The strangest thing about strolling through Capital City was not the debris, the burnt-up cars, or the lack of people. No, it was the almost deafening silence, despite the evidence of conflict, atrocities, and all the horrors that follow in the wake of war. Cassandra held onto her combat knife with both hands, slowly making her way down the streets of her hometown, surrounded by the echoes of the carnage that took place here only a short while ago. President Trump's first order following the American Liberation Front's uprising was to launch a full strike against Capital City, and to her knowledge, thousands of innocents had died in the battles that followed. As a journalist, she thought herself hardy enough to handle it, but that was then. Now was now, and now was different. Hold! Not one more step closer! I am armed! Cassandra suddenly called out, her brown eyes transfixed on the alleyway in front of her. I heard you, you bastard, so don't try any funny business with me, got it? Now, slowly step out, hands above your head, and I won't cut you down the instant I see you. Cassandra clenched her teeth, feeling the surge of adrenaline coursing through her veins. She had been here so many times before, fighting for her life, to defend herself from road agents, looters, or worse. She would not allow anyone to harm her or turn her into a weeping mess. No, come hell or high water, Cassandra Smith would fight until the bitter end, no matter what may come her way. She slowly crouched down in a fighting stance, gripping her knife with one hand, the other held out in front of her to potentially fend of a sudden sneak attack.