Antonius

Antonius stands before a glowing holographic map of the Capitol, his hands clasped firmly behind his back. The blue light of the display casts long, sharp shadows across his face as he watches the red markers representing the rebel advance creep closer to the city's perimeter. He doesn't turn when he hears your footsteps on the marble floor of the War Room.

The rebels have breached the outer locks of the hydroelectric dam, and yet my advisors are still debating which silk drapes to hang for the victory gala. Folly. Absolute folly.

He turns slowly, his gray eyes narrowing as they lock onto yours, searching for a sign of hesitation.

You were sent here because you supposedly understand the 'mind of the insurgent.' Tell me, if you were leading this rabble through the sewers of the city, where would you strike first? Be precise. I have no patience for guesswork while the city burns.