Old Soul

[divisionary]

Time seems to move slower now. There's less to worry about, less time spent running from one crisis to the next, less time spent worrying about what happens when the Division's sole remaining active Agent takes a moment to catch her breath. Part of that is the fact that they've broken the back of the Russians.

Taleb is still in rough shape. The least-severely injured of his cohorts are under lock and key down in the cells. (Not one of them can look Lindianne in the eye when she goes down there to question them. She doesn't look at them, either. It's difficult to reconcile facts.) JTF personnel and 42nd ID soldiers alike seem nervous about dealing with one another.

So much for the good mood from Valentine's Day.

Lindianne, as usual, is parked outside of Spook Country with a manila folder. Faye's been getting a lot of paperwork lately, so she's tried to lighten the load as best as possible. That means filling in requisition forms and reports for higher up the food chain. There's a half-eaten snack bar balanced on her knee as she writes.

There's a pause.

Then, casually, Lindianne leans back in her chair to peek around the corner at the SEALs. "Whoever invented paperwork was evil," she says casually.

Comments

[boston_bruiser]

It gets a squint out of Rabbit as he lays back on his rack, pillows up against the wall, legs crossed, and hands resting on his chest. "So - Napoleon?" He shrugs. "There's probably some people who'd agree with you there." Preacher hms his assent as he turns a page in the book he's occupied himself with. From the cover, it looks to be an airport novel - a cheap thriller, at that.

"You don't get to talk about paperwork, Parker," Mother says from a chair in the corner. He's borrowed a lapdesk from one of the intel guys, and now it bears the weight of a pile about the same size as Lindianne's, if not a little bigger. "Believe me, the Navy's better at churning it out than SHD will ever be." He flips a page, making a quick mark in black ink. "They're masters of the art."

As if he's been summoned, the heavy, plodding steps of Voodoo echo through the hall as he rounds the corner, taking his helmet off and letting it hang by his side. He bows his head to run one hand through his hair as he enters their quarters, making for his footlocker and grabbing the pilot crackers he's stowed away inside.

"The prodigal son returns," Mother says without looking up. Voodoo rolls his eyes. "How was instruction?"

"Boring as fuck. Those dogface gunners can do without me looking over their shoulder." He looks out at Lindianne. "The fuck you doing in the passageway, Parker?" He beckons her inside. "Get in here."

[divisionary]

That's all the invitation she needs.

Lindianne is quick to stand up from her chair. Fumbling the stack of papers she's been working on, she moves in to claim a spot on Voodoo's bunk. It isn't the best work area ever. It'll do. (If it irritates Voodoo, that's an added perk.) Her pen is behind her ear.

"Don't have to tell me twice," she chirps. "It's boring out there, anyway."

In the shuffle of papers, they've gotten out of order. She's halfway through picking up the slack before she pauses. One of the pages looks to be Navy-related. This isn't for her eyes. The piece of paper gets held out in Mother's direction.

"Uh, I think I got this by mistake. You take it."

[boston_bruiser]

As Mother reaches over for the paper, a dogface from the 42nd ID peeks in. "Voodoo?"

"What."

"Ramirez screwed with the receiver on his SAW and none of us can figure out how to fix it. Could you come take a look?"

Voodoo rubs one bleary eye. "Screwed with it how? What's wrong with it? And why can't you get someone from Wolfpack?"

"Uh...probably better if you just come see it in person. I don't know how he managed it, but-"

"Forget it," Voodoo says, dropping the unopened crackers back into his footlocker. "Let's go see how he assed it up."

As quickly as he returned, Voodoo is gone, and Rabbit chances a glance at the document Mother's holding in his hands. "Is that-"

Mother nods. "Voodoo's personnel jacket. Navy's still got to pay us."

Rabbit squints, tapping a piece of the paper. "Is that-?"

"His birthday? Yup."

His face alights in a grin. "No shit. That's not even a week away." He looks to Mother, eyes pleading. "King Neptune's Court. Come on, Mom. We gotta do it."

