"Prohibited items?" Confused noises arised,
"Searching?" From all over the crowd, all over the town.
"You're gonna search all our houses?!" someone shouted, loud enough to break through the murmuring, loud enough to reach Schwartz on the stage.
"Yes," Schwartz replied, calm and firm, his smile never faltering. He gestured behind him, and the men in black advanced with purpose. As if part of a long-prepared and elaborate plan, each one moved with certainty, heading directly toward their assigned homes.
The people weren't pleased.
"No! Why are you—" He held out his arms, but that didn't stop the advancing guards.
"Stop! Stop!" So did she.
Most from the crowd rushed forward, trying to block the guards from entering their homes, but others in the crowd pushed back.
"Why? You got something to hide?" He held his arms out, questioning the resisting accusingly.
"Yeah! No one should be hiding anything." Someone joined.
"Schwartz is right. Follow orders." And more agreed.
"It's called privacy, asshole!"
Tension exploded. What started as disagreements became full-blown conflict. The crowd split into two definitive factions, pro-Schwartz vs. anti-Schwartz. The election had devolved into chaos as guards forced their way into homes and citizens turned on each other.
"No! I said you're not allowed!" an elderly woman cried, helplessly watching a guard barge into her home and start overturning furniture like it meant nothing. Her toddler stood shakily within her arms, eyes tight.
"You're messing up my stuff!" a teenage boy yelled somewhere else, grabbing at a guard's arm.
"What are you doing?" his brother scolded, pushing him back. "Do you have something to hide?"
"I've got something to goddamn keep, that's what!" he roared back.
The two brothers argued, as the guard kept ransacking. The boy made one last effort to pull the guard away, only to be shoved to the ground with a cold warning: "Stay down."
The guards were all trained fighters, stopping them physically yielded nothing.
"Let's fucking kill him." Thomas said, whipping back to face the other two still sat on the bench.
"It's utter chaos," Wilhelm muttered, scanning the madness, his eyes shaking.
Thomas looked back to the stage. Both Schwartz and Hawthorne were gone.
"Fuckin'..."
"We should leave," Alexander said, his tone still calm despite the situation.
"What? When the people are finally waking up?" Thomas objected, shaking his head, "People are seeing it, they're no leaders, they're just greedy, stealing pricks."
"We knocked out a guard," Alexander reminded him, standing up. "They'll know. They're probably coming for us right now for it."
"Ijichi will understand—"
"He holds no power anymore." Alexander cut his off, and Thomas listened, "It's clear this election stripped the old town leaders of all their power. This is a dictatorship now. Either Schwartz or Hawthorne is at the top, or maybe both."
Thomas clenched his fists, jaw tight with frustration as he scanned the town on fire.
All around them, the shouting escalated:
"What do you have to hide, huh?!"
"What do you have?!"
Thomas stared at the erupting crowd, then sighed.
"Fine. Let's find Tyler and get the fuck out of here."
Wilhelm stood up, "YES! Thank you for being sensib—" He was interrupted by someone bumping into him as the chaos swelled.
"Let's go," Alexander said, leading the retreat.
Through the streets of New Angeles, Thomas saw the city unravel. No one was given a choice. Every house was raided, every home trashed. And yet, barely any so-called "prohibited items" were found and confiscated.
Citizens screamed at guards; guards screamed back. Water was thrown. Homes were ransacked. Anti-Schwartz civilians were shouted down. Pro-Schwartz supporters were punched.
Guards struggled to keep the peace, their work just barely preventing injuries, but not the sheer disorder.
"Fucking thieves," Thomas muttered with a frown and a glare to the guards he passed by.
Then he noticed a house up ahead. A young woman stood in the doorway, refusing to back down in the face of an advancing black-clad guard.
"Back off! This is my property! What gave you the right?" She yelled as she shoved the guard back.
"President's orders," the guard said coldly, advancing again.
She shoved him back again, her glare intense, almost menacing.
Annoyed, he raised his hand and called for backup. As several more guards closed in, the woman helplessly shouted:
"WHAT IS IT THAT YOU WANT? JUST TO STEAL?!"
"I fuckin' agree," Thomas growled, and turned.
"Tommy! What are you doing?!" Wilhelm tried to hold him back, but Thomas dashed forward.
He shoved the guards aside until he was shoulder to shoulder with the woman, guarding the door. "You fuckin' thieves... STAY THE HELL OFF!"
"Tommy!" Wilhelm pushed through the guards to reach them. "Stop this," he pleaded, then turned to the soldiers.
"I'm sorry... he's sorry. We'll leave—"
"No!" Thomas insisted.
Wilhelm grabbed at Thomas again, but he stood his ground.
"Tommy…" Wilhelm gritted his teeth so hard they nearly sparked.
"These fuckin' thieves need to goddamn learn!"
A voice cut through the noise. It was deep, cold, and composed: "Enlighten me."
From behind the guards, Caleb Rhys Hawthorne emerged, dressed sharply, formal as ever. He and Thomas locked eyes. Rage from Thomas yet again met contempt from Hawthorne.
"I'm going to start by asking you to return my FUCKING DISC!" Thomas roared.
"I don't know what you're talking about." But Hawthorne didn't flinch.
"You don't? That's too bad, I was about to make a damn good trade offer." Thomas sneered. "Return the disc, and I'll return your motherfuckin' pinky."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Hawthorne repeated, raising his voice.
"You don't? You fuckin' don't?!"
"Tommy…" Wilhelm tried again, but the rage had fully taken over. Thomas drew his axe and stepped into a ready stance.
The guards instantly raised their swords in response.
Six blades pointed at Thomas, Wilhelm, and the woman.
Wilhelm and the woman froze in fear, but Thomas was ready to fight.
CLINK. CLINK. CLINK. CLINK. CLINK. CLINK.
All six swords were suddenly knocked away, redirected.
A new sword, gleaming, diamond-edged, pointed directly at Hawthorne's face.