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

[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."