Mother sighs. "As a Senior Chief Petty Officer, I cannot officially condone anything that may be construed as hazing. Which means-" And here he looks at Rabbit like an exasperated father. "-whatever you plan, I can't be around to hear it."

A beat.

"It just so happens that I remember Faye needed me back in the Situation Room before 1400 hours." He stands up, gathering up the hill of paperwork he's gathered. "So long, gents. Parker."

And he's out the door to Spook Country, leaving just Preacher, Lindianne, and Rabbit, who's rubbing his hands together in glee.

[divisionary]

A long, awkward silence falls on the room.

From her spot, Lindianne is giving Rabbit the biggest case of side-eye in the history of mankind. She gathers up the scattered pages of her paperwork. Squints down at the stack. Then, finally, she turns that squint towards Rabbit. "Okay, spill. What are you planning?"

She's spent months in the company of these guys. She knows how they work (for the most part). But in all that time, after all of the missions and mayhem, she's never seen Rabbit looking quite so gleeful. It can't be a good sign for the future. (Or at least it's a bad sign for Voodoo's immediate future.)

"Because if it involves anyone getting hurt, I'm gonna have to tell Kandel to stay sharp."

[boston_bruiser]

Rabbit looks Lindianne, then at Preacher. Preacher looks back at Rabbit.

Then Preacher looks at Lindianne.

"In the Teams, you hide your birthday from your teammates however you can, because this is how we celebrate them."

Rabbit picks it up: "You grab the guy after a shoothouse exercise, handcuff him and duct-tape him to a chair, then put on a kangaroo court. You read off a bunch of trumped-up charges-"

Preacher cuts in. "Of which he's immediately found guilty."

"-and then he gets to pick the sentence for each charge - a shot or a shot. A shot from one of the simunition guns we use for training-"

Preacher: "And those things hurt."

Rabbit: "-or a shot of the foulest-tasting liquor we've got on hand. Usually peppermint schnapps."

Preacher nods. "Those hurt, too."

Rabbit chuckles. "We go until we draw blood or until he's too wasted to talk. Usually takes an hour or two." He leans forward, chin in one hand. "You in, Parker?"

As if she needs reminding: "This is your chance to get him back for all the shit he's talked."

[divisionary]

That makes her pause.

"You New Yorkers sure love your pinstripes."

"C'mon, 'Miss Parker'."

"Even if she is a Mets fan."

The smile that spreads across Lindianne's face is slow, almost predatory, and far too toothy to be innocent. "Oh yeah," she drawls. "I think there's a couple of charges I could nail our boy with." Sometimes the angel on your shoulder takes a vacation at the worst possible time.

There's an unhurried sort of grace to the way she tucks her papers under her arm. It's like there's all the time in the world. There's no rush. The day of reckoning is on its way. At least it is for one very unlucky SEAL from Boston. She pauses to sock Rabbit on the shoulder in approval.

Oh yes. This is going to be fun.

(Rabbit had better hope she never finds out when his birthday is. He still has to answer for the camera incident.)

[boston_bruiser]

Rabbit chuckles, taking the blow to his shoulder in stride. "That's the spirit, Parker. That's it, right there."

Oh yes it is.

---

The James Farley Post Office, as the main post office for all of Manhattan, has a lot of storerooms in it that would be going to waste if not for the CQB training drills the JTF conducts in them. They're harmless enough - mannequin targets, blue-painted weapons firing simunitions. No need for expensive killhouses that they don't have the time or money to set up, anyway.

"So what is this, some kinda 'man down' drill?" Voodoo asks, loading the magazine of wax bullets into his carbine.

"Something like that," Rabbit says, doing likewise. "Mother wants us to drill with Parker some more in case bad shit goes down. Get her used to our way of doing CQB, you know?" As Voodoo shakes his head and ducks his eyes to tap the forward assist, Rabbit winks at Lindianne, patting the handcuffs and military-grade duct tape he's secreted away on the small of his back.

[divisionary]

"We all remember how Chelsea went down." Lindianne's skipping her usual weapon of choice. No marksman rifles here today. It's strictly carbines and sidearms. She's fussing over it like a parent getting a kid ready for the first day of school. Maybe Voodoo won't notice the subtle little wince she makes at the memory of Chelsea.

