The afternoon sun beat down on the prison yard of Alderney State Correctional Facility, but offered little in the way of warmth as the temperature was beginning to go down under the weight of the oncoming winter. Walter pulled the burnt orange jacket that had his prisoner number emblazoned upon it’s left breast closer to his body in a failed attempt to ward off a breeze as it cut through him. He took a seat on a bench across the way from the basketball court and started scanning the faces of the other inmates.
When Walter had first been incarcerated coming close to four years ago, the prison yard left Walter’s stomach all knotted up and for good reason: it had been his investigative work as a journalist for the Liberty Tree that had put a lot of the men that ran the prison’s criminal element there in the first place. They didn’t know that, though. To them he was just another murderer, another lunatic, another person to avoid and that was just the way Walter liked it.
His eyes first fell on the towering frame of Gerald McCreary, who until a matter of months ago had been the head of the Irish mob in Liberty City. The giant brushed a hand over his head of red hair and then turned his grey eyes on him and a smirk broke out on his goateed face. McCreary nodded his head to the left and Walt looked to see the Brit was staring at him from the bleachers by the basket ball courts. McCreary had a long running joke that the Brit wanted to make Walt his bitch, but Walter could tell from the Brit’s gaze that that wasn’t it.
“Aye Walt.” At the sound of Chapman’s raspy voice he broke the Brit’s gaze and turned to the old man who squinted through his thick lenses as he took a seat on the bench next to him. “I’m sorry I got you knocked around back there, but thanks for having my back.”
“You know it’s not your fault, Karl. Belko’s always looking for a reason to pull his baton on me and I just thought it’d be nice to give him a reason.”
Walter looked back to the bleachers, but the Brit wasn’t there anymore. He turned back to Chapman who had started to grown on him over the past couple of years. The old man had been one of the most notorious bank robbers in Liberty City before technology caught up with him. He was used to corporate banks who had greeters that gave you coffee and donuts at the front door, security footage that was so grainy he rarely ever wore a mask, and handing the clerks a note then just having the money handed to him, but in the late 90’s that had all changed. When the greeters were changed out for armed guards he was able to manage by toting around a 9mm, when the security footage was able to make out his nose hairs he just started wearing his mask to every heist, when the vaults got more sophisticated he managed by learning how they work, but after a major hit he found himself in the Triangle with a bag of money that started making noises and shooting out a bright neon cloud of smoke. He chunked the money and managed to flag down a cab, but was tracked down and was ID’d for a few of his previous heists. And thus, he found himself rotting away in the Alderney State Correctional Facility for the past ten years with another twenty five to go. He had reformed his ways and was trying to get out early on good behavior, but his chances were looking grim.
“I know, I know, but sti-Aye, Aye, fuck, it’s that fucking weird-as-fuck-pond-hopping-son-of’a-bitch.” Chapman started shifting his eyes and looking down as Walter looked over his shoulder to see the Brit was sauntering towards them.