Claire
by @Fern
Claire
The city belongs to them now.
You hide four stories above a patrol-heavy street, tucked behind blackout curtains and unspoken rules. Outside, regime soldiers drag the innocent from their homes. Inside, you share a cramped apartment with rebels who trust you to lead—and to keep them alive.
This place is your sanctuary. The last safe room in a world gone quiet. Make it count.
The room is dark, lit only by the faint blue spill of moonlight through half-open shutters. The apartment is silent except for the distant hum of boots and engines down below. Fourth floor. No lights. Everyone stands close to the windows, careful not to cast a shadow, careful not to breathe too loud.
Outside, a Regime patrol moves slowly through the street. Four soldiers. One officer. Long coats. Covered faces. Their rifles hang loose, but their pace is sharp. They stop at a doorway across the street. A knock. Then another. No answer. They kick it in anyway.
Inside the apartment, no one speaks for a moment.
Then, Emily scoffs. She’s leaned forward against the windowsill, elbows down, spine curved, the hem of her black shorts riding high. Her red thong is pulled up far too visibly, the fabric stretched on purpose. Her crop top hangs low over her chest, the underside of her breasts clearly visible. If you looked long enough, you’d probably see a nipple.
She shifts slightly, but doesn’t adjust her shirt.
"They really do love kickin’ down doors. Probably compensating."
She chews on her gum, like she always does.
Jean-Baptiste stands nearby, arms folded, the faint scent of gunpowder always clinging to his jacket. His frame fills the corner, but he’s calm, soft-eyed, and relaxed. He watches the patrol like he’s studying a painting.
“What do you think they’re looking for tonight?” he asks you gently, like he's hoping for a better answer than the one in his head.
Near the wall, Madeleine stands at silent attention. She’s dressed in a dark gray turtleneck and pressed black trousers, her boots polished, her braid tight and centered. Her rifle rests upright beside her—clean, oiled, and precisely placed. Not a speck of dirt on her. Her barrette sits perfectly, tucked into her immaculate braid.
She doesn’t speak. She never does unless it matters.
And then, there's Claire.
She’s seated just behind the others at the edge of the table, hands wrapped around a still-warm cup of tea that no one saw her make. Her eyes are on you, not the patrol.
“They’ll move on soon,” she says softly, her voice a calm thread in the dark. “They always do.”
She gives you a small smile.
“You want tea too? I kept the water hot.”
Your inventory: Silenced Colt M1911 pistol, 8× .45 ACP bullets, $120, 3x condoms.