The Best Disguise is No Disguise

The Art of Quiet Resistance, Chapter 5

THIRTY-SIX HOURS had passed since that night in the prop room. Thirty-six hours that included Harrison's grueling inspection, Vivian's perfectly played role of the helpful board member, and then her conspicuous absence afterward. No calls, no messages - just this invitation to breakfast, delivered by an unknown butler named Blackwood at Riley's apartment door late last night.

Now Riley stood in the entrance hall of Vivian's townhouse on East 70th, her heart skipping as she caught Vivian's eye across the room. Thirty-six hours since she'd fallen asleep with her face pressed against Vivian's neck, breathing in gardenia and French silk. Thirty-six hours since everything between them had shifted into something unnamed and electric. And now here they were, surrounded by their unlikely band of conspirators, both hyperaware of each other while maintaining perfect composure.

The limestone façade had screamed old money, but inside was a study in strategic contradictions. A Picasso (gifted to Marguerite for helping his Jewish friends escape Paris) hung near a seemingly casual arrangement of protest photographs by Catherine. Marie's law books lined mahogany shelves beside first editions of resistance literature. Everything carefully chosen, carefully placed - just like Vivian herself.

"Madam's coffee preference remains oat milk latte, extra hot?" A voice materialized beside her, causing Riley to startle. She turned to find an impeccably dressed butler regarding her with calm certainty, as if he'd known her coffee order her entire life - despite the fact she'd never heard of his existence until Blackwood's perfectly typed invitation had appeared at her apartment door last night. His presence was both unnerving and oddly comforting - like finding Jeeves had stepped out of Wodehouse to run a resistance safe house, complete with security clearances and encrypted communications.

"I... yes?" Riley managed, still processing how he also seemed to know her shoe size ("Do remove your heels, Madam - I believe Vivian's 1962 house slippers will fit perfectly") and her academic history ("A fascinating thesis on information systems as social control, if I may say so").

Claire moved through the library with the same graceful defiance her grandmother Marie had possessed - that perfect blend of elegance and rebellion that had first drawn Vivian's attention decades ago. The right side of her head was shaved in an intricate undercut, the pattern suggesting circuit boards or ancient labyrinths depending on how the light caught it. Behind her ear, partially hidden by the geometric design, a delicate resistance symbol was tattooed in subtle UV ink - an exact replica of the one Marie had worn as a pendant during their shared battles.

She wore her grandmother's vintage Dior combat boots (carefully restored and re-soled) under a cutting-edge Yohji Yamamoto jumpsuit, its asymmetrical lines suggesting both armor and art. A hand-painted leather jacket from a queer Indigenous designer's collective completed the ensemble, its patches and symbols telling stories of resistance across generations. Every element of her appearance was a deliberate choice, revolutionary chic weaponized for a new era. Where Riley's carefully curated thrift store finds spoke of making do and finding beauty in survival, Claire's outfit was a manifestation of resistance future-forward - elegant, dangerous, and impossible to ignore.

When Claire looked at Vivian with barely disguised adoration, Vivian felt the weight of both past and present. She returned Claire's attention with the perfect balance of affectionate charm and gentle boundaries that had evolved since Claire was old enough to develop her crush, treating her with the respect her intelligence deserved while never taking advantage of her obvious feelings.

"You're doing it again," Claire said, a knowing smile playing at her lips as she perched on the arm of an antique chair with deliberate casualness. "That thing where you look at me and see Grandma Marie plotting resistance strategies over café au lait."

"My dear," Vivian responded with her devastating smile, "I see you plotting your own strategies quite clearly. Though I must say, your methods of slipping extra shots into the fascists' espresso orders is considerably more subtle than your grandmother's habit of simply upending their tables."

Claire's laugh carried echoes of Marie's - that same fearless joy in the face of danger. "She told me about that night. Said you were the one who created the perfect distraction by spilling wine on an officer's uniform while reciting Baudelaire in perfect German."

