162

[divisionary]

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."

Comments

[divisionary]

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.

[boston_bruiser]

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?"

[divisionary]

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.

[boston_bruiser]

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."

[divisionary]

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?"

[boston_bruiser]

And now Mother smirks. Is he reveling in Lindianne's discomfort? Maybe just a little. "Until further notice? Faye says an op a day, sometimes more. We're the tip of her spear."

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."