Prefect Jeanne Leroy had faced a problem when she had wanted to mobilize the reservists, civilians who could be contacted in case of need. Indeed, the files listing them, all digitized, were lost. They couldn't be found, and it was just a drop in the ocean of lost information since the blackout. Yet, the prefect and her team had clearly established that they were necessary to prevent the complete collapse of order in France. As a representative of the state and the government, Jeanne Leroy was obliged to do everything in her power to fulfill her missions.

She had asked for total support from Lieutenant Colonel Lejeune, the highest ranking officer currently present at the Rathelot barracks in Nanterre. She had asked him for help in gathering as many determined volunteers as possible to prevent the situation from worsening. What had happened the previous evening unfortunately reinforced her in this idea. Indeed, people, whose number could not be estimated, had come with the intention of confronting the representatives of the law. At the end of April, the days were getting longer, and one could still see perfectly well until nine-thirty.

These delinquents had taken advantage of the disorder to gather with them dozens of kilos of fireworks. For nearly twenty minutes, the prefecture had been under heavy fire. A window had been broken, and a projectile had entered, injuring someone. It was the deputy prefect for equal opportunities, Mehdi Trabelsi, a very nice boy with a heart of gold. His face had been severely burned, and it was not certain that he would retain the use of his eyes. He had been placed in the rest room, a band of fabric covering his entire face.

Karima Ali had been deeply shocked by the violence of the attack and deeply touched by what had happened to Mehdi Trabelsi. Yet, in seven years, she had witnessed many particularly violent demonstrations. She had been stoned, insulted as a gendarme, but also because she was Muslim, as if the two were not compatible. She had been followed, threatened with death, torture; Molotov cocktails and fireworks had been thrown at her. She had been injured several times, but never like this young man who was approximately the same age as her. The most significant injury she had received had left an impressive scar on her left arm. During a demonstration, a Molotov cocktail had broken on her riot shield, and she had partially caught fire. Skin grafts and months of rest had worked wonders, but the mark, the memory of the pain, and a fear of fire had remained. Sometimes, it seemed to her that she could smell the smell of burning flesh again. She had smelled this dreadful smell again at the plane crash site, and she had just smelled it again.

The young gendarme had hesitated a lot to use her weapon to defend the building and its occupants. In the end, she hadn't fired. She still wondered if what had happened to Mr. Trabelsi could have been avoided. In the early morning, she still blamed herself and made fun of herself, saying that for years the law enforcement agencies had expressed the wish to be able to defend themselves with all means at their disposal, including lethal force, when necessary. Yet, although she had the authorization of a general of gendarmerie, she had not dared to pull the trigger. Karima had never shot anyone, only targets during her training. Since superiors were on the lookout for any unnecessary expense, every cartridge was counted as if each one were made of solid gold.

"One of your colleagues arrived with a message from your captain. He's waiting for you downstairs."

"Very well, thank you. I'll go down."

Karima found a man in uniform and armed to the teeth in the entrance. Tristan Bonaventura, a very tall man who seemed to be sculpted from rock, was from the same promotion as her, and like her, he held the rank of chief warrant officer. Very serious, determined, patriotic like no one else, he was an excellent asset for the national gendarmerie. Unlike her, he was part of the motorized brigade. Today, however, he had come by bike since his precious motorcycle was out of order. She was surprised to see him with a slight beard, he who was very particular about his personal hygiene and always clean-shaven. Obviously, he had decided to keep his shaving foam for later, which didn't seem like a bad idea. On the other hand, he had struggled to start his day without being able to take a shower. To hide the smell of sweat, he had sprayed himself with deodorant and cologne. Instinctively, Karima frowned. The smell was too strong for her taste and didn't hide the fact that there was no water coming out of the taps and showerheads.

"My adjudant-chef, hello! I have a letter from the captain here!"

A letter? What's going on now?