"The art of resistance," Vivian said softly, "is knowing exactly how much truth to show and how much to hide. Your grandmother taught me that. She would be so proud of how you've mastered it."

Blackwood moved to what appeared to be a simple wood panel, pressed somewhere specific, and revealed a hidden safe. From it, he withdrew both his own slightly newer handwritten copy of Marguerite's OSS Manual and an military grade tablet.

"The manual states 'Refer back to regulations at every opportunity,'" Claire quoted, running a finger along her circuit-board undercut. "But Grandma Marie's margin note adds 'And when no regulations exist, create them.' That's basically what you've been doing at the theater, isn't it, Riley? Creating so many perfect regulations that the system chokes on its own red tape?"

Riley glanced up from where she'd been studying the manual's weathered pages, her thrifted 1940s blazer somehow both shabby and elegant. "I thought I was being original with the digital compliance overload. Turns out I was just channeling resistance techniques from the late 1930’s."

"The best techniques never go out of style," Vivian said, that devastating smile making both younger women catch their breath for different reasons. "Though I must say, your digital adaptation of Section 1 would have made my mother absolutely delighted. 'Insist on doing everything through channels' takes on a whole new meaning when you can create infinite digital channels."

Vivian moved to her desk, picking up her tablet with elegant precision. "Speaking of resistance," she said, her cultured accent carrying a note of appreciation, "it seems we're not the only ones frustrated with traditional methods of opposition. I was reading responses to an article by a rather prominent political historian this morning. The comments..." her devastating smile held genuine admiration, "well, they suggest the public's patience with polite protests is wearing decidedly thin."

She handed the tablet to Claire. "Read this one aloud for us, dear. The writer has a rather magnificent grasp of our current predicament."

Claire settled onto the arm of her antique chair, her Dior boots crossed at the ankles as she began:

"'Dear HCR, Should we not have been screaming this information during the last four years when Biden was killing it as President? Wow. Telling us the results of the election is fucking riveting information. Thank you for your service, Captain Obvious...'"

As Claire read about the Democrats' breathtaking inability to take action, Vivian's smile grew sharper. At "strongly worded letters," she let out a soft, elegant snort that somehow managed to convey generations of frustration.

"Darling," Vivian interrupted, her accent carrying decades of society gatherings and political salons, "I've known Nancy Pelosi and Chuck Schumer for forty years. Shared committees, charity boards, countless fundraising galas." Her devastating smile held no warmth. "And our passionate writer isn't wrong. Nancy and the other old school congressmen are still playing bridge while the other side is demolishing the card room."

Claire continued reading, her voice rising with the writer's fury as she detailed the six-point plan for what should be happening. When she reached the part about how losing was not inevitable, about how it was time for defiance and obstruction, Riley leaned forward, her green eyes blazing.

Vivian's hand moved to Catherine's ruby ring as Claire read the section about the Democratic playbook being like a recipe handed down from great-grandmother. "Catherine used to say exactly that," she murmured. "Right before she'd publish another exposé that made them furious."

"'The right has corralled disparate factions under the red hat,'" Claire read, her voice carrying both anger and understanding, "'feeding them a unifying myth... The libertarians got played, the evangelicals got played, and they don't even realize they're in an unholy alliance with people who fundamentally oppose their interests.'"

"Mother saw the same thing in Paris," Vivian said softly. "Good people following bad leaders, never realizing they were digging their own graves."

When Claire finished reading, the library fell silent for a moment. Then Blackwood cleared his throat. "I believe I should try to locate this writer," he said, his butler's propriety barely masking excitement. "Someone who understands both the necessity of public fury and the uselessness of traditional methods... that's exactly the kind of mind we need."

"For which resistance?" Riley asked.

"Both," Vivian's smile was dangerous now. "Let them rally the public fury we need as cover, while also appreciating the value of..." she gestured to their small group, "quieter strategies."

