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."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

This is such a terrible idea.

As soon as they touch down, she's out the door right behind Voodoo. The rotor wash rustles the grass in center field. Dead grass and dust is kicked up into the air in an eye-stinging cloud. She coughs for a moment before setting off at a brisk walk.

"Looks like it." It's eerie. The park is always crowded during games. Seeing it like this, in the long quiet between post-season and Opening Day, it's not a pleasant feeling. (Hopefully enough people survived to ever play again.)

It's strange that no one's set up camp on the field or in the bleachers. The place feels huge enough to act as a forward base or a field hospital or- hell, even a weapons depot. but there's nothing. Nothing but them.

"At the very least, this'll be one hell of a story to tell. Won't it?"

No one's ever going to believe it. It's crazy. 'We took a chooper all the way to the Bronx just to annoy the Yankees with Red Sox gear' is too far-fetched.

And yet, here they are. Doing just that.

"It'd make for one hell of a Kodak moment."

If they still had Kodaks. Or cameras to spare, digital or otherwise.

It's an easy trot up to the bullpen, Rabbit's halligan jostling against the side of his pack. It, along with the rest of the field, looks like it's in need of a groundskeeping crew - with nobody to attend to it, the dirt around the practice mounds has clumped together in an unsightly scene. To their front is a nondescript door, solid blue in color.

"This must be it. Direct shot to the tunnels around the stadium. We just follow the signs for the clubhouse."

Voodoo tries it. Locked.

"-yup, figures."

He reaches around to take the halligan in both hands - then just as he's about to swing for the fences on the doorframe, he turns to Lindianne, hand held out in a fist.

"Rock-paper-scissors to bust the lock?"

A beat.

"You're serious. -Hell, why not?" She holds up her fist, grinning at him toothily. "But just know you're not winning."

Rock. Paper. Scissors.

When her fist comes down for the last time, it turns into her hand held flat. Paper. From her experience, most people tend to stick to rock right off the bat. It's a safe bet.

Rabbit would be laughing at them right now. Two adults standing in the bullpen playing rock-paper-scissors like a couple of little league kids trying to solve batting order.

Good thing she never played when she was younger.

Voodoo is known for many things. Originality and subtlety are not among them.

And so, true to Lindianne's intuition, he plays rock, groaning as she plays paper. "Bullshit."

But, to his credit, he doesn't protest beyond that as he clears the doorway to give space for her to do her work.

"Alright. Picks or hoolie?" he says, holding the halligan aloft.

That definitely gets a laugh. "Sucks to be you, Voodoo."

She hesitates for a moment before gesturing for the lockpicks. No sense in destroying everything just for the sake of a prank. "Gimme the picks. I got this."

Picking locks is standard training for all SHD agents. It's just difficult locating intact kits anywhere in New York right now.

Lindianne is focused while she tries to pick the lock. It's slow, methodical, precise work. But the moment the pins trip is the best feeling in the world. She grins. Standing up from her spot, she gently opens the door.

"After you," she says with a theatrical bow.

And, eyes-a-rollin', Voodoo enters. The door leads to a long white hallway, a tall navy blue stripe running in the middle on either side. A nearby sign indicates the clubhouse is straight ahead - though how far, it doesn't say.

"'s weird," Voodoo says. "End of the world, in the middle of Yankee central, you'd think somebody'd set up shop here. Surprised it ain't a field hospital or refugee camp."

Maybe it's paranoia talking, but...

"You think there's a reason folks stayed away?"

It's so quiet. It's bringing up unpleasant memories of the Dark Zone. If music starts playing, she's turning tail and running straight out to the outfield. Screw that.

"Maybe they didn't think of it?" The excuse sounds hollow to her own ears. They're a few yards down the hallway when something clangs in the distance. Lindianne pauses mid-step. "...Did you hear that?"

It wasn't the sound of the pipes freezing.

There's a long silence. Then, from down the hall, there are the echos of sneakers squeaking on bare concrete.

"Shit-! Guess we're not alone."

"Get behind me."

The corridors here are winding and full of blind spots - not the best place for the pig. He lets it drop across his chest as he draws his pistol. His steps are even and measured, slow yet swift.

