his bed informs him of his board standing, as well as any matches scheduled for that day. Since he's a first-year and firmly at the bottom edge of the D list of players, Alfred only gets a few virtua-matches a week, fights against computer generated opponents in small rings a world away from the massive Dome, fights that probably only a few hundred people watch from back on Earth. In addition, since he didn't pass the early waiver exam, he still has to take traditional classroom lessons in the mornings, possibly until he's a third or fourth-year.

So, for now, at least, he doesn't have to worry about fighting another nation.

The AI opponents aren't really a problem for him, to be honest, but Alfred's already seen several of his more enterprising classmates rocket upwards in board standings and doesn't want to think about what happens when they enter C list. So he wins just enough to keep anyone from getting suspicious, and spends a good chunk of his spare time training in the little practice hubs clustered near USA House, or down at the firing range with his twin Smith and Wesson model 3s. He hangs out with his fellow players, takes his meals with them, and often joins them in cautiously exploring the other areas of the community in the assuring company of the older players.

But whenever he can, he slips back in to the library, with the excuse of having homework to do. Well, it's not really an excuse since he does have schoolwork—it's just that the rest of the Americans (and other players in general) tend to avoid the library due to the popular conception that, since all the nations share the place, you'll get beaten to a pulp as soon as you set foot in the door (and they have persocoms anyway, so why bother?).

Actually the place is pretty much always empty, the way it was when Alfred and Arthur first met each other.

Though every time, Alfred hopes that it won't be.

With every day that passes Alfred's hopes sink a little more. Maybe those conversations didn't mean anything, he tells himself, even though he knows differently. Maybe they'll never find the answers to those questions that consume him all the time, now that they've been put into words.

Until the day Arthur does walk in.

But—damn it!—there's another American doing work there, so Alfred can't say a thing.

He stares resolutely at the screen in front of him—don't look at him, don't look, don't give it away—

Halfway to a shelf, Arthur jumps and digs a mobile out of his pocket.

"What?" he asks, irritably. "No. No, I can't. Well it's not as if I want to do it either. Yeah. I know. Dunno. I'll definitely have to come back, it'll probably take all night to finish. Don't expect me. Finish? Four, maybe. In the morning, yeah. Don't say a word, it's not like I asked for it. Okay. Bye."

He curses and stalks towards the shelves, scowling at the books.

Alfred can't help flicking a glance at Arthur. Was that what he thought it was?

What he doesn't expect is: Arthur, meeting his gaze.

"What?" he snaps.

The other American looks up, sees the British kid glaring at Alfred, and tenses. This is the reason why no one goes to the library.

After a heartbeat's pause, Alfred just shakes his head and looks away. "Not worth it, man," he mutters to his fellow player, who nods as he goes back to typing.

It's hard to keep his fingers from shaking.