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."