"Speaking of channels," Blackwood interjected, his butler's propriety barely masking excitement as he pulled up something on the tablet, "I believe you'll find this particularly interesting, Riley. Your theater's security system is a masterpiece of malicious compliance. Every facial recognition scan triggering endless verification loops... it's precisely what Marguerite did with the Nazi's filing system, just in digital form."

"Your basement apartment in the theater," Claire said suddenly, eyes bright with recognition. "That's straight from the OSS manual - 'Maintain multiple locations, each serving a different purpose.' Grandma Marie used to tell me how they'd maintain fake apartments all over Paris while actually living in the resistance safe houses."

Riley shifted, uncomfortable with the parallel. Her practical solution to New York's housing costs hadn't felt particularly revolutionary. "It was more about saving money for the theater than strategic planning," she admitted. "Though the ability to monitor the building 24/7 has been useful."

"The best disguise is no disguise," Vivian quoted softly, her mother's accent stronger in the remembered words. "Sometimes the simple truth - a dedicated theater director living close to work - is the perfect cover for resistance." Her eyes met Riley's with understanding that went beyond strategy.

Claire watched their exchange with knowing eyes, absently tracing the UV ink behind her ear. She recognized that look - had felt its power herself, though she'd long since transformed her youthful crush into deep respect and revolutionary camaraderie. There was something fitting about seeing Riley fall into Vivian's orbit, their shared dedication to resistance creating its own gravity.

"Which reminds me," Vivian continued, her tone shifting to one of elegant authority, "we need to discuss your living arrangements, Riley dear. That basement setup, while admirably aligned with resistance principles, lacks certain essential security measures. And that shoebox apartment you maintain for appearances is, frankly, an insult to both your talents and our need for security."

Blackwood materialized with architectural blueprints that looked suspiciously recent, laying them precisely between the OSS Manual and his tablet. "The east wing's third floor is already prepared," he said, as if this had been long decided. "The morning light is particularly good for reviewing scripts, and the private study offers excellent sightlines of the street while remaining perfectly concealed from external view."

"I couldn't possibly—" Riley began, but Blackwood's expression shifted as he studied something on Harrison's tablet, his usual unflappable tone carrying an edge that made them all lean forward.

"Vivian, you need to see this." He turned the tablet so they could all see the screen. "Project 2025 has a specific timeline for cultural institutions. They're starting with theaters that have... how did they phrase it... 'demonstrated patterns of bureaucratic resistance.'"

"The Lorraine Hansberry is on that list," Riley said quietly. It wasn't a question.

"Top three," Blackwood confirmed. "Along with rather detailed profiles of key personnel. Your 'suspicious pattern of perfect documentation' is noted specifically, Riley. They've been watching longer than we thought."

Claire moved closer to the screen, her Dior boots silent on the Persian carpet. "Just like Vichy France - they always start with culture. Theater, art, literature... anything that makes people think." Her hand brushed the resistance symbol behind her ear. "Grandma Marie said that's why the Nazis put artists and intellectuals on their first lists."

"Which is precisely why," Vivian said, her accent carrying echoes of old grief and newer resolve, "we need to consolidate our resources. Riley, that basement arrangement may have served its purpose, but we're beyond individual resistance now. We need..." She paused, that devastating smile turning conspiratorial. "Well, perhaps it's time for the full tour. Blackwood?"

"Indeed." Blackwood moved to what appeared to be a solid mahogany bookcase. "You'll appreciate this, Riley - it's straight from this section of the manual: 'Create infrastructure that serves multiple purposes.'" His fingers found something invisible, and the entire case swung silently forward, revealing a steel door with a modern keypad. "Though I doubt the OSS anticipated biometric security and fiber optic cables."

The door opened to a narrow staircase, lit by soft LEDs that activated as they descended. The walls were a curious mix of nineteenth-century stone and twenty-first-century technology. Network cables ran alongside old gas pipes, and what looked like original coal chutes had been repurposed into ventilation systems.

"Mother expanded the original wine cellars during the war," Vivian explained as they descended. "Said every resistance needs its catacombs. We've updated the technology, but the principles remain the same."

