Tink had wanted to take a nap. It was too damned hot for much else. After not long, he realized it was too damned hot for napping too. So he was lying in the dirt, staring off into the distance instead, waiting for the usuals to drop on by. It might be too hot for a doze in the sun, but it was never too hot to take leave of reality for just a little while. Once again, he beat the shirt tucked under his arms and head into comfortable shape, propping his elbows on it when he rested his weight on them. To save them the hard heat of the cracking yard dirt.<br/><br/>A plume of dust kicked into the air and the last time heâ€™d seen that one was when the tank came along to deliver a few new rule-breakers. It was a ways off still. No sign of the armored bus itself. Just its dusty marker. Good. Thereâ€™d been all sorts of rumors, thick and fast through the cell blocks. Tink had started his fair share. Kept the bastards off balance. Why not? It was funny and broke some of the monotony. Not like that bus would once it got here though, that was sure.<br/><br/>At lunch he heard, from the guys on the bench. Fun, fun.<br/><br/>Knees and spine popped when Tink got up from his prone position. He sauntered on over to the small crew, frowned at that damn bird of the kidâ€™s. He didnâ€™t like birds much. Loud, filthy beasts.<br/><br/>â€œMove,â€ he demanded in that raspy whisper of a voice, forcing their lowest ranking to get up for him or risk pissing him off. Tink didnâ€™t have much of a temper but everyone knew that didnâ€™t mean he wouldnâ€™t take exception to the strangest things. Easier by far to just deal with the oddity. Unless you didnâ€™t want anything from him. But most did and didnâ€™t risk upsetting their link.<br/><br/>He took the vacated seat on the bench, not caring who heâ€™d displaced. â€œDeal in.â€ The hand that rooted wrist deep into the faded jumperâ€™s pocket set down an array of things. A thick knot of white powder wrapped up safely, a few bent cigarettes, and most importantly of all, industrial strength paper clip. That one he kept his hand over until heâ€™d gotten his cards.<br/><br/>â€œCominâ€™ at lunch, is it?â€ Scratched the back of his head while scowling at his hand and scraped the junk from under his nails with a tooth. â€œBetâ€™cha a gram â€˜least oneâ€™a â€˜ems got a nice pairâ€™a tits.â€