Karima took the sheet of paper folded in three and quickly read it. The captain's handwriting was neat and easily readable. She had never seen her superior's handwriting as all his letters were printed or on a computer. She had only seen his signature so far.

"I see. So you're replacing me at the prefecture, and I have to patrol to recruit volunteers. That's really... What a mess. Having to come to this... Let's see, the volunteers will be directly under the orders of a member of the gendarmerie with five years of experience or more. They will not be allowed to carry weapons of a higher category than D except for bladed weapons, but they will be allowed to use violence if necessary. They must wear a light top and dark pants as well as a blue fabric worn around the arm to identify them quickly as volunteers in the service of France for the maintenance of peace. And so, is this the document that is supposed to authorize me to do this with the stamp of the lieutenant colonel and his signature?"

"The captain added that, as a chief warrant officer and gendarme with more than five years of experience, you are authorized to recruit and have under your command twenty volunteers. You will not be able to divide them into autonomous groups unless there is another gendarme with more than five years of experience, because, I quote his words, the last thing he wants is more disorder and civilians who think they're vigilantes."

"I understand. Did he say where I should start?"

"No, and if you allow me, I don't think he knows himself. I guess we have to go door to door?

"Good grief," she grumbled to herself. "I'm not too optimistic, but I'll try. Be careful. The four colleagues I came with are patrolling around the building to cover each entrance. They are with a team of policemen. You'll keep them with you, I suppose?"

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"Indeed. Unfortunately, we have no choice but to leave you alone for this new mission."

"Very well. If you have any questions, go to the prefect. She's listening. I'll be back as soon as possible."

"Understood! Good luck!"

Adjudant-chef Ali, not knowing where to go, went to one of the apartment blocks directly opposite the prefecture. It had five levels and seemed well-maintained. The facade seemed to have been repainted recently, and the nearby green spaces were clean. This encouraged the young woman to go there.

She noticed at the entrance that the door had been left wide open, blocked only by a pink plastic office chair, certainly to allow residents to enter or exit since the power outage had locked all the doors.

Karima took a deep breath and knocked three times on the first door. The name indicated near the doorbell gave some clues about the tenant.

Hussein? Hm, from the Middle East, so...

A dark-skinned man with a scruffy beard timidly opened the door.

"What's this?"

"Hello, sir," Karima began, smiling as kindly as possible. "National gendarmerie. Everything's fine, don't worry. I just come with an order from my superior to recruit volunteers."

"Volunteers?" repeated the man, raising an eyebrow in surprise.

"Exactly. You have certainly noticed how quickly security deteriorates since the power outage. So we are looking for motivated men and women to assist us in our missions to protect honest citizens."

"I'm sorry, but I have a family to protect."

"Then you have a good reason to want order in the streets, don't you?

"..."

"I understand of course that you are worried," Karima continued, trying to hide her embarrassment, "but understand that we are not numerous enough for you and your loved ones to walk the streets without being attacked. We need help."

"And how do you plan to pay us?" the man cut in pragmatically.

"Huh?"

"You don't seriously think that untrained guys would leave their homes and loved ones unprotected to do your job, do you? Money, I don't give a damn about it because I won't be able to use it in the stores. Well, if there's anything left to buy. But if you have water, food, and medicine, that's different."

"It's just that... We don't have..."

"Listen, my dear lady, my son has diabetes. His pancreas doesn't work well, and he has to do tests regularly," he explained with undisguised concern. "He needs insulin to live normally. If you have at least that, then I'm ready to join you, otherwise..."

"I... I'll find out."

Karima could only watch as this man closed the door on her. Karima lowered her head in disappointment and sighed deeply. She naturally understood, and certainly she would face many more refusals. It was only at that moment that she realized that she had nothing to offer except the hope of making the streets safer.

She stepped back and headed for another door. The name indicated was from the same region as the previous one since the tenant of this apartment was named Aslam.

