The Agent (Lindianne Parker) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
divisionary) wrote2016-05-02 01:00 pm
divisionary) wrote2016-05-02 01:00 pm
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."
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."
no subject
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
And now that smirk disappears. "Briefing tomorrow, 0500, Situation Room. Be there."
He looks around, taking in all the tents, floodlights, and HESCO barriers of the pier. The helicopter slowly winds down until its rotors come to a stop, and now JTF mechanics take to it as the pilot and crew chief step out, going over their checklists.
"We start the pushback tomorrow. We're not stopping until this city is ours again."