divisionary

162

It's been quiet ever since their return from the Chelsea pier the better part of a week ago. Work still continues in the Post Office to make it more hospitable, even as civilians stream in from further into the city. Lindianne's spent a lot of time elbow-deep in the heating system coaxing it back to life. There's little point in creature comforts if everyone freezes to death in the cold.

Heating is temperamental now. But it's warm enough for people to shed their coats and scarves. There aren't a lot of smiles to be found on the faces of either civilians or JTF personnel. The mood is still muted. No one's talking about "after the Dollar Flu" or "when things go back to normal" yet. There's not a lot of hope for things to ever improve.

But there's still brightness, if you know where to look.

Lindianne is perched on a pile of boxes in what was the mail room, turning a baseball hat over and over in her hands. There's dirt caked on the brim, but she looks at it like it's the greatest treasure she's ever received in her life. (A gift from a grateful woman for sparing some food.) Even a long way from Queens, small reminders have made the journey to Manhattan.

Small things like a Mets hat.

"Man. Didn't think I'd ever see this again." She looks up, smiling bashfully. "...Never thought I'd miss baseball this much."

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"Hey, anytime."

The reply is equally jestful as Voodoo puts the finishing touches on his cleaning efforts. A quick look down the chamber, then down the sights (muzzle pointed towards the ground and finger off the trigger - safety first, everybody), and he returns it to his chest holster. No need to load it just yet - not until they're sent out again.

"Yeah, I'll give you that," he says, returning his cleaning kit to a black hardshell case. "We wear - well." A soft chuckle, a self-depricating smirk. "You know what a 'Fall River tuxedo' is? Sports jacket over a hoodie. Try wearing that on Fifth."

"I'd take that bet in a heartbeat. It's not like campus is a high fashion catwalk."

It feels right, shooting the breeze like this. It isn't all 'work, work, work' any more. There's time enough to breathe. To take stock of things. To get some kind of equilibrium going. And, yes, to tease her teammates.

Speaking of... "Hey, I have a crazy idea. I got my hat. How about we find a sports store and get you one of your team?"

"The Bruins or the Sox? Either way, I'm in."

He hops off his pile of boxes, gathering up his gear. His watchcap goes on first, covering up brown hair short enough to look military, yet long enough to be styled if need be - yes, the stereotypes are true. Then it's his headset, his helmet, and the rest of his gear.

"How far outside the wire we goin'?"

"Not far." Lindianne shrugs on her usual blue jacket, now with quite a few patches covering up bulletholes. Then comes her pack. There's a moment while she adjusts the strap.

"I think there's one two blocks over. We'll take a look and see what it's got." She grins at Voodoo and winks. "Maybe some hair gel, while we're at it."

And who knows? Maybe coming back with a backpack full of sports gear might be just the thing to lift spirits.

Voodoo rolls his eyes, but he smiles in turn as he rounds up the rest of his gear. "Yeah, yeah, act like you're the first to take that shot."

Going outside without the M60 is unthinkable. Not only would it be embarrassing as hell to get into a firefight with only his pistol at his side, but he's so accustomed to it that it's only a minor exaggeration to say it's an extension of his body.

"Okay," Voodoo says as they descend the steps out onto the snowy Manhattan streets. "You know it. You take point."

"Oh, so I'm not? Who was the first? Mother or Preacher?" Probably Rabbit, but she's just giving him crap.

Lindianne leaves all of her guns behind except for a police-standard mm strapped to her leg. Can't go fully unarmed nowadays. But it's still within patrol range of HQ, so it should be safe.

Relatively.

She says nothing, merely laughing at him before taking off down the sidewalk. (It's just a game. The past week has her in high spirits. What harm is there in having just the tiniest bit of fun? It keeps the darkness away for a time.)

"Neither, if you can believe it. Rabbit, just as we got to BUD/S."

(DING-DING-DING.)

He must look quite the fool as he follows behind Lindianne, watching rooftops and the streets ahead with a careful eye, occasionally checking over his shoulder, but he doesn't mind. Complacency kills, and with a battlefield this unconventional, it's better to expect the unexpected.

As he turns to walk backwards for a spell so as to better keep an eye on their six (don't you dare laugh, Parker):

"So you're a Mets fan, huh?"

Small talk can't hurt.

"Sounds like something he'd do."

(Nailed it.)

Small talk can never hurt. And if she's tempted to have a chuckle at Voodoo walking backwards, she stifles it easily enough. "What can I say? I have a weakness for underdogs." Underdogs and seemingly impossible causes, anyway.

"Probably explains a lot, come to think of it."

"Yeah, from what I've heard, seems like SHD selects for a specific personality type when they look for agents."

And now he turns to walk like a normal person again, lengthening his strides to walk alongside Lindianne.

"Officially? I ain't got clearance to know much of anything about you guys. But the Teams've got a grapevine going like you wouldn't believe. That, and I know a few guys from a couple of my old Teams that got recruited. -don't think any of 'em are here now, though. Closest one was living out in Montana, last I checked."

"We have all kinds. Adrenaline junkies, lone wolves, know-it-alls, you name it, we've probably got one."