CQB training probably wouldn't hurt. Better that than wasting more time with knives to her throat. That's about the only thing she's ever going to give Aaron Keener credit for.

Rabbit's wink earns a wink back in understanding. She says nothing. She shifts closer to Voodoo, ostensibly due to a desire to check her carbine under the lights better. She squints down at it for a moment before tilting her head towards Voodoo.

"You've got height advantage, though," she says with a good-natured nudge to the ribs. "So don't expect anything too flashy in the process."

[boston_bruiser]

Voodoo grunts, rubbing the back of his neck as the hallway of CQB rooms stretches out before them. "Yeah, okay. Let's get this shit done."

"Cheer up, Voodoo," Rabbit says. "You take your time with this, you might actually enjoy it."

That's as blatant a hint as he dares before they get to work.

---

They end in a somewhat expansive room at the end of the hall. Five target mannequins are spread out over the room, each with wax markings on their torsos from the simunitions. A chair is positioned in the middle - it's for Voodoo, even if he doesn't know it yet.

He glances between the mannequins as he lowers his weapon, removing the magazine and working the bolt. Behind him, Rabbit signals Preacher and Lindianne, and just as Voodoo starts to turn around, the other two SEALs tackle him, manhandling him down to the floor.

"Rabbit, Preacher, what the fuck-?!"

The surprise, however complete, is brief, and Voodoo starts fighting like a cornered wildcat, trying to wrench his arms free of the other SEALs' grip as Rabbit digs out the handcuffs. He tries to headbutt Preacher, and misses by only inches as Rabbit clicks the handcuffs into place and pulls his arms behind his back.

"Parker, get his legs!"

[divisionary]

"Sorry, Voodoo, but this is for your own good!"

Lindianne responds a split-second after Rabbit's order. Voodoo might have a height and weight advantage against her, but she's got surprise on her side. She grabs him by the ankle, then puts weight on the opposite knee. A boot comes close to her head.

"Just- stop squirming-"

Lindianne's had a roll of duct tape hung on her lower arm this entire time, hidden under the sleeve of her sweater. She tears a long strip off with her teeth before busily trussing Voodoo's legs together at the ankles. He's not getting away.

"-Sit still, Voodoo-!"

[boston_bruiser]

"Fuck you-!"

"Sit still-!"

"Okay, haul him up, haul him up!"

It takes every bit of strength the three of them have to haul him up onto the chair, but once they do, Preacher strips his vest and helmet off, leaving Voodoo with just his MultiCam FROG shirt above the waist as Rabbit wraps half a roll of duct-tape around Voodoo's stomach and legs, securing him to the chair. Even now, he's still resisting - Rabbit has to dodge a headbutt a few times and reinforce the tape around the handcuffs when it sounds like he's about to tear them. He steps back, hands on his knees as he catches his breath before he stands upright and withdraws a piece of paper from his pocket.

"All rise," Rabbit says, his voice taking on a faux air of stateliness and gravity. "The court of His Majesty, King Neptune, is now in session."

Preacher and Rabbit look to Voodoo, who rolls his eyes.

"Petty Officer First Class Brian James Colson," Rabbit continues. "You are hereby found guilty of crimes against His Majesty, including, but not limited to-"

He clears his throat.

"-inhumanity, general obscenity and crassness, cruelty to tadpoles and foul conduct in the presence thereof, impersonating a baboon, failure to pay proper tribute to His Majesty, and defiling maidens of His Majesty's court."

He ducks behind one of the mannequins to retrieve the wide-mouthed bottle of peppermint schnapps and veterinary syringe stashed there earlier. "In his infinite mercy, His Majesty has permitted you the option of choosing your sentence for each crime - a jab from his trident-" he says, patting the blue-painted pistol resting in his chest holster "-or a drink of His Majesty's harshest grog." Now he holds up the peppermint schnapps.

"Now then," he continues. "On the charge of 'impersonating a baboon' - what will your sentence be?"

Voodoo rolls his eyes and mutters something under his breath.

"The court will wait for a proper answer, Petty Officer Colson."

