Whiskey Tango
Sep. 21st, 2020 11:47 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
divisionaryThere’s a trick to contacting an ISAC unit that’s been flagged as rogue.
[They stand together on the helipad for the first time in a year. Snow falls in fat flakes and covers the world in a layer of pure monochrome. Lindianne brings the glasses. Faye brings the bottle.]
It isn’t easy by design; the Division thought ahead for the possibility of its agents going rogue. They just hadn’t counted on the number growing exponentially. Some days, it feels to her as if the red beacons outnumber the orange ones.
She carries on; there isn’t a choice.
[They raise a toast there, in the shadow of the Brooklyn Bridge. The first few settlements have reclaimed apartment complexes across the breadth of Manhattan. The factions have been driven back. The darkness that has haunted them for years is lifting. Faye winks her one good eye as they clink glasses together.]
[Lindianne’s mouth tastes of whiskey.]
Her mouth tastes sour as she punches in the necessary overrides and numbers on her ISAC’s interface. The numbers float like ghosts in her contact lenses. She takes a deep breath. Haven is quiet; it’s the middle of the night. Benitez turned in hours ago to rack out. She thinks, briefly, of a safe house in Brooklyn.
She presses the final number. Breathes.
Speaks.
“SHD callsign Wraith, broadcasting to BTSU agent Lau. Whiskey sours. You know where to find me.”
[“Best whiskey sours in Manhattan. I’ll buy you a drink if we take back the city. ...Sorry. I mean when we take it back.”]
[They stand together on the helipad for the first time in a year. Snow falls in fat flakes and covers the world in a layer of pure monochrome. Lindianne brings the glasses. Faye brings the bottle.]
It isn’t easy by design; the Division thought ahead for the possibility of its agents going rogue. They just hadn’t counted on the number growing exponentially. Some days, it feels to her as if the red beacons outnumber the orange ones.
She carries on; there isn’t a choice.
[They raise a toast there, in the shadow of the Brooklyn Bridge. The first few settlements have reclaimed apartment complexes across the breadth of Manhattan. The factions have been driven back. The darkness that has haunted them for years is lifting. Faye winks her one good eye as they clink glasses together.]
[Lindianne’s mouth tastes of whiskey.]
Her mouth tastes sour as she punches in the necessary overrides and numbers on her ISAC’s interface. The numbers float like ghosts in her contact lenses. She takes a deep breath. Haven is quiet; it’s the middle of the night. Benitez turned in hours ago to rack out. She thinks, briefly, of a safe house in Brooklyn.
She presses the final number. Breathes.
Speaks.
“SHD callsign Wraith, broadcasting to BTSU agent Lau. Whiskey sours. You know where to find me.”
[“Best whiskey sours in Manhattan. I’ll buy you a drink if we take back the city. ...Sorry. I mean when we take it back.”]