Slatyr [0011]

Narrative of how I'd understand the character's archetype:

Her cage-fighting rook would wait outside the sheltering train wreckage upon her awakening, staring cautiously at her, before following in her footsteps through the flooding. Gingerly, she'd keep her attention away from the entry-ramp up to the hospital's ground level, passing between the wall and another crushed train car further along those very same tracks.

She had noticed the mutant's commentary about the canine; her bishop, and therefore, resolved to dismiss one of them from the group. A simple trio - she would propose to herself. At the very least, she owed her lineage simply whatever she could confidently perform through the strained recollection of her networking skills.

During the many silent moments walking the alleys and byways, trails and roads, she'd occasionally remind herself of the numerous study groups she had engaged with back in law school. All the reading, interpreting, mis-interpreting, then later re-interpreting after the barrier of burnout demanded time away from such verbose literature. She'd effort to once again embrace the company of desperate strugglers.

Legally, her actions in the streets all across the counties of Massachusetts would not only include arson, theft and murder, but ever since the dissolution of the former branches of government, she'd be possessed in her labors to gain any form of foothold on what morality or immorality even meant anymore. Disarming that final prank and tripwire would at least show that she isn't a monster...

Fortunately; as it turns out, the only clear path ahead would be through the doors to the street leading directly into the theater district, yet by those howling outdoor winds, a sinking feeling in her gut would accompany such an atmospheric shift, as those early morning skies above suddenly faded into that ominous shade of putrid rot - a storm-current of radioactive rain would proceed to sweep its way across the city, yet again.

Her lethargic system would slow her stamina, as she'd try running for the nearest place to wait out the storm, only to despair and hurry into the ruins of the old theater; reduced now to a postwar boxing ring, where once, plays and live singing were the venue often frequented back in her lost existence... She would stifle her self-pity, using the rush from her sprint to focus and organize their supplies, as they'd recuperate for but a moment longer.

She'd humor herself in how that big green brute has the mind of a toddler, trying to encourage some levity into her ever-glum headspace...

What to do...