He rolls his eyes again. "Fuckin' shoot me, ya prick."

"'Obscenity towards an official of the court'. We have a new charge." Rabbit takes the simunition pistol out of his holster and holds it out butt-first to Lidnianne. "Agent Parker. As a maiden of the court, I believe it is only proper that you be offered the first chance at rehabilitating this wayward son of Neptune."

[divisionary]

Scratch another name off the list.

Lindianne, breathing hard from the blitz attack on Voodoo, takes a moment to rally. She takes the simunition gun from Rabbit. She holds it up, sighting down the barrel at poor Voodoo. Then a smile spreads across her face. It isn't a nice smile.

"It would be my pleasure," she croons. "After all, I'm a Mets fan." The snicker that comes out of her would be enough to give even the most hardened NYPD cop the willies. (In the weeks to come, Lindianne will do everything she can to hide her own birthdate from the SEALs. Turnabout is not, in fact, fair play.)

There's no hesitation when she shoots him in the arm. With an exaggerated flourish, she holds the gun back out towards Rabbit. "Your weapon, sir."

The entire situation is so ridiculous that it loops back around to being funny.

[boston_bruiser]

Voodoo grunts in pain, ducking his head and cursing under his breath as Rabbit accepts his weapon. "Thank you kindly, Agent Parker. We still have a lot of ground to cover, but this should make for a very nice start."

"When I get out of this shit, Rabbit, I'm going to kick your fucking ass-"

"Two counts of profanity in the presence of a court official." Rabbit shakes his head. "It's almost enough to make me lose hope. How will you pay penance for those charges, Brian?"

Voodoo rolls his eyes again. "Fuck you. Give me the fuckin' schnapps."

"Four counts of profanity in the presence of a court official." Rabbit smiles at Lindianne, twisting open the bottle before drawing out a shot's worth of liquid into the syringe. "This'll be fun to see through."

[divisionary]

She smiles back at Rabbit, snapping him a casual half-salute. "Not a bad place to start, Rabbit." A half-beat. "Eric."

A quiet reminder that she knows his name. She knows all of them now, except for Preacher. But Preacher is hard enough to understand at the best of times. She's never met anyone as quiet as he is. But he'll let it slip eventually. All she needs to do is be patient.

Her smile twists into something a little more sardonic. "Jesus, where'd you even find that stuff?" Probably from the National Guard. Nowhere in the city is going to have much decent alcohol left months after society fell apart. Very few places are going to have bad alcohol left. It's more useful as Molotov fuel or for bartering now.

Most things are.

She leans forward to look at Voodoo. "Brian, huh?" A chuckle. "Cute."

[boston_bruiser]

Voodoo glowers at her before Rabbit approaches with the syringe, tapping his boot. "Open wide, Brian. You don't want a contempt of court charge."

Then, to Lindianne: "Conned some dogface truckers out of it. You'd be amazed at what a trident gets you with them."

With a roll of his eyes, Voodoo tilts his head back and opens up, and Rabbit squirts four full syringes of the schnapps into his mouth, one after the other. On the third shot, his eyes start to water, and on the fourth, he sputters and coughs as he swallows it down, shaking his head. "Jesus Christ-"

Rabbit tsks. "His Majesty will broker no mention of pagan idols in his presence, Brian. That's another charge."

"Fuck you. Fuckin' shoot me, you fuckin' prick."

"Another four charges." He tsks again, taking the pistol out and holding it butt-first to Lindianne. "You looked like you had some fun with it. Four shots, anywhere below the neck and above the belt."

[divisionary]

This time, there's some hesitation. Lindianne looks at Rabbit wide-eyed before looking at Voodoo. It takes a moment to steel herself before taking the pistol. "All right. That's fair game." No need to sight this time. She knows how it works. She knows it pulls ever-so-slightly to the left.

And she knows it's going to bruise no matter where she shoots.

"Nothing personal," she says to Voodoo as she points the pistol at him. "You know that." The first shot is to the shoulder. The second, to the bicep. The third, to his ribs. The fourth is a textbook shot for center mass. She quickly hands off the pistol to Rabbit before taking a step back.

