If asked, Dakota probably couldn’t determine exactly when her day had started. She could tell you it was dark when a group of annoyed sorcerers woke her to tell her that the generator powering their sector had broken down. Upon sleepy inspection, the problem turned out to be those very sorcerers, who apparently weren’t aware that diesel fuel will fuck a gas engine like a back-alley whore. Due to this oversight, Dakota had a mouthful of diesel fuel for breakfast as she siphoned out the tank and, thankfully, replacing the diesel with gas was enough to send the generator roaring back to life. 

That, unbeknownst to her now, had been thirty-six hours ago. 

With the brave sacrifice made by an army of energy drinks and a steady workflow to keep her company, Dakota had spent those last thirty-six hours up and moving. Maintenance orders had been piling up in her workshop, nobody in camp seemed to know how to flip a breaker and the list of contraband acquisitions from various Griffins was growing long. So, it was understandable that even after so long, Dakota reacted badly when one of her patrons saw her nest of empty AMP cans and told her to take a break.  

“Shh,” she’d responded, holding up a welding-gloved finger, “You’re missing my symphony.”

With that, she pulled her goggles down, restarted the grinder she’d been using and effectively drowned out her patron in a flurry of mechanical shrieking and sparks.

***

Hours later, Dakota happened to look up from her tack-welding (she’d been charged with repairing an oil drum for some goddamn reason) and saw, through light-spotted eyes, that the sky was darkening. She wasn’t sure if it was the first time in this stint that it had happened, but she realized that she could no longer last on Pepsi and crackers and decided to, finally, take a break for a real meal. 

Standing up and stretching, an alarming number of bones had to crack and pop back into alignment before she could stand up straight again. A pain in her neck took first precedence, and she made a mental note to talk to Callum about it. She glanced at her jacket on her way out the door, but remembered that she now lived in [i]fucking California[/i] and decided she’d probably survive without it. 

Her workshop was near the centre of camp, and thus near the infirmary and the meal hall. It was a blessedly short walk to food, and on her way, she spotted none other than Callum, asleep on a bench with some girl leaning over him. 

Laughing, Dakota cupped her hands around her mouth and called “Lightweight!” Hoping Callum would hear her. With that she continued on, whipping her hat from her hair (now pressed down from sweat and time spent under a hat) and fanned herself. She’d never get used to the California heat. 

Inside the meal hall, she took the biggest ration she could muster from the cooks (“Come on, you couldn’t even cook this stuff if I hadn’t fixed your hotplate!”), took a seat at the nearest table, occupied by someone she didn’t know, and dug in.