"Didn't sound like a boot," he says. "Cleaners and LMB wouldn't run. Neither would Rikers."

He glances back at Lindianne. "You didn't lose contact with anyone here, did you?"

"No. All ours were in Manhattan."

She's pulled her own pistol from its holster. What she wouldn't give for her trusty rifle. But you can't solve problems by wishing for them.

Her steps are as slow and quiet as Voodoo's. No sense in provoking whoever or whatever is making that noise. She has her back pressed against the wall as she moves.

"Not any of them. They'd have to run the cordon." Break quarantine. Bring the chaos out of their tiny corner of the world and unleash it on the rest of New York City. If it hasn't already spread that far.

The eerie silence out there is proof enough that things have gone wrong in the wider world.

"A looter, maybe?" She peers around Voodoo to get a better view of the corridor. "Not groundskeepers."

The silence is long. Then, from one of the blind spots, a figure breaks from cover and runs down the hallway towards the clubhouse. It's a small figure in a sweatshirt three sizes too large for it. Its sneakers are in tatters and peeling away from the soles.

Lindianne pushes past Voodoo. "Holy shit, wait!"

The motion makes him draw up, but it's the size of the target that makes him pause.

"The fuck-

-Jesus Christ. A kid all the way out here in the Bronx. Just surviving day to day, probably on their own. How long's it been like this for them?

(And then he's chasing after the kid, hot on Lindianne's heels.)

"Hey! Hey, kid, wait up!"

The kid doesn't stop. Even as Lindianne gains on him, it's obvious that the kid is terrified of the both of them.

It's cold in the depths of the stadium. The heat's not going; there's no one to keep the systems running. Even the hallway is dim. There are battery-powered lanterns set around on piles of debris and boxes. Someone's been trying to make a decent run of it down here.

The kid doesn't stop running. He takes off like a shot towards the clubhouse. He gets there half a step ahead of Lindianne. She grabs him by the shoulder, turning him around to face her. "Hey, hey, wait, slow down!" The hoodie falls back.

Poor kid looks about 10, all freckles on his nose and big brown eyes. He flails, knocking himself loose. She backs away, hands raised. He's skinny. Pale.

"Sweetie, what're you doing in here?!"

The answer comes from the locker room. There's a terrified whimper from inside. After a moment, a little girl in pigtails pokes her head out into the hallway. And if the boy in the hoodie looks young, she looks even younger. She's probably barely older than 7. They both have the same brown hair.

Lindianne inhales sharply through her teeth. "Oh my God. Voodoo, weapon down."

Voodoo hesitates for a beat - it's still hard to believe someone managed to carve a home out of this place - but he complies, sliding his pistol back into his chest holster.

(Fuck. He's no good with kids. It's Rabbit who's got the magic touch, what with him being a dad and all.

Better fake it 'til he makes it.)

"Hey."

He slowly gets down on one knee, hand open to (hopefully) show he means no harm.

"It's okay. We're not gonna hurt you."

Reflexively, he tugs on the right shoulder of his coveralls - but there's no flag there. Enabling plausible deniability is starting to cause more problems than it's solving in this op.

"What's your name?"

The little girl says nothing. She just hides behind her brother and buries her face in his shoulder.

The boy, however, looks at Voodoo and Lindianne before turning his head away. "...Nancy." It's obvious from the way he keeps shying away from eye contact that he's taken 'don't talk to strangers' to heart.

Lindianne crouches down, trying her best to smile reassuringly. (She's not great with kids, either. She can barely handle college students.) "Nancy? That's a very pretty name. Is she your sister?"

A beat.

He nods once, jerkily.

"Are you two alone here, kiddo?"

This time, he shakes his head.

A pause. "...Oh. Oh dear."

Voodoo gives a look to Lindianne. It's hard to decipher his expression in the lamplight, but it's something along the lines of tread carefully. This far from Madison Square Garden, anything can happen.

Then, as he looks back to the kids:

"Who's with you?"

The answer comes from behind.

"Hey!"

There's a man in a thick black parka standing in the locker room door with a rucksack full of boxes. He drops it to the ground and goes for a handaxe clipped to his belt. Between his fur-lined hood and a scarf wrapped around his neck, it's hard to see his face. But the look in his eyes is answer enough.

