There was this quick snort of indignation. Claire rarely felt uncomfortable. She mostly just felt like she was going insane. Maybe the pressure of running the convoy was starting to get to her. That’s something she doubted, though. It’s why she ran the convoy. Claire was always level-headed.
Her hands twitched around the gun; tightening, then loosening. The way she put the gun back in it’s holster was cautious — but like the caring individual she was, she wasn’t being cautious for herself, but for the other. Didn’t want to suddenly startle the woman that had walked out of the mirror. With blonde hair.
"You can start off with a name. How about that?" There was actually this soft, warming smile. Claire’s hand twitched again; partly out of habit, mostly for the pure fact she wanted to reach out a hand to even see if this was some paranoid dream, or if someone drugged her can of food. Although, when people meet, the normal thing to do was to shake hands and Claire Redfield made sure, that even in this anarchy of a world, normalcy and humanity still existed. Even through the hardest of times.
“Niki. Niki Sanders.” Her hand extended in greeting, and she cast a glance from habit over her shoulder. But her head turned back to look at Claire, and there was a light concern to her look. It was nothing new, however. The woman had spent too much of her life in fear not to live in it.
A pang of sadness hit her heart – she had thought of her son. When all this had gone to hell, she hadn’t been with him, and she doubted that he had survived. And even if he had, this world was so cruel, she doubted she would find him while he still lived. If she found him at all.
However, now wasn’t a good time to think of Micah. Living in the present was important and all she could really do to stay sane – what little bit of sanity there was left, anyway – and she wasn’t about to slip back into old patterns. This woman, who looked unnervingly similar to herself, wasn’t doing anything wrong, and she would have hated to black out and find herself waking up to blood again.
“Do you have an explanation for this?” She asked, taking her hand back and pulling her shirt down around her waist. Damn thing was starting to rip and tear and it was threadbare and worn through with holes. She probably should have looked for another one back in the city, but she had been too busy trying to keep herself alive. She hated the way things always came down to one thing – how morality would lose it’s meaning in the face of peril, and people would do anything just to stay alive – it would always, always, become kill or be killed. Survive, or perish.