She shrugs one shoulder as they walk. It's a little late for operational security concerns, all things considered.

"Hopefully they're not." That would mean one of two things: dead or disavowed. Neither would be good. "As bad as things are here, it must be worse out there." It's not a pleasant thought. But it's interrupted by a welcome sight up ahead. "We're here."

The store is just as ransacked as most of the businesses in New York City. The front window is smashed open, the slide-down grate forced upward. The door has been kicked in. It's a sad sight. At least there's enough light to be able to see inside easily.

Lindianne vaults over the windowsill and vanishes into the dim interior. "Can't hurt to look, right?"

Voodoo opts for the door, stepping over what remains of it as he takes in the scene. A few shelves here and there have been thrown onto their side, blocking some of the aisles. Glass cracks under his boot as he steps inside.

"Left my wallet in my civvies. Maybe I'll write a check when this is over."

If the owner's even alive to collect.

A cursory search of his half of the store doesn't reveal much - it would seem the ones to break in here first got their pick of the litter.

"I got some cheap baseball gloves on my end. How about you?"

A beat, then:

"Maybe they got a stockroom in the back."

She's on her knees with one arm shoved between two fallen shelves. All she manages to come up with is an over-sized Yankees jersey. She holds it up, looking a little sheepish. "Bupkis aside from this." She shoves it into her pack anyway. Waste not, want not.

"There's always stockrooms for a place like this." Brushing dirt off of her knees, she hops the counter to check.

The cash register is gone, of course. The only thing left of it are wires ripped loose when someone stole it. There's a small door in the wall next to it. deadbolted. The owner took some precautions, at least.

"Jackpot."

One solid kick causes the wood around the lock to splinter. After that, it's simple to force it open. Inside, there are cardboard boxes piled higher than Lindianne's head. "That explains where everything is, I guess."

She turns back to Voodoo, grinning. "After you."

"I get first dibs, huh?"

He enters, a little more relaxed than before, but still mindful of where he puts his feet. On a lark, he takes a box of the top shelf and sets it down before he begins to dig through it.

"Got some Knicks jerseys," he says, holding some up for Lindianne to see. "More ballcaps, some socks..."

Another box. Then another, and another. Soon, he crouches down onto his haunches, shaking his head.

"Either I'm missing something, or you guys got even less love for the Sox than I thought."

One box. Knicks jerseys.

Another box. Yankees knit-caps.

Another box. Athletic socks. Those get tucked into Lindianne's pack with a great deal of care. (What? It's freezing and people need to not freeze their toes off.)

Another box. More Knicks memorabilia...

"Jesus. Yeah, I guess the Sox are still personae non grata in the boroughs." Like cats and dogs. She shakes her head as she shoves another box away. This one's full of baseballs, to match the gloves Voodoo found out on the sales floor.

"Sorry, man. I should have figured on basketball gear this close to the Garden." So much for that idea. "The big chain stores should probably have gear."

He shrugs. What can you do?

(Might as well follow her lead and get some cold-weather stuff for the civilians, though. The medics are strained enough without having to deal with frostbite.)

"I'm down for it. Where're those?"

If it's further downtown...yeesh. Mighty big risk for some gear.

(But hey, if he's going to be in an archrival's territory, why not show some hometown pride and tempt fate a little more than he already has?)

"Further downtown, I think. There's a big chain out on Staten Island, but..." But no way is she going to even attempt to make that crossing in anything other than the ferry. The Hudson is cold, okay?

"We'll keep hitting the little stores. There's got to be something." The smile she gives Voodoo is probably a little too wide to be honest. (They can carry back more stuff together than one at a time.)

There are 3 more stores before they find a scrap of anything other than pinstripes. (In one, Lindianne finds a dusty box of Mets jerseys and makes several insulted noises about the condition.) The fourth store is the mother lode.

"Hey, heads up!" And if Voodoo doesn't move, he's about to have a Bruins cap jammed on his head.

"Wha-"

He's long since taken off his helmet - it's just another pound or so of gear he doesn't need to use right now. It sits on his waist, and so when Lindianne pops the cap on his head, it gels with the watchcap and the tactical headset to make Voodoo look like he's in the running for angriest hockey fan in America - which, to be fair, he would sweep, if not for legacy left by the paternal side of his family.

Not that he knows it's a Bruins cap at first, though. He'll just pop it off his head to make sure it's not, God forbid, a Yankees cap.

Upon seeing the logo, he smiles and prods Lindianne in the side - gently - with his elbow. "Wiseass. -but thanks."

The sticker on the brim is the first thing to go, of course, tossed to the floor before he works on bending the brim. It's true, this store is one of the few that somehow hasn't been worked over by looters. There's gear from sports teams all across the country, from Sacramento Kings to Florida Marlins to Cincinnati Bengals. There's even some San Diego Padres jerseys - and why not? As far as baseball teams go, they're harmless.

(Still no Red Sox gear, though. He'd be surprised if there were so much as an actual red sock in the entire metropolitan area.)

A Mets jersey with 31 stitched loudly across the back catches his eye, and he takes it off the rack to get a second look at the name above.

"'Piazza'."

