This is something I wrote up very quickly, in the span of like 4~ hours from a random burst of inspiration. I did like, two re-reads of it to polish it but that’s it, I hope you like it anyways 
She was cold, and alone. The wind whistled between the ruins of buildings that surrounded her, through the wrecked cars on the street. The fighting had died down enough here, for her to make it through, but even so the all-too-familiar stench of iron hung in the air around her, and dark silhouettes of bodies lined the streets around her. She didn’t see them. She didn’t want to see them. One might be someone she knew, and she didn’t think she could handle that right now. Weeks ago, the bombs started to fall - the shells came down. The marines had rolled in much earlier, but now, there was anarchy in the streets. She was forced to fend for herself. The new CLF cell had sucked up nearly all of the food and water from the markets, so she was forced to break into homes and steal for herself. This time she wasn’t very lucky. A bag of beef jerky, and a jug of water was all she managed to get. At least the jug would keep her thirst quenched for a few days longer, if she stretched it out.
She felt unsafe, anywhere she went. There was always the chance someone would be waiting to rob her, or the marines would be waiting to kill her, or the CLF would be waiting to kidnap her and take her hostage. It was never supposed to come to this. They never wanted this for their people, but they felt like they had no choice now. At least, that’s what she thought. She had no idea what went on in their heads.
That’s what she hoped.
She ducked into an alleyway, which looked like her destination. And taking a few steps around in the dark, she nearly tripped on something that she recognizd, at the very least. A sheet metal plate, placed over a crater in the ground, covered with a little bit of push she’d managed to pull from her former neighbor’s yard. She rifled around, for a moment, getting the plate off… before stepping down and inside, and pulling it back.
The floor was uninviting as ever, frigid and a little damp - but her makeshift bed of clothes, at least, seemed to be dry. Her flashlight she’d left there was still on, thank god. She had plenty of batteries left for it, thankfully.
She sighed out a strained breath, dropping her purse on the ground at her feet… she would deal with it later. And rolling over, into her bed, the woman reached for her flashlight and flicked it off, before closing her eyes.
She wanted to be done with this world, for a few hours.
Months earlier, it was simpler. There was so little money to go around, but at least commodities were in abundance. She had a working shower with hot water, she had a job, she had friends and she had food, even if she was forced to work herself to the bone for The Company to get it. It was a painful life, but there were good times. There was rest.
People talk to each other - and think for themselves, though, no matter how much Weyland hated it. There had been whispers of something different, something /good/, to finally come to their personal hell. All they had to do was reach out and grab it - come together - and take it.
For those months, she had heard about it, but simply dismissed it as wishing, whimsical thinking. Nothing more than boys trying to prove themselves. But, one night, her father had told her about a group of young men at the bar he’d frequent. They got drunk, and belligerent, and a fight eventually broke out. One that had escalated into a small riot.
The next morning she awoke to more news, and an undeniable tension in the air. There had been three deaths. A marshall, an accountant, and a low-level Weyland administrator.
There was almost no talk on the air about the marshal or the accountant. No emphasis was placed on their lives. But everything, /everything/ she saw, was about the Administrator. A man named Kieran, known for being a bitch - and to some in the town, including herself, it wasn’t a surprise. Fear-mongering filled the channels, everything was ‘civil unrest’ this, and ‘dangerous ideology’ that. Even still, few dared to mention the CLF directly. ‘So what?’ she thought, ‘I live in a shithole. I can’t count on two hands the amount of people who’ve died since last month. Murders happen.’ But it stuck with her. In the back of her head, that idea wouldn’t go away. What if this wasn’t a coincidence? Planned, was unlikely, but given their situation, it seemed likely that Kieran was targeted.
Life continued on, but people were different. The marshals were uneasy, twitchy, and there were more shootings. Some started openly carrying weapons, and resisting detainment. Some opened fire, instead. But even still, she ignored it. She knew it would go away, it would subside. She hoped.
Riots began. Wey-marts in the heart of the town and company farms on the outskirts were being raided near-weekly, and the marshals didn’t have nearly enough manpower to handle it. People were openly talking about the CLF, and some even began to wear clothing branded with that green, black and red emblem as a symbol - a protest. Soon, the USCM were deployed. Checkpoints began to be erected, and those wearing that insignia were detained and pulled in for questioning. People began to disappear for weeks at a time, and would come back quieter - if they came back at all.
