This Bitter Earth

[divisionary]

It rains the day after the mission to the consulate. Not the gentle downpour of a spring day, but the bitter pounding rage of a hurricane. Benitez mutters curses, and the JTF piles sandbags in front of the door like they expect another Sandy to break out over Manhattan. The rain does not breach the perimeter.

Rikers huddle under awnings and inside ruined buildings. Cleaners take shelter in the sewer system, trying desperately to find somewhere dry. (Some do not succeed to take to the streets again.) Rioters cling to scraps of dry pavement and walls upwind of the storm. Civilians stay inside, doors barred and windows locked as raindrops smash themselves against the glass.

There is silence from the LMB.

Lindianne Parker is on the roof of the Post Office, face turned into the wind coming off the Hudson River. Her dark green shirt is soaked clean through to the skin. Wind whips against her face until her cheeks redden. She does not flinch. She does not move. Half a year ago, she sat here and stared out over the Hudson as the sun beat down.

(He leaned against the parapet, shirtless, a fan of old intel reports beating helplessly against the heat in his hand. His eyes clear and bright as he gazed longingly at the river.)

There is a length of paracord around her neck. From it dangles a rabbits foot. She does not reach for it. She does not hold it in her fist like a drowning man clinging to wreckage. She does not shed tears. Her mouth does not taste of salt water. There is not a shirt under her bunk that is stained the dark rust of blood.

There is not a body lying in the medical wing with a bullet wound through his torso. He did not bleed to death while Parker and his team fought their way across the length and breadth of the island to save him. He did not bleed his last while Dr. Kandel tried to massage his heart back to life.

(He looked at her, a twinkle of mischief in his eyes as he held an open Tabasco bottle between his fingers.)

Thunder crashes overhead. Parker bows her head, presses it to her folded hands.

(He held a Polaroid in his hands, eye pressed to the viewfinder. "How about you, Parker?")

And there, alone, she weeps.

("Smile?")

Comments

[survivors_of_new_york]

[Behind her, rusted hinges scrape as the door opens. Boots plod through the rainwater collecting on the roof, coming closer as thunder echoes through the dead streets.

Mother's seen better days. They all have. There's not much comfort to be had here - even less elsewhere on the island. His eyes are bloodshot, his gaze sunken and hollow. Dirt and concrete dust matt his beard, and when he lays his hand on Lindianne's shoulder his grip isn't near what it used to be.]



It wasn't your fault.

[divisionary]

[Her shoulders are shaking.]

[There is no comfort to be found here. Below, even as life carries on, the spark has gone out. National Guard personnel go through the motions robotically. Civilians do not laugh, and those that do sound hollow. Heather does not strum her guitar idly as a counterpoint. Alexis's piano has fallen silent. The fire has gone out in the JTF's belly. Not even embers remain. There is no comfort to be found here. There never will be.]

[She does not turn when the hinges scrape. She does not turn as boots slosh through rainwater. She does not turn as a fatherly hand falls on her shoulder. (The shaking does not stop when the frailty of the gesture becomes apparent.) She does not respond at first.]

[(He whistled a jaunty tune, firing pin spinning around his finger. A flick of the wrist sent it into a storm drain, followed by a cheeky grin. Mischief danced in the corner of his eye.)]

[It takes a moment to find her voice.]

Bullshit. It was.

[She does not turn around. She can't. The rain drowns her tears and whisks them away. Better that way. The grief chokes her voice, blinds her eyes, claws and rages and screams until she can barely remain standing. Facing Mother would be the last blow.]

[It was his man who paid the ultimate price, and for what?]

...Should have known. Should have fucking known this would happen again.

[An ISAC, orange glow reflecting off a pool of blood until it looked sickly. A grainy video feed. The sound of helicopter blades beating against the snow. The hammerblow of an explosion. The crack of a pistol. The split-second pause between the bullet going through his SAPI plate and the crack of the rifle.]

[The hand that falls on Mother's is as heavy a burden as she dare pass on.]

[survivors_of_new_york]

[Being a chief in the Navy teaches you things. It teaches you how to lead men, how to get the dirty things done, how to accomplish missions the officers won't sully their hands with. It teaches you the kind of psychology you won't learn in a textbook - how to dig deep into the psyche of your guys and make them want to impress you, when to kick their ass, when to go soft, and how.

He'd be lying if he said he hadn't been thinking about the consulate run. He'd be lying if he said he slept last night, too.

The grip on her shoulder steadies and firms as Mother collects himself. Neptune still needs a leader. Panther and Wolfpack might be gone, but he's still breathing, can still collect himself. He needs to be the one people look to and draw strength from, like you'd draw water from a well. He needs to be a rock.]

If anyone is at fault, Parker, it's me.

[Thunder rumbles through the urban canyon.]

My team. My guys. My responsibility. And if you keep going over "what-ifs", you're going to self-destruct.