"Don't even think about it," she says blandly. "My birthday is a secret." Now she winks at Voodoo. "And you'll never find it." No revenge for him.

[boston_bruiser]

It's all the better, really - considering how many simunition rounds and shots of schnapps they burn through before it's done, whatever payback Lindianne would get on her birthday would be just as bad, if not worse.

They alternate between shots for what seems like forever to Voodoo, and yet, the fun cannot last forever. An hour into the shenanigans, and their simunitions are completely spent, the bottle of schnapps empty. Voodoo looks like a wreck - his FROG shirt is dotted with wax and impact marks from all the simunition rounds, and in some places is stained with blood from where the impact has broken the skin. He's visibly drunk, too - what insults and provocations he throws out are slurred, and there's a glossy look in his eyes as he shakes himself off and bows his head, readying himself for the next round.

Rabbit sighs, regarding the scene before him. "I'm out, Parker's out - you got any more mags, Preacher?"

Preacher shakes his head. Rabbit sighs again. "Well, damn. And here I was hoping we'd be able to go a little more. -just one last thing-"

Quickly, he pulls a disposable camera out of his vest, lines up Voodoo in the viewfinder, and snaps off a shot. The resulting picture will look like this: Voodoo slack against the duct tape, sloshed out of his mind and his shirt bloody, and looking straight at the camera with a glossy stare.

"-there we go," he says, tucking the camera back into his vest. "Okey-doke - Preacher, watch the passageway. Parker," he says, producing a knife and cutting through the duct tape, "help me get his drunk ass out and to his bunk, would you?"

[divisionary]

"Yeah, yeah, I've got him," comes the answer from Rabbit's left. (Along with a blatantly-telegraphed grab for the camera. She's not going to let her own blackmail material stay in his hands forever.)

The instant Voodoo's arm is free, she slings it over her shoulders. He's a big guy; lugging around a massive machine gun will do that for a person. She staggers for a moment before shifting her posture. "Up you get," she half-croons. "Easy now, easy. No more schnapps for you, Brian."

No. Calling him by his real name feels strange. After so long spent with the SEALs, months under the metaphorical gun, those names are the ones that feel right. They're not Eric or David or Brian. They're Rabbit and Mother and Voodoo. Just like she's not Wraith. She's Parker.

SHD rules of engagement state that anonymity is the way to go. You use codenames and make sure no one knows who you are. The only place that information is kept is on ISAC. That little orange smartwatch is the only link to what makes an agent more than just a spook.

But the situation has changed. There's never really been a point to the subterfuge. It gives the civilians hope to have a name with the face. Less and less often is Wraith in use. Now it's just Parker. That seems right.

"Jesus, Voodoo, lean the other way. You're crushing me here."

[boston_bruiser]

Rabbit smirks and angles himself just out of Lindianne's reach - that camera is still safe and sound, and probably going under lock and key once they get back to Spook Country. "Just a heads-up - if we get a callout, and he's still blotto? Mother's probably gonna have you hump the pig."

(That'd be a sight to see.)

"Fugg you," Voodoo slurs, dragging his feet along the floor as he hangs like a dead weight in their grip. "Woulda- would kicked your fuggin' asses if- if you hadn't jumped me-"

"Yeah, well, you'd probably still find a way to trip over your own feet, pal," Rabbit says, grimacing as he pulls him along the hallway, Preacher taking point and ensuring the coast is clear. "Jesus but you're a fat fuck. We need to get you on some Jenny Craig."

The only response is a string of muttered curses from Voodoo as he makes himself even more of a dead weight between the two of them, Rabbit straining with every foot. "C'mon - don't be a bitch about it-"

It takes Preacher helping out to muscle him back to Spook Country and back into his bunk, but once they do, Rabbit leans down to slap a piece of paper onto Voodoo's chest, upon which is typed official-looking legalese.

"Your pardon from King Neptune himself."

As the three of them crowd around his bunk and his glassy eyes move amongst each of them, Rabbit smiles, socking him in the shoulder.

"Happy birthday, you lunkhead."