At the time, she worked at the hospital. The constant influx of patients those days had strained them to their limits, the walls were lined with stretchers, the morgue was full to the brim, and more often than not, bodies had to be airlifted out. Stretchers were replaced with tables, were replaced with the doctor’s desks, were replaced with the hoods of the cars outside and the ground they walked. The people who were brought in on the shoulders of their family and friends and strangers, were never going to be saved. They vomited blood, they soiled themselves, so much so the floors were lined with waste and fluids, so much so the staff were forced to wear masks and biohazard suits to combat the stench and the filth. Thank god they did, or they would’ve died, too.
She, and her colleagues, realized all too quickly what was going on. It was a gas attack. Nerve gas. Everyone was coated in it, and everyone who tried to help the casualties were getting contaminated, too. And for a moment, she was terrified that the Liberation Front had actually done it. They had committed an atrocity in her home. But it was only after two sleepless nights that she was finally rotated out, that she went home, did she discover the truth.
The Marines had done it.
Chaos spilled onto the streets.
There were nights she spent inside her cramped room, terrified, hearing the dropships scream overhead, hearing the gunfire in the distance. Soon, the fighting picked up near her, and she tried to drive away, spending the night in a ditch on the road out of town - just like so many others had. Her father stayed behind, the stubborn bastard. She woke to find her wallet stolen, and her car’s windows smashed. It didn’t matter. She needed to get back.
But there was nothing to come back to. Her home was gone. Her father was nowhere to be found. It looked like a scene out of an apocalypse movie, but she was looking at it right here, and it was very real.
Her coworkers stopped showing up to work. She did too, soon, after her hospital was commandeered by the Marines to treat their own. Everyone else - at least those lucky enough - were being airlifted out to god knows where.
She found new refuge in a crater near her old home, by the road. She had little to her name, anymore. What little she picked out of the ruins of her old dwelling were cherished, and kept in her purse. She made something out of it, dug out one of the sides to resemble a wall, dragged a sheet of steel over it to make a roof, and made a bed out of clothes she’d stolen from her former neighbors. They didn’t care. They were gone. Dead, maybe. Probably. But she didn’t think about that.
It was morning, now. She woke up to the chill that she’d become so accustomed to, her jacket on tight around her body like a blanket. Her eyes shot open as she heard something rustling around in the corner - only to find… a cat, neck-deep in her purse.
She’d taken in a sharp breath, by instinct, which seemed to startle it. Quickly, it pulled it’s head out, yanking a bag of beef jerky with it, and quickly began to try and escape out of a hole in her roof. She swore under her breath, and quickly pushed up - and off her bed - scrambling nearly as fast to get at it. Kicking her foot against the wall behind her, and jumping up into the sheet metal roof.
The cat was through. Her jerky was gone, that was all her food for the night. She had to get it back.
Immediately, her senses were assaulted by the day, as the roof came up, as she jumped out and stumbled… but, she didn’t see a cat. She saw something worse. So, so much fucking worse.
Their rifle was half-up,and their head spun, and quickly, their body began to follow.Her face twisted in horror. Her heart dropped, and a shiver shot up her spine. They continued to turn. She tried to scream, but nothing came out. She tried to talk, to beg, but nothing came out. It was too fast.
She didn’t want to die.
Finally, that barrel levelled right with her head, and she could damn-near see down it. It wasn’t fair. This wasn’t fair. She wanted none of this, but she was given it. Her community chose this, and she wasn’t able to avoid it. Maybe she was, but that hope she clung to told her not to go - told her to stay for a while longer. Maybe that killed her.
‘Maybe I should have joined them, too’ she thought to herself. But it was all too late now.
Wide-eyed, she stared up, right into their gaze. But in it, she did not find the cold, uncaring scowl or malicious grin she had come to expect. She saw two wide eyes, a mouth agape, a yelp of surprise - of fear leaving them. She saw terror in that expression.
They didn’t want to die.