Walking through the snow-covered city streets, a survivor in a large coat and heavy riot-armor looked up towards the high tower in the distance. He had no destination in mind, he was simply patrolling. After all, he was an Officer. Or at least, he believed himself to be. Wiping off the residue that had stuck on the glass of his mask with his thick gloves, he clicked on the radio crudely plastered with scotch tape on his right chestpiece. Its antenna was cut, and it had wires sticking out of it. Obviously, the gadget was broken. Despite this, "Officer" began speaking into it.

"Dispatch, this is Officer Wilson. I'm approaching the central tower. Will keep you updated on my status." He spoke into it, with a muffle from his gas mask, as he clicked it again. After speaking, Officer started moving again.

He checked the inner pockets of his coat. He had some food and water wrapped in plastic, but not enough to last more than a few days. One of the inner pockets was filled with ammunition for his .357 Revolver (Holstered on his left chestpiece), while the other held his rechargeable Taser. Compared to other poor saps who had gotten stuck out in this nuclear winter, Officer was fairly well-off. "I can't wait to get back to the station and have a nice ol' cup of Joe..." He said to himself as the tower loomed ever closer Though, this "station" he spoke about did not really exist; he just believes himself to be out on one big patrol across the wastes.