He quirks an eyebrow and turns it towards Lindianne. "One of your guys?"

If it's possible to get whiplash from snapping your head around, Lindianne probably just gave herself a bad case of it. "31?! Oh my God, let me see that right now." She reaches out to gingerly take the jersey from Voodoo. She looks at it. Then, softly: "Mike. He was their catcher. And a damn good one."

This jersey, unlike the others, is folded with the utmost care. She tucks it in her bag. (This one won't be going to the civilians. This one's staying with her.) She looks a little misty-eyed for a moment. Nostalgia for a more peaceful time.

For a time before everything went to shit.

"...Thanks, Voodoo." She means it. "Heh. That hat suits you." She isn't denying the charge of being a smartass, though. Sometimes the situation calls for smartasses. If you can't laugh at the end of the world, then there's no point in going on.

Sometimes, you have to fight despair with sarcasm.

The sum extent of his baseball knowledge, beyond basic rules and regulations, has been occasionally refreshing his memory on the Yankees' roster so he knows who to cuss out whenever they come up in conversation. Still - it's obvious this is a special moment for Lindianne, and so he maintains a respectful silence.

Times like these, it's good to find something to ground yourself in a time before all this happened.

And then, re: the hat:

"You think?" He smiles and fiddles with the brim, tugging it down a little further on his face. "I like it, too."

And then he strikes a pose, his stance bladed, feet set and knees bent, M60 at low-ready. He's staring a hole at some indeterminate point on the far wall, eyes barely visible under the brim of the hat. It looks every bit like something you'd see on a low-budget G.I Joe knockoff - they'd never let it slide on a recruiting poster.

"How do I look?"

Don't snicker. Don't snicker. Don't-

Well, crap.

She holds her composure for a few moments before breaking down into giggles. "You look like a bad action movie poster," she says once she's regained her composure. "The guys would laugh you out of the state."

It's like how civilians tend to think of special forces: cold, vicious, ready to pounce at a moment's notice. Kind of hard to shake images of Rambo when you're busy posing like that. Anyone who spends more than 30 seconds from Voodoo or his guys would learn very quickly how wrong that is.

"Kinda wish I had a camera for posterity."

And so she could see how the others would react. (They'd probably laugh their asses off.)

Voodoo rolls his eyes as she breaks down laughing, relaxing his stance and tapping the brim of the cap to bring it up a little higher on his head. "Everyone's a critic."

As he starts looking around the store for anything else they can take back:

"Better wear it while I can. Mother'll knock it off my head as soon as we make it back to the post office."

A beat.

"-it ain't that he don't like the Bruins. More like he's real strict on no covers indoors," he says, rapping the hat with his knuckles.

A flash of blue and red from beneath an overturned shelf catches his attention, and he gets down on one knee to move it. Beneath is a child's Red Sox hoodie - dusty, but intact.

"Here we go," Voodoo says, brushing it off as he stands back up. "Get 'em while they're young."

"You can always wear it when out in the field. I won't tell." Problem solved.

She cracks a smile at the sight of the hoodie. Personae non grata? Apparently not. "Heh. Look at how small it is! That's pretty cute." No doubt there's at least one kid back at the Post Office who would want that thing in a heartbeat. It isn't very warm. It wouldn't do much good against a blizzard in the heart of winter. But it's... enough.

A long pause. Then:

"...On a scale of one to ten, how evil would it be to make a trek to Yankee Stadium and stick that in the locker room?"

Probably at least one hundred.

Voodoo looks at Lindianne.

Then at the hoodie.

Then back to Lindianne.

"I'd wanna stick it in Clemens' or Jeter's."

He shrugs.

"But I'll settle for A-Roid's."

Echoing her:

"I won't tell if you don't."

A pause.

A very long pause.

Then, finally, with absolutely no concern whatsoever: "Eh, fuck it, it'll make for an interesting story if they ever play again. A-Rod's locker it is."

It's going to be a long trek, though. Across the entirety of Manhattan, across the river, to the stadium, and back. Mother would be having conniptions about it if he knew. Good thing he won't ever know.

"Shit, maybe we can finagle a ride in. You think that Staten Island chopper guy- what was his callsign, Judge? Think he'd give us a lift? We could always say it's for resupply purposes."

And nobody would ever ask twice.

He has to pause and think about that for a second - on the surface, it doesn't sound like such a good idea. Involving more people in a lie is a good way to get yourself tripped up and found out.

Then again, walking through 14 miles of quarantined Manhattan on foot doesn't sound so great, either. Not to mention the time involved - three hours there and back, just to fuck with Old Man Rodriguez's shit?

And so he shrugs, nodding his assent. "Fuck it, why not? I'll raise him on the AFO freq. We can be in the air inside 15 minutes."

(Mother, being a Senior Chief, is inhumanly fast when it comes to enforcing discipline and enacting punishments - but Voodoo's hoping they'll be gone before then. Whatever punishment he gets after they touch back down at Chelsea will be worth it.)

"See anything else you like?" he asks, nodding to the shelves of as-yet unclaimed apparel and gear. "Some of the kids might dig some equipment to keep them busy."

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