Post by Deleted on Aug 5, 2015 1:15:34 GMT -5
Another day, another dollar, Daniel thought as he washed, noticing the subtle wrinkles and bumps on his bald head as he studied himself in the mirror; nearby, his bunk was freshly made, looking as if an inspection crew was going to come traipsing through the Intake & Receiving Center (I & RC) building at any moment. Before the walkers, that would've been the senior staff and NYC Corrections bosses at Rikers Island...nowadays, it was the overseers who made up the Hive. Dressing quickly as was his habit, Daniel made sure everything looked good; as his parents had always told him growing up over in Pelham Gardens: you never knew what was going to happen, so you always look your best. Like many lessons in his youth, Daniel'd never forgotten it.
After taking one last look at the mirror, he put on his cowboy hat - a slightly-tattered looking weave-style looking thing - grabbed his radio and stepped outside, making sure to have his weapons with him, a requirement of living on the Island. Heading over to where the Maintenance building was, he coulda' swore someone had been smoking weed overnight. They better hope Francesca or one of the other Overseers doesn't catch them....then again, what's it to them? I sure as hell ain't reporting them for it, he thought to himself; while he wasn't an overseer, he had one of the more dangerous duties anyone on the island could have: patrolling the vast stretches of land surrounding the island for both signs of life and for possible supply caches. It was dangerous work: he'd lost several good islanders over the past few months and it hurt just like losing a family member....but he'd learned to deal with it; it was another part of living on the island.
After some time, Daniel made it over and stepped inside, taking his cowboy hat off and letting his eyes adjust to the somewhat dim lighting inside; in the background, one could hear the steady hum of bio-diesel generators going, powering the lights inside. He'd taken all of three steps inside when his radio began going off, erupting with a loud squelch; turning the volume down a bit, he went inside and paused. "What is it?" one of the mechanics asked, seeing him enter.
"Hold up," Daniel replied, holding a hand up as he continued listening to one of the overseers - Francesca, by the sound of it, he mused - talking to someone else, someone who didn't sound like they were on the island. "Yeah, what is it?" he asked, dividing his attention between the radio and the other person.
"We got the Tundra fixed for you," the mechanic said, pointing off towards where Daniel's vehicle - a slate-gray Toyota Tundra - was parked. "I really wish you guys wouldn't let the vehicles get so shot up at times; we only got so much bondo-fix to patch 'em up with--"
"Well, next time I see Fran, I'll ask her to get us some," Daniel deadpanned, still wondering what the hell he'd heard over the radio earlier. "In the meantime, make sure that vehicle's in shape to go off-island, alright?" walking away before the mechanic could reply. Walking towards one of the island's numerous gun ranges, Daniel could feel the sun's rays on his face and neck and thought, God, Tell me it ain't going to be one of those days again....
After taking one last look at the mirror, he put on his cowboy hat - a slightly-tattered looking weave-style looking thing - grabbed his radio and stepped outside, making sure to have his weapons with him, a requirement of living on the Island. Heading over to where the Maintenance building was, he coulda' swore someone had been smoking weed overnight. They better hope Francesca or one of the other Overseers doesn't catch them....then again, what's it to them? I sure as hell ain't reporting them for it, he thought to himself; while he wasn't an overseer, he had one of the more dangerous duties anyone on the island could have: patrolling the vast stretches of land surrounding the island for both signs of life and for possible supply caches. It was dangerous work: he'd lost several good islanders over the past few months and it hurt just like losing a family member....but he'd learned to deal with it; it was another part of living on the island.
After some time, Daniel made it over and stepped inside, taking his cowboy hat off and letting his eyes adjust to the somewhat dim lighting inside; in the background, one could hear the steady hum of bio-diesel generators going, powering the lights inside. He'd taken all of three steps inside when his radio began going off, erupting with a loud squelch; turning the volume down a bit, he went inside and paused. "What is it?" one of the mechanics asked, seeing him enter.
"Hold up," Daniel replied, holding a hand up as he continued listening to one of the overseers - Francesca, by the sound of it, he mused - talking to someone else, someone who didn't sound like they were on the island. "Yeah, what is it?" he asked, dividing his attention between the radio and the other person.
"We got the Tundra fixed for you," the mechanic said, pointing off towards where Daniel's vehicle - a slate-gray Toyota Tundra - was parked. "I really wish you guys wouldn't let the vehicles get so shot up at times; we only got so much bondo-fix to patch 'em up with--"
"Well, next time I see Fran, I'll ask her to get us some," Daniel deadpanned, still wondering what the hell he'd heard over the radio earlier. "In the meantime, make sure that vehicle's in shape to go off-island, alright?" walking away before the mechanic could reply. Walking towards one of the island's numerous gun ranges, Daniel could feel the sun's rays on his face and neck and thought, God, Tell me it ain't going to be one of those days again....