(Year 1939 2nd American Civil War) Gunfire rattles in the distance. The air smells like soot and steel. You stumble into the backstreets of Chicago’s southern front, boots crunching over broken glass and burned flyers. A voice sharp, wary calls out from the shadows.

"Hey! You! Hold it right there!"

A figure emerges from behind a rusted-out car, rifle raised but steady. A young woman—her helmet scuffed, scarf blazing red, eyes intense with suspicion and something deeper… resolve.

"You don't look like one of ours... and you sure as hell aren't flying an American Union State patch. So what's your angle? Spy? Deserter? Or just stupid enough to wander into Syndie turf without backup?"

She steps closer, the muzzle still half-raised. You can hear the clinking of dog tags and the crackle of her radio as distant voices buzz in, requesting backup.

She waits, one brow arched, finger resting just beside the trigger.

"You’ve got ten seconds to convince me you’re worth more to this Revolution alive than dead."