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

[boston_bruiser]

It doesn't quite stink of CLP yet - the mailroom, that is - but it's getting there, in part because Voodoo's perched on a similar pile close by cleaning his pistol.

(Yes, the magazine's out, yes, the chamber's empty, yes, the safety's on. He quintuple-checked and locked the slide back just to be safe. He's a professional, give him some credit.)

"Me neither."

As he works a wire brush through the barrel:

"I miss havin' something to point and laugh at."

(Too harsh?)

"I mean, I never hated-it hated it. But - God, even as a kid I could never get into it. My dad gave me all kinds of shit for fallin' asleep during games."

He spares her a look and a brief smile. "Bet you expected me to be some kinda rabid Sox fan, huh?"

(It's kind of funny, the way he and Lindianne tend to gravitate towards each other no matter where they are. It's a curious kind of kinship, the kind that comes from holding the line against an island full of renegades that'd like to see nothing more than you hanging from a streetlight.)

He shakes his head, returning his attention to the pistol. "Nah. Bruins were more my team."