He's angry.

"Get away from the kids!"

For the second time today, Lindianne puts her hands up in the universal gesture for 'totally harmless in every way shape and form'. She spares a glance at the rucksack. (Boxes of granola bars and cereal. And sticking out under it all is, of all things, a coloring book.)

"Sir, we're not the bad guys here. Just- just calm down, okay?"

She glances at Voodoo with her eyebrows raised. A little help?

Voodoo spins at the shout, and one of the first things he sees is that this dude, whoever he is, is going for an axe. And so what's his first instinct? Got it in one - that pistol's back out again in a flash, pointed right at the man's chest.

(Remember when we said he's not known for subtlety or originality? Add diplomacy onto that, too. Sorry, Lindianne.)

As she glances at him, he nods, his gaze not leaving the man. "United States Navy. She's SHD. We're JTF."

As much as we'd like to say otherwise, his finger is very much on the trigger and ready to apply pressure, should the need arise.

"We got a safehouse in Manhattan - docs, hot food, warm beds, you name it. We got a helicopter overhead that can take you there. So this can go in two directions - a good one, or a real bad one. It all depends on what you do in the next few seconds. Think this one through, pal."

He thinks it through.

And then he clips his axe back onto his belt.

His hands are shaking. Behind him, Nancy and her brother crowd in to hide behind him. He looks over his shoulder at them before talking again. "It's okay, kids," he says quietly. "We're okay."

He turns back to Voodoo and Lindianne. "JTF, like the people blocking off the bridges to Manhattan. Yeah. I know who you are." And from the slight frown on his face, it's obvious that he's not a fan. "It's been hell here. Where've you been all this time?"

"We've been trying to get through this out here, and not a peep from any of you people! And now you come swanning in, scaring kids, pointing a gun at me, and you expect me to just take your word for it? Where the hell do you get off?!"

The boy tugs on the man's sleeve, startling him out of his venting. He looks back at the kids. When he pulls down his hood and scarf, it's clear just how rough things have been. His cheeks are sallow. There are dark circles under his eyes. Even despite that, there's still some fire in his eyes.

"Just... put the gun down, okay? Not in front of Nancy and Jordan," he says after a moment.

And Voodoo complies, coming up out of his shooting stance. One hand relaxes at his side, while the other holsters his pistol.

(He offers no excuses, no lame "sorries". They're already here too late.)

"Judge Two-Two, Voodoo."

"Go Voodoo."

"Mike Charlie. Touchdown at center field. Bringing out three civilians."

"Roger, center field, bringing out three civvies."

And now Voodoo gestures to the dropped rucksack. Their shadows flicker against the wall in the lamplight. "Pack up what you want to take. We'll help you with whatever you need."

The man laughs bitterly, spreading his hands like he's a game show host. "We don't have much."

Sleeping bags. Backpacks. (There are far too many tiny ones for just Nancy and Jordan alone.) Lamps guttering on dying battery power. Tins of ravioli, of peaches, of anything that can be eaten cold and not make someone sick. Coloring books filled with aimless scribbling. Stuffed animals. Heaps of worn-out clothing.

A lone Colt M4 leaning against a locker. (The nametag above the door says "Rodriguez". Lindianne pauses there before shaking her head and walking away. It's not worth it now. There's bigger things at stake.)

The children stick to Lindianne while she helps them pack. The man, however, stays where he is. He watches them for a moment before sighing. "Merry Christmas." There's no mirth in that statement.

A long pause.

"Their names are Nancy and Jordan Rosenthal. Their parents-" He pauses, swallowing. "Their parents got the bug. It was four days ago." Nothing else has to be said. He picks up his pack from where he dropped it, swinging it back onto his shoulders. "I tried my best."

Voodoo watches them pack up, glancing at the man as he recounts his tale. In the lamplight, his eyes are hard to read, but he seems - oddly reserved.

"Not your fault."

It's a weak platitude, he knows that much, but it feels like it needs to be said.

He pats him on the shoulder, once. "Come on. Let's get you out of here."

He turns to Lindianne. "Need help with anything, Parker?"

