Two and a half weeks, eighteen days. It was nothing for most people before the blackout, but when every day felt like a battle, it was like an eternity.

How many people just in Paris had died during this short moment, not even a blink of an eye on the grand adventure of Humanity? The first day had been a massacre, with all those on board an airplane and those in need of assistance to live another day. The following days were just a descent into hell for everyone else. Many had died in settling scores and looting.

The law was no longer applied anywhere except in the immediate vicinity of police stations and gendarmerie barracks. A man could commit a crime in broad daylight and walk away as calmly as a Tibetan monk. What did he risk? Prison? They were full before the crisis, and now it was worse! Judges couldn't administer justice anymore, the police couldn't investigate properly, and the guards didn't want to spend their time watching people misbehave while their loved ones were hungry.

Hunger had indeed become a major concern for everyone without exception, even those who had managed to steal food during the first days of chaos. Those with reserves had eaten well for a while, but everything came to an end.

It was said that a person could live thirty days without food, but that didn't mean it was easy. How many had already turned and would turn into monsters?

To avoid this terrible fate, Parisians, like the residents of nearby communes such as Nanterre, had started hunting. Domestic animals were the first victims, but not the only ones. Pigeons, usually so unafraid of humans, had quickly learned that it was not safe to approach them.

"It's starting to smell good," said a young man with drawn features.

"It's the spices," replied another with a satisfied look. "I added some Provencal herbs."

"We're going to eat well today," commented a third, drooling in front of the cooking bird.

"That pigeon was big, wasn't it, Major?"

"Hmm. Yes," replied Karima Ali. "But I find there are fewer and fewer of them."

"That's because everyone's eating them."

"Not to mention all the ones that have fallen from the sky."

Karima Ali stirred the pigeon stew cooking quietly in a large blackened pot over a modest wood fire, lost in thought.

The inhabitants of Nanterre are counting on us more and more each day and they're desperate. They understand that electricity won't be back soon and they need to find a sustainable source of food. But easier said than done! It's not like we can just rely on pigeons until the end of time!

The young gendarme silently stirred the group's meal. They didn't look proud, but at least they didn't look like cavemen either. She still wore her uniform and over it a bulletproof vest with "gendarme" written in large letters.

Her features were drawn and her hair barely combed, held back by a black scrunchie. Her face was marked by recent blows and her nose had been clumsily straightened. She had stopped paying attention to the pain a while ago and barely cared about her appearance anymore.

Stolen story; please report.

Without her uniform, she would look like a homeless person, a poor girl without a home.

Even we, the law enforcement officers, have trouble feeding ourselves! How do you expect us to recruit if we have nothing to offer?!

"Major, the captain is coming!"

"Garde-à-vous!"

"At ease. Major Ali, follow me, please."

"I'm coming. Guillaume, watch the meal. Don't let anyone eat until I come back."

"Understood!"

Karima's hoarse voice sounded like a bear's growl, which wasn't surprising considering all she had endured in the past two weeks.

The young woman followed Captain Ollivier quickly to the colonel's office. Since Colonel Aiguillers had not yet returned from the capital, it was Lieutenant Colonel Lejeune who was in charge of the barracks. He was bent over a map of the commune on which several inscriptions were penciled in.

His expression was grave and his complexion paler than ever. Like each of them, he had lost weight. The other gendarme officers didn't look good either. They had witnessed all sorts of horrors firsthand and many had been forced to use their firearms.

Everyone present here looked like shadows.

Mechanically, as he always did when he was thinking, the lieutenant colonel ran a long, thin hand through his salt-and-pepper hair and noticed that by this simple gesture he had just lost a few more hairs. His tired eyes settled on the young gendarme who had just entered. With her, they were all present.

"Ah, very well. We can begin. First, I have terrible news to announce. We have just learned that the Élysée Palace has fallen and that the President of the Republic is dead, as well as the Prime Minister."

"Shit! Oh, uh... Sorry, Lieutenant Colonel."

"It's okay, for this time. You're just saying out loud what we're all thinking here. I reacted the same way. That's not all: Colonel Aiguillers and Brigadier General Prigeant also seem to have lost their lives during the riot. Luckily, Major General Giraud was not present, which makes him our highest superior. He must still be in Paris for the moment, but his position is more than uncomfortable. Paris is currently in chaos. As you already know, residents are fleeing the capital by the thousands to head to the countryside or leave the country. The latter are mostly going south, apparently, but some still pass through Nanterre. Even if it's only a small portion of the population, it's more than enough to sow trouble among the population."

"What do you expect from us, Lieutenant Colonel?" asked an officer with dark skin and a square jaw covered with a light brown beard.

"That you do your best to preserve order, especially in these areas I've marked on this map. We've received reports of a large number of crimes and offenses. You'll form teams of twenty to restore order there. I'd like to give you carte blanche on your methods, but we can't afford any further escalation of chaos in the city. The people of Nanterre are counting on us, so show yourselves firm, but violent only if necessary. The last thing we want is to turn our city into a graveyard. Any questions?"

"Negative!"

"Very well. In that case, we'll proceed with the distribution of zones. Majors Mazé and Morrain will go to the Pablo Picasso estate. Major Fernandez, you'll go with your men to Colombes. Major Beaumanoir, you're in charge of restoring order in Courbevoie. Major Ali, you'll go to the Puteaux Bridge. Major Pouget, finally, will go to Fontenelles. That will be all. You may go."

Karima was lucky. She wasn't going to a notoriously dangerous place, at least not before the power outage. She felt a little sorry for her colleagues, especially Mazé and Morrain. Good elements and good people in her opinion.

They hadn't had much time to talk in the past few days, but she had a high opinion of them. In two weeks, the Pablo Picasso estate had turned into a war zone. There had been many shootings and inevitably many deaths. The inhabitants only wanted peace and something to eat, but the youth, roughly those aged thirteen to thirty, wanted to establish their dominance over the other neighborhoods.

They thought their moment had come, that they could finally crush their rivals and make their names resonate throughout Nanterre. Some already imagined their estate as an independent state in which they would hold power.

The gendarmerie rarely moved in these neighborhoods, which gave them a sense of confidence. So they had started to appropriate territories and fight among themselves to determine who would be the master in which area. But after two weeks of armed struggle, ammunition was running low on both sides.

It was the right time to restore order in these neighborhoods.