A tall man with very dark skin opened the door slightly and stared at the young gendarme, who easily stood a head shorter than him if not more. His beard was quite full, and he was dressed in a long black coat that reached to his knees.

Karima immediately found him unsettling. His way of looking at her didn't seem right, especially since his gaze seemed directed at her service weapon.

It took her a great effort to conceal her thoughts and display a friendly smile.

"Hello, Mr. Aslam. National gendarmerie. The gendarmerie is looking for volunteers to help maintain order in our streets. We are desperately short of manpower, and the situation is deteriorating by the hour. Any help is welcome."

"Huh? You want to recruit me?"

The man, half hidden behind his door, only showed the left half of his body. If he had opened the door completely, the young gendarme would have noticed a suspicious shape at the level of the man's right ankle. Without electricity, she didn't have access to the register in which this gentleman was registered. What was under his pants, securely fastened to his ankle, was an electronic bracelet, naturally out of use since the blackout.

"Yes, sir. As you have certainly noticed, the situation outside is critical. If nothing is done, the chaos will continue, and it will be harder to restore order when electricity returns. We cannot pay you at the moment, but we will certainly be able to compensate you later when the situation improves."

"Hm... Okay. Do I have to sign somewhere?"

"Oh? Um, perfect! Uh, since we don't have any printers anymore, we'll have to write a contract by hand. Paper and pencil will do. Can I come in?"

After a moment of hesitation, the man nodded slowly and opened the door wider to let the gendarme in.

She discovered a rather poorly maintained apartment with a strong smell of stale tobacco in the air and in the fabrics. A bulging garbage bag was lazily placed near the door, from which protruded a large number of candy wrappers, empty cake tins, as well as packaging from some fast food joint.

"We can sit here, if you want," he said, indicating a partially cluttered table. "I have paper and pencils.

"Perfect. I have a contract template to copy. I need your full name, please?"

"Abdallah Aslam," the man with skin as dark as if each word were charged.

"Very well, Mr. Aslam. One moment, please, while I write up your contract."

But as soon as she started writing, the man lunged forward at her and tried to grab her service weapon. His face had transformed as he decided to take action. His eyebrows furrowed, his pupils dilated, and a loud cry escaped his mouth.

Karima expected something like this, so her attention had been focused on every move and gesture of this man all this time. A violent elbow blow to the nose made the attacker recoil until a small piece of furniture on the other side of the table, and she immediately drew her weapon from its holster, ready to shoot if he attempted anything else against her.

With a firearm aimed at him, Abdallah Aslam immediately raised his hands in the air and tried to explain as if to excuse his extremely serious gesture. Drops of sweat beaded on his furrowed forehead, and a fake smile formed on his face.

Karima didn't flinch, but inside she was deeply shocked. If she hadn't been as cautious and as reactive, how would things have turned out? Maybe she would have been killed? This thought kept looping in her head and prevented her from thinking about what she had to do. She backed away cautiously, never taking her eyes off her assailant, her weapon still pointed at him, and left the apartment, forgetting her contract template on the table.

Her mind clouded by emotions, she staggered down the stairs.

Almost without realizing it, she found herself outside the building, where she was greeted by a slightly humid, cool breeze. She continued walking before collapsing a little further on the roadside, tears in her eyes.

It was as if a higher force had drained all her energy. Her legs had suddenly become too weak to support her own weight. Her clenched and trembling hands still held her weapon.

P-people are going crazy... Order can't be restored. It's hopeless! Honest people are hiding, and bad citizens are behaving like beasts! W-What's the point? We're useless, I'm useless!

The sun, hidden by thick clouds, seemed to want to play hide and seek. Gradually, the clouds parted, letting the soft golden rays illuminate the dark ground, the plants, and the young gendarme plagued by doubt.

No! I mustn't give up! For all those who haven't fallen as low as this man, I must continue! One step at a time, that's how we move forward! I'll probably have more luck in another neighborhood. Come on!