Lindianne looks up from helping Jordan put on his backpack. "No," she says. "I think we're good to go." She shrugs mildly before standing up. "Not... exactly what we were expecting, was it?"

There won't be any awkward explanations. No need for excuses. They left with Judge Two-Two and came back with three people in sore need of help.

That's what their job is: to help who they can.

She starts to head back the way they came, then pauses when she's near Voodoo. She claps a hand on his shoulder, giving it a reassuring little shake. "Thanks, Voodoo."

Thanks for having my back.

Voodoo, in turn, pats her hand and tries to smile. It's not easy. Not after seeing all those empty sleeping bags. Everyone they were too late to save.

"No sweat."

Perhaps reflexively, he gives her hand a gentle squeeze, then keys his radio.

"Judge Two-Two, coming out."

"Check. Flaring for landing."

The flight back to Chelsea is muted. They've saved three, of course, but it's a drop in the bucket in the city of millions. And if they hid out without the JTF knowing about them, it begs the question: how many more are out there, surviving on their own?

As they land, JTF in green vests rush up to the helo, braving the rotor-wash to escort the three of them to the aid station for a checkup. Mother is standing off to the side, arms crossed over his chest.

He's looked happier.

"I walk out of the Situation Room with Faye to find my machine gunner, and one of her agents, have taken a helo to Yankee Stadium."

He looks from Lindianne, to Voodoo, then back to Lindianne, with a look that could melt ice.

"No ops plan. No running it up the chain of command. Not even so much as telling anyone where they were going. Why is that?"

First thought: holy mother of God, Mother is scary when angry.

Second thought: oh.

To her credit, Lindianne doesn't wither under the scrutiny of one very angry Navy SEAL. -Okay, maybe just a little. She takes a half-step back reflexively before squaring her shoulders. (Sorry, Voodoo, but you don't get to take heat for this one.)

"My op, sir. We never hear word from outside the cordon." Her she jerks a thumb back at the helicopter. "You boys and Judge are the first life I've seen from outside since activation."

Faye must be furious. Or worse. She must have thought that...

"...There were people in that stadium until a few days ago, sir. And JTF didn't know. Who else is out there in need of help? How long are we gonna drag our feet because of the fucking First Wave?"

Because that's why. Faye must have thought Lindianne went rogue like the others.

If that appeases Mother, he doesn't show it.

"Don't try to bullshit your way out of this, Parker. This show's not yours to run, and you know it."

And now his gaze shifts to Voodoo, who, to his credit, is standing tall and (somewhat) proud despite the figurative pile of shit they are both knee-deep in.

"Report to Captain Escobar in the mess hall. You're on KP duty for the rest of the night." Mother takes a few paces forward, leaning into Voodoo's personal space. "You pull shit like this again, and I'll show you how the chiefs kept us in line back in the 80s. I guarantee you, you will not like it."

"Aye, Senior Chief."

"Get going."

With a nod to Lindianne, Voodoo jogs off towards the post office, and Mother returns to glowering at her.

"You're not one of mine. So I don't get a say in what happens to you. Be grateful for that."

He takes his hands off his chest and sticks them in his pockets, his gaze softening somewhat. "Funny you should mention the First Wave. While you were out, we got a new lead on them. Seems they've fallen in with some bad company. Got new leads on all the acts in town, actually - the Rikers, the Cleaners...things are going to be pretty busy outside the wire soon. If I were you, I'd get my things in order."

I only answer to the Strategic Homeland Division, sir.

Yeah. Like that'll go over well.

She holds her composure until Mother turns on Voodo. Only then does she exhale in quiet relief. It could have much worse, all things considered. As he leaves, she throws him a discrete thumbs-up. It doesn't help the backflip her stomach does when Mother turns back to her, but it's a small comfort.

(It's only later, while Faye lectures her about "reckless behavior" and "conduct unbecoming" and "taking stupid risks", that she retracts that thought.)

"...I'm sorry, what?" The peace never seems to last long. Or at all. "...Oh, you have got to be kidding me. How busy, exactly?"

(no subject)

boston_bruiser - 2016-05-07 01:53 (UTC) - Expand

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only