Puteaux was a municipality known for its tranquility and the beauty of its small parks and tree-lined streets. Before the blackout, thanks to a significant police presence and a good supply of surveillance cameras, the residents of this city could sleep soundly without fear. It was also dynamic, with numerous sports facilities and a variety of restaurants. One could say it was a pleasant place to live.

But all of that was before the blackout.

The nearby La Défense district had closed down, the cameras had stopped working, and the population had become very hostile towards outsiders. By outsiders, it went without saying that it meant anyone who wasn't from Puteaux. Parisians were fleeing the capital in droves and passing through their town, behaving in the worst possible ways with the locals. Puteaux, with its reputation, attracted these people in search of everything they could no longer find in Paris, with wealth and food being top priorities.

The problem wasn't new, but the law enforcement agencies had been too busy until then to deal with this place deemed "non-priority".

Refugees and looters thus crossed the railway tracks that served as a boundary between Puteaux and Nanterre in significant numbers, forming increasingly large groups. The growing insecurity had forced the residents, not only in Puteaux, to organize into militias. Almost every street had created one to protect the neighborhood from looters.

Each passing day proved the importance of having one to watch over their street. The friendly bureaucrat and the punctual secretary had turned into criminals driven by despair and greed.

The mission of the militias dealing with areas crossed by refugees from Paris evolved rapidly. With so many people passing through their territories, the temptation could only be great. They had thus turned into policemen and customs officers.

Those coming from Paris brought with them their most precious belongings. These could be symbolic items, clothes, but also food or medicine. The testimonies reported to the gendarmes had finally caught the attention of the officers.

One of the crossing points (but there were others) that refugees had to pass through to cross the Seine was Puteaux Bridge. A filtering barrier had been installed there, guarded by a few militiamen armed with bars, sticks, or anything that could convince a person to leave behind part of their belongings on the spot. Everyone who wanted to pass had to pay a tax, and any refusal to comply was severely punished.

The Bords-de-Seine militia was just one of the four major militias in Puteaux, but it was certainly the most important of them. Behind it was the Bellini militia, guarding Neuilly Bridge, the Henri Sellier militia, which watched over several blocks of buildings near the Lucien Chevallier square, and the Victor Hugo Street militia, tasked with protecting the residents of a residential area who asked for nothing more than to live in peace.

When she arrived on the scene, Karima was not surprised by the frosty reception from the residents and the imposing barricade made of car wrecks at the entrance to the bridge. Anything different would have worried her instead.

According to her information, the leader of this militia was named Jordan Martin, a man around thirty-five years old who had previously worked in one of the many towers in La Défense. He had reportedly founded the militia that dominated all of Bords-de-Seine with a few neighbors from day one to prevent looters from targeting their homes. Their early successes had convinced other neighbors, even those in nearby streets, to join them for one purpose: to protect their homes and loved ones.

They had since joined forces to find all kinds of resources and support each other until the troubled times came to an end, which apparently was not going to be tomorrow.

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They had set up a camp with tarpaulins and wooden pallets in front of the bridge so that residents could meet, discuss, and trade. It had become the liveliest place in the neighborhood. Items seized by the militia all ended up under one of these tents. Residents could come from dawn to sunset to exchange goods for what had been gathered there.

There was also a prison to punish those who misbehaved on their territory. This had been set up inside the small café-restaurant "L'AngeVin" which stood at the corner of Quai Dion Bouton and Boulevard Richard Wallace. This restaurant was highly regarded by the locals before the blackout, but unfortunately, it had ceased to operate at the time of the blackout. The owner of the establishment had decided to give the food in his fridge to the militia from the second day onwards, as everything was going to be lost. On the fourth day, he had given his establishment to be turned into a prison.

The militia made sure that every offender and criminal received punishment as soon as they were arrested. They no longer relied on the law enforcement and justice of the country to handle all these cases. Most were punished only for theft, but it had happened that they caught murderers and rapists. These ended up elsewhere than in prison and in a much worse state than its inmates.

Karima thus saw two bodies swinging at the entrance to the bridge at the end of a rope that had been passed over a suspended traffic light. A light breeze made them rotate slightly one way and then the other. Their feet were well a meter and a half off the ground and their faces were not visible as they had been covered with pillowcases.

"WHAT DOES THIS MEAN?! WHO DID THIS?! UNTIE THEM IMMEDIATELY!"

Karima's voice thundered at the entrance to Puteaux Bridge encampment at this sight. The residents who had not yet noticed her stared at her, and a few men agreed to obey her. Even if order had disappeared, most of these people still had respect for the police and gendarmerie.

The one who had shouted did not seem to be in great shape, but she had very impressive equipment, including an assault rifle.

She was quickly surrounded by people with serious faces like hers. Gathering her courage, she continued:

"Who is responsible here?!

-It's me."

Karima noticed the well-built man who had answered. He had a slight beard barely concealing a well-defined jawline, wore a beautiful brown leather jacket and a navy blue hoodie. As for his hair, it was short as if he had been in the army.

Is he really their leader? I thought he worked at La Défense? He looks more like he was in the army!

Karima had to admit he looked handsome and exuded a certain aura commanding respect.

"Did you hang these men?"

"Yes, I did. So What? Are you going to punish me for that?"

If the young gendarme was somewhat surprised by the nonchalance and confidence of this man in uttering these nevertheless terrible words, she concealed it as best she could. He stared at her without any shame, straight in the eye, undoubtedly reinforced by the presence of several dozen civilians who were certainly all connected to this double murder.

Karima immediately felt as if she were being tested. For some strange reason, she felt as if she were being watched by a pack of wolves.

I-I don't like these looks! But, I can't show any sign of weakness to them! They're so confident, the bastards! How can they be convinced they did what's right?

Karima forcefully suppressed her emotions to maintain a stoic expression and did her best to prevent herself from checking the expressions on her men's faces.

If I doubt, it means I'm giving them reason!

Fortunately, Karima had given her instructions before leaving the barracks: her men were to remain as impassive as possible and only take up a combat position on her order. She hoped that behind her, her volunteers would behave like disciplined soldiers, lined up in two columns, with a firm and steady gaze.

"You are not unaware that martial law is in effect, Mr. Martin," declared the gendarme in a clear and sharp voice. "You have no right to be on the street without urgent reason, to carry weapons, to associate or to appropriate public space. These are the directives in force. To this I add that it is strictly forbidden for civilians to dispense justice themselves without the authorization of a senior officer. Finally, it is forbidden to extort refugees passing through this bridge! I order you to dismantle this barricade and return home!"

The man in the leather jacket did not flinch and remained silent for a moment. This silence, the young gendarme found it interminable. Jordan Martin stared at Karima and her men before finally opening his mouth.

"Oh? And why should we do all that?"

Karima painfully swallowed her saliva like all those present. She felt her men behind her tensing like bows. With this simple question, this man, Jordan Martin, denied Karima any form of authority. It wasn't just her authority being questioned, but that of the gendarmerie itself!