survivors_of_new_york | The Question

The Question

In the old days, the James Farley Post Office was the beating heart of New York City's postal services. Now it's the beating heart of a very different system. Day in and day out, the fight to reclaim the city goes on from within it. Patrols go out. Civilians stagger in. Supplies