[center][b][h3]"Revolution: Minnehanonck"[/h3][/b][hider=NOTE]
This is a reboot. If you read the original thread,
you will recognize some of what is written here.
The posts here are highly edited, though, sometimes with new characters.
I hate to say this, but if you want to understand this thread,
you'll have to reread these new posts in their entirety.
Sorry.[/hider][/center]


[b]Sunday, April 3 2022 -- 11:11pm
[url=https://www.google.com/maps/@40.7618947,-73.9497536,3a,75y,107.79h,99.84t/data=!3m6!1e1!3m4!1s-5X7cMMJI3g7k7HAvFOV7g!2e0!7i16384!8i8192]NYPD Public Safety Department[/url]
550 Main St (Roosevelt Island, aka Minnehanonck)[/b]

[url=https://i.imgur.com/gXnTeX1.jpg?1]Naomi Wilde[/url] had reported for her very first day of duty at the Roosevelt Island NYPD/PSD location at 6pm, six full hours before her shift was due to begin; her excitement of being transferred from duty in Queens to that in Manhattan was easily seen in her face, even more so since she was [i]actually[/i] on Roosevelt Island and not the larger island of Manhattan.

The Desk Sergeant, another female cop named Helen Davis, tasked Naomi with completing her transfer paperwork, then told her, "There's beds in the back. You might as well get some sleep 'cause Union rules say I can't put you out on the streets early without some sort of emergency."

Naomi made her way to the back of the small satellite station and laid down on one of the four empty bunkbeds. She was too excited to fall asleep initially; she was simply too excited. But finally, after an hour of staring at the bottom of the bunk above her, she drifted off. Then, as if the Desk Sergeant was a fortune teller when off duty, that emergency about which she'd been speaking came.

At precisely 11:11pm, the backroom was bathed in absolute darkness and silence, where previously there had been soft wall mounted nightlights and a [i]white noise[/i] machine not far from Naomi's sleeping place. The 23-year-old cop was awoken by voices on the far side of the door which, of course, was impossible to see at the moment. She sat up to listen, and -- from the distant, muffled conversation -- very quickly realized that the station and likely the city beyond it was in the midst of a blackout. She wondered why the emergency lights in the room's corners hadn't turned on, signaled by the loss of electricity from the power grid.

Naomi reached for her utility belt, found her flashlight, and depressed the button: nothing. That was strange as -- like she had every day before duty for her 3 years on the job -- she'd tested it moments after she'd strapped it, her side arm, her Taser, and her other equipment to her waist. Carefully, trying to recall the layout of the room, Naomi made her way from the bunk, around the lunch table, and to the exit of the back room. She opened the door expecting to see the lobby bathed in the soft, red glow of the emergency lights, but here, too, the room was in near pitch darkness.

"What's going on?" she asked the barely visible Desk Sergeant, who was giving directions to the two beat cops assigned to the tiny station's Second Shift. "Why aren't the emergency lights on?"

"Don't know," the Sergeant said, adding, "Don't know why [i]nothing's[/i] on." Helen pointed toward the station's front entrance and said, "Take a look. [i]Everything's[/i] dead, and I mean [i]everything![/i]"

Naomi made her way out the door to the street and looked left, right, forward, and upwards; there wasn't a example of manmade illumination to be seen, from streetlights to store frontage displays to automobile headlights. In fact, traffic had come to a stop, with cars here and there and everywhere, from still in their lanes to bumped up against other cars or crashed into sidewalk mailboxes, bus stop enclosures, and street signs. 

A rushing sound off to the right and across the street was finally recognized as a damaged and spraying fire hydrant when the wind shifted and the mist of some of the escaping water wafted over her. And while that sound concerned the police officer, it was the next one that sent a chill of fright up her spine: in the distance, a horrifying explosion was followed by another, then another, then several so close to each other that Naomi couldn't separate them from one another.

She went back into the PSD office, asking for instructions and a replacement flashlight. Helen told her, "Their all dead, like I said." The Sergeant laughed, asking, "Don't suppose you know how to make a torch, do ya?"

"Candles," Naomi responded. "We need candles. Where's the nearest bodega?"