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You should split up. Even in the relative safety of the courthouse, with the balding clerk the only possible hostile, you should never leave someone alone in unknown territory. You turn and instruct Rashidaliev and Slavenko to remain in the courthouse, Matsukov is to accompany you on patrol as your translator, in case you should encounter another Republian monolingual. The men salute as you navigate the corridors back to the building's entrance, Matsukov at your heel.
You push open the broad wooden doors and stand at the top of the short staircase, surveying again the dusty square. There are only two buildings on either side before this alcove reconnects to the main road. Now, unless the commander of the 216th is very stupid or knows something you do not, any patrols or roadblocks or checkpoints or what-have-you would be along the main north-south road through the city. You already drove in along that road from the northern edge of Gordon, so you resolve to begin your search heading south on the same road.
Exiting the square, you notice again the bronze plaque on the outside of one of the other buildings. Close enough to read it - unlike before - you make out "Gordon District Administration". This building must have been the seat of the old occupational government; it is certainly worth checking out once you've located the missing battalion.
You turn left onto the main street, which is fortunately broad enough to leave space between the parked cars and the storefronts for you to walk. There are few people on the street, but more than you have seen elsewhere. Mostly women with young children - the children gawk at your uniform and glistening metals, their mothers pulling them back into shops or behind cars to let you and Matsukov pass. A few cars lazily pass by on the road. You consider stopping to speak with some of the locals - they might even know where the soldiers are stationed - but you decide against it, Matsukov's Republian is too rough for the conversations to be of use and, besides, you are sure to encounter them on your own.
The buildings you pass by seem mostly commercial, with colored, handpainted signs and gaudy prints hanging outside to advertise their wares, although there are what appear to be residential buildings as well, unadorned and with heavy metal gates. If you had to guess, the commercial buildings are likely local - they just have that feel, that the decisions made here were individual, not some professional committee. The exception is a supermarket, a real modern one like you would see in a big city, with fluorescent lights and rows of shelves and a cardboard display advertising Coca Cola by the front window. The lights are dead, confirming your suspicions at the courthouse; power must be out for the whole city.
