The Agent (Lindianne Parker) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
divisionary) wrote2016-09-22 01:11 pm
divisionary) wrote2016-09-22 01:11 pm
Old Soul
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.
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.
no subject
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-!"
no subject
"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."
no subject
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.
no subject
"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."
no subject
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."
no subject
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."
no subject
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.
no subject
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?"
no subject
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."
no subject
(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."