[Thirty years in the teams, six leading these boys. All of them are like sons to him. He'd wanted to curl up into a ball when Kandel gave him the news, but the only tears he'd allowed himself were when he'd had to break the news to Parker, Preacher, and Voodoo.]

Listen.


There's going to be a memorial down in the main hall in thirty minutes. I want you to come down with me, get some hot food and dry clothes. If you don't want to stay after the first five minutes, I won't make you.

[divisionary]

[Thunder rumbles. Parker wishes it would be louder, would rattle her teeth, would drown out her thoughts until there's nothing else. But it fades after a moment, and the only thing left are echoes. Then there's nothing left but memory. That's the only thing she has left of him.]

[(She pressed her back against the door to the Dark Zone, watching as the two wrestled like a pair of lion cubs. He glanced at her, unfamiliar, unknown, and there was a smile under his mask.)]

[She shrugs out from under Mother's hand, finally turning towards him. She's soaked to the bone, hair flattened and dripping rain. Her cheeks are wet. Her eyes are red and watering. She says nothing for a time. Just clenches her jaw until it looks like her teeth will shatter. Lightning flashes overhead. Thunder follows a few seconds later. The heart of the storm is over the Post Office now. Not long before it breaks.]

[(He told them in the Medical Wing. Lindianne, still in her blood-soaked shirt, said nothing. She didn't lift her head from staring at the floor. Voodoo pressed the paracord into her hands and lingered for a moment, his hand covering hers in silent grief. She did not look at them as she walked away. No one stopped her as she left.)]

[Silence.]

[Then, mutely, Parker nods. Her voice is raspy from crying.]

...Okay. Okay.

[This time, when her eyes well up, she does not sob. A tear falls and is swept away by the wind.]

[survivors_of_new_york]

[Mother takes her by the shoulder and guides her downstairs. Rain leaks from saturated insulation as they make the final few turns into the BoO proper, past Kandel (she nods to Mother in a way that seems to say I'm sorry) and Faye (a whispered word or two to Mother, a touch on the shoulder and a keep your head up, Agent to Parker).

Few others approach. Few others seem to be able to help. Each of them is adrift in their own grief, trying and failing to keep their spirits buoyed. Two cops shoot the shit from across a water cooler, eyes unfocused on the cups in their hand.

Losing Wolfpack - four Delta shooters in one day - hurt. They were good assets, damn good men. But they had kept to themselves for the most part, hadn't really socialized with the civilians in the BoO. Major Blaber was too much the professional for that.

Rabbit was different. Everyone knew Rabbit, and Rabbit knew everyone by name. At six in the morning he could be teaching some of the baristas how to make Navy coffee. A few hours later he'd be entertaining a gaggle of kids not much older than his own with an array of card tricks. He made his rounds around the BoO almost out of habit, checking in on everyone, effortlessly keeping their spirits buoyed with his quick smile and wit.

It almost made you forget how much of a fighter he was when the rounds started flying. There'd never been so much a shake in his grip as he lined up shot after shot, making on-the-fly ballistic calculations look easy.

It had all counted until it didn't, until he laid cold and motionless on the medbay table.

Mother circles Lindi around to the lobby, where a candlelight vigil is starting to take shape. Some people have brought pictures to pin to a memorial wall. Others watch videos. Voodoo and Preacher meet Mother halfway, and he nods.]

We all here?

[Voodoo nods, wipes his mouth, averts his eyes.] Yeah. What's left of us.

[He winces slightly, catching himself.] Sorry. Just on edge.

[divisionary]

[Her boots squelch with every step, her clothes dripping rain like a trail of breadcrumbs as the two of them walk down into the Base of Operations. A few servicemen brush past them as they go. No one says a word. The silence is stifling. Few dare risk breaking it and letting the grief loose to rampage through the ranks. The ground feels as though it's been knocked out from under their feet.]

[Lindi does not respond to Kandel. She does not respond to Faye's (futile) gesture of comradeship. Benitez sees them as they go by, but says nothing. The look in his eyes says that he knows the weight of loss far too well and far too often. Anyone who catches a glimpse at Lindi can see the same hollow look in her own face. She may be physically here, but she's gone.]

[She's been gone since they got the news.]

[The memorial wall is a small one, a far cry from the monster at Camp Hudson. This one is more personal; the photos are of civilians, loved ones, treasured friends, taken by the Green Poison or the fall of New York or the factions or just the cruel nature of this world. The photos of Rabbit begin to multiply; very rarely is he not smiling in them. A few people weep quietly. Most are silent.]

[Rada stands with her father, hand-in-hand. She somberly tacks up a photo of her own. It's the Valentine's Day dance, an image of her riding on Rabbit's shoulders and both of them caught in a peal of laughter. Lindi spares it a glance before staring down at her boots. She does not dare look at Rada. She can't.]

[It's only when Voodoo and Preacher arrive that she comes back to some modicum of life.]

Y... yeah. Hey.

[She tries to fake a smile for them. It dies before getting anywhere near her eyes.]