Recent Entries

Whiskey Tango

There’s a trick to contacting an ISAC unit that’s been flagged as rogue.

[They stand together on the helipad for the first time in a year. Snow falls in fat flakes and covers the world in a layer of pure monochrome. Lindianne brings the glasses. Faye brings the bottle.]

It isn’t easy by design; the Division thought ahead for the possibility of its agents going rogue. They just hadn’t counted on the number growing exponentially. Some days, it feels to her as if the red beacons outnumber the orange ones.

She carries on; there isn’t a choice.

[They raise a toast there, in the shadow of the Brooklyn Bridge. The first few settlements have reclaimed apartment complexes across the breadth of Manhattan. The factions have been driven back. The darkness that has haunted them for years is lifting. Faye winks her one good eye as they clink glasses together.]

[Lindianne’s mouth tastes of whiskey.]

Her mouth tastes sour as she punches in the necessary overrides and numbers on her ISAC’s interface. The numbers float like ghosts in her contact lenses. She takes a deep breath. Haven is quiet; it’s the middle of the night. Benitez turned in hours ago to rack out. She thinks, briefly, of a safe house in Brooklyn.

She presses the final number. Breathes.

Speaks.

“SHD callsign Wraith, broadcasting to BTSU agent Lau. Whiskey sours. You know where to find me.”

[“Best whiskey sours in Manhattan. I’ll buy you a drink if we take back the city. ...Sorry. I mean when we take it back.”]

This Bitter Earth

( What good am I? Heaven only knows... )

The Event

Peace doesn't last forever.

It's the heart of the dog days of summer. The blacktop outside broils under the sun. Humidity sticks clothes to skin and hair to the back of the neck. Tempers flare out in the streets. Rikers have been clashing more often with JTF personnel as if the heat has lit a fire under them. LaRae doesn't make her presence known. But she's still out there, still leading her gangs as they plunder whatever's left out there to take.

Taleb and the others in his gun-smuggling scheme have been a veritable fountain of intelligence. It isn't going to save them from Leavenworth. Maybe it doesn't have to. More than a few of the junior officers, the ones too blind or afraid to raise their voice, spill their guts. Taleb stays mum.

It's a hot summer day. Lindianne, for once, isn't inside the base of operations. She's perched herself on the roof of the Post Office in search of any sort of breeze off of the Hudson. She perches near the edge in a plain t-shirt and blue jeans. There's a sunburn building on her forearms. The air is still. Oppressive.

Like it's holding its breath.

Old Soul

Time seems to move slower now. There's less to worry about, less time spent running from one crisis to the next, less time spent worrying about what happens when the Division's sole remaining active Agent takes a moment to catch her breath. Part of that is the fact that they've broken the back of the Russians.

Taleb is still in rough shape. The least-severely injured of his cohorts are under lock and key down in the cells. (Not one of them can look Lindianne in the eye when she goes down there to question them. She doesn't look at them, either. It's difficult to reconcile facts.) JTF personnel and 42nd ID soldiers alike seem nervous about dealing with one another.

So much for the good mood from Valentine's Day.

Lindianne, as usual, is parked outside of Spook Country with a manila folder. Faye's been getting a lot of paperwork lately, so she's tried to lighten the load as best as possible. That means filling in requisition forms and reports for higher up the food chain. There's a half-eaten snack bar balanced on her knee as she writes.

There's a pause.

Then, casually, Lindianne leans back in her chair to peek around the corner at the SEALs. "Whoever invented paperwork was evil," she says casually.

Cardia

Time passes.

It's been just under two weeks since Voodoo and Lindianne's mission to locate Dr. Kandel's ex. The few surviving trees in New York have begun to bud, and the last snow of the year is little more than a memory. It won't be long now before the temperature begins to climb upwards. Not long now until the stifling humidity of summer in New York City.

The situation on the streets remains in the same state as usual. The Rikers, the LMB, and the JTF rattle sabers at one another over individual blocks. There's no teeth behind any of it. For all of their animosity, it feels like the disparate groups in Manhattan are at a state of detente. No one is making any moves right now. Which leaves little for AFO Neptune or the SHD's lone Agent to do.

A week ago, Lindianne returned from the streets with a soundboard still in its box, pilfered from a local electronics store. She's been running supply missions to scavenge any A/V equipment that hasn't been looted. There isn't much out there. But it's been just enough to splice the soundboard into the overhead PA system of the post office.

So now, when Heather isn't strumming her guitar, there's a loop of music on overhead. (None of Rick Valassi's podcasts, though. Both Faye and Lindianne have made their dislike of the man quite clear.) The poor civilian who's been roped into DJ duty? He's got lousy taste in music.

Which is why Lindianne's going to be located just past the decontamination zone with her go-bag stuffed full of whatever supplies she's managed to find outside. "If I have to hear New Wave music one more time, I'm taking over," she grouses to herself as she drops the bag by her feet.

Matinee

For once, the streets are quiet.

Between the rescue mission at the trainyard, the storming of the WarrenGate power plant, and the skirmish at the New Law tenements, there's been a lot less movement in the city the past few weeks. The Rikers have retreated to lick their wounds. The Cleaners have gone quiet (or as quiet as a gang of men on garbage trucks can be). Even the LMB have stopped rattling their sabers from Kips Bay. It isn't a real peace. There's still a lot left to do. But for now, the JTF is breathing a little easier.

Not Lindianne, though. Ever since she came limping back to base with Voodoo and the others, she's been on strict orders to take it easy. She's had her nose set and it's healing well. There's been no need for her to head outside the wire. There's no imminent threat to the base or to personnel. So she's been spending her time trying to help in smaller ways.

And slowly going stir-crazy.

Right now, she's deep in conversation with one of the civilians. "Look, uh, Finnegan," she says with a shrug. "I know you guys like that movie. But maybe, just maybe, we can watch something other than that one about Luna Park?" He looks a little annoyed at the suggestion. Lindianne sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose. "Yeah, I know. It's either that or everyone starts arguing again. I get it. Just... think it over, okay?"

He doesn't answer; all he does it raise his eyebrows, then turn and head back towards a knot of civilians. Lindianne, meanwhile, sighs. She sequesters herself out near the supply room with a dog-eared paperback novel somebody scavenged from a nearby drugstore. It's a terrible read, but it's better than having to deal with the same damn movie for the 800th time.

What she'd give for something else right now.

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."