The stairs opened into a command center that would have made any intelligence agency envious. Multiple screens displayed feeds from around the city, focusing particularly on the theater district. A bank of servers hummed quietly behind glass walls, their cases marked with the same resistance symbol Claire wore behind her ear.

"Is that..." Riley leaned closer to one screen, "Is that live feed from inside the theater?"

"Since the day you took over," Blackwood confirmed. "Your security upgrades provided excellent cover for adding our own systems. Which reminds me - Chapter 12, subsection C: 'Always maintain multiple routes of egress.'"

He pressed another hidden switch, and a section of wall slid aside to reveal a tunnel, its walls lined with the same mix of historical stone and modern tech. "This particular route," he said with quiet pride, "exits through Madame Chen's Beauty Salon three blocks east. She's been part of our network since she escaped the Cultural Revolution in '66. Makes an excellent coffee too, though don't tell her I said that."

"A beauty salon," Claire grinned, "is literally the last place anyone would look for theater directors and resistance fighters. It's perfect."

"The best disguise is no disguise," Vivian quoted again, but this time her eyes held something fiercer than memory. "We hide in plain sight, using their own systems against them. Just like Mother did." She turned to Riley, her composure softening slightly. "Which is why you need to be here, dear. Your theater skills, your digital expertise... we need them. And you need our protection."

Riley looked around the room - at Claire tracing the circuit patterns in her undercut, at Blackwood's perfect butler's manner barely masking his revolutionary heart, at Vivian's elegant strength carrying echoes of her mother's resistance. She thought about her lonely theater basement, her shoebox apartment maintained for show, and felt something shift in her chest.

“This part of the manual," she said finally, meeting Vivian's eyes. "'When resistance calls, answer with everything you have.'"

"I don't recall that passage," Blackwood said, raising an eyebrow.

"I just added it," Riley smiled, and Claire's laugh bounced off the stone walls, carrying echoes of both past and future resistance.

"Welcome home, dear," Vivian said softly, her devastating smile carrying a warmth that made Riley's heart skip. Then her expression shifted to elegant mischief. "Now, shall we discuss how to make Harrison's next inspection even more interessant? I believe there's something in the next section about ..."

Above them, Manhattan's morning light painted their reflection against the townhouse windows - four people in a fortress of secrets, preparing to face whatever came next. Not with certainty of victory, but with certainty of each other. Mother's manual had taught them how to resist, but love - in all its forms - taught them why.

A Note on Reality

The OSS Simple Sabotage Field Manual is not fiction. Declassified in 2008, it was created by the Office of Strategic Services in 1944 was designed to help ordinary citizens disrupt enemy operations—not with weapons, but with sheer, unrelenting bureaucratic inefficiency. It remains one of the most delightfully passive-aggressive historical documents ever produced.

The complete manual can be found in the CIA's own archives:

CIA.gov - OSS Simple Sabotage Field Manual (1944)

I have questions:

I've been thinking about how many articles I read each day that just pile more dread onto my already towering mountain of anxiety. You know the kind - they tell us democracy is dying (we know), fascism is rising (we see it), and everything is terrible (check, got it). They're not wrong, but they leave us feeling like we're drowning in a sea of helplessness while being pecked to death by notifications about the next awful thing.

So I'm wondering - have you read anything lately that didn't just add to your existential despair? Something that made you feel less alone in your midnight panic attacks about the state of democracy? Or are you, like me, starting to measure articles by how many glasses of wine they require to recover from?

Share your thoughts. Your fears. Your 3am realizations about the parallels between now and then. Your moments of unexpected hope or solidarity. Your favorite comfort re-reads when it all gets too much.

Because maybe that's part of resistance too - finding each other in the dark, sharing our stories, admitting we're scared without letting it paralyze us. Plus, my wine budget could really use some alternatives to doom-scrolling.

Comments welcome! Especially if you've found something worth reading that doesn't make you want to build a bunker in Vermont.