CLAIRE REDFIELD

[ after a moment, claire sits down in front of the journal's eye. she leaves a steaming mug sitting at her elbow, and has her hair tied back in a manner that can only ever be described as professional. although it cannot quite be seen on-screen, it's apparent from the bob of a pen cap that she must have some manner of notepad on the desk before her. and she's already taking notes.

after a moment: ] Good morning, Luceti. I have only been here for four months, but in this short time one thing has become chillingly obvious. Many of us come from places -- Earths, usually -- ravaged by plague-like diseases. Viruses and infections and all manner of scientific progress gone awry. For a lot of us, it seems these symptoms target the recently-dead or soon-to-be-dead. I've always hated the z-word, but I suppose there's no avoiding it today: quite a few of us have zombie problems.

And -- as I understand it -- this world is no different. At least two of the enclosures have suffered under viral outbreaks. A vaccine was manufactured, right? Are the people involved still around? I want to speak to them. And to anyone else facing this threat here or at home. It's not much, but swapping notes might be the least we can do.

[ she will stay at her post to discuss any necessary topics for a good chunk of the day before setting aside her career in the early evening. although she still doesn't let her hair down, it's in a more relaxed bun when she steps into good spirits. her journal is left at home and her cream-coloured blazer has been traded in for a reddish-pink vest layered over a black longsleeve. she's here for a beer or two and to mingle, eager enough to approach strangers and ask them about their day. ]

[ dawn has but barely broken when claire wakes. another nightmare, she tells herself. shuts her eyes. tosses and turns on the hard park bench near the plaza, unknowingly trying to accommodate her tender wings. this seems to do some measure of good, and so the new feather dips in and out sleep for a few more hours. but once the morning is in full-swing and the day's downpour has begun in earnest, claire wakes up once again. she tries to deny it all and drift off, but she's grown aware not only of the raindrops quickly saturating her white dress -- where did that come from? -- but she's also alerted by the village plaza's burgeoning morning bustle.

rubbing at her eyes, she sits up. ] Mother of... [ shit. where is she? certainly not where she was supposed to be. ignoring her own state of disarray, claire picks up the book she'd been using as a pillow and is rather surprised to find her name printed on its cover. dread grips her heart and gives it a terrifying shake, like a small dog with a well-used chew toy.

no knife. no gun. no clue as to where she was except an eerily personalized journal. so -- regardless of her bedraggled and damp appearance, she rushes into an investigation. it's a pity she starts out in the wrong direction, heading away from the shops instead of towards them. she'll knock on a few doors and question a handful of passers-by. afterwards, she'll also be poking in and out of a few shops in the hopes of replacing her drenched dress with something more appropriate.

and, once she's a little more in-the-know, she'll retire to the tea shop in the early evening. with a hot mug at her elbow, she sets to work copying out a carefully-worded message:]

C. REDFIELD / LUCETI / DATE UNKNOWNMAY 2ND

I want to establish contact with a representative of any of the following --
TERRASAVE
B.S.A.A.
or any branch of the U.S. Government. At this point, I suppose I can't be picky.

If you can help, please respond. It would really be appreciated. [ a pause in the writing. ] Also, could someone recommend a place to stay?

[ in short -- catch claire when she first wakes up and is wandering around the village knocking on doors or when she's at the shops or when she's better-dressed and at the tea-shop. or just write back and tell her that there's little hope in hell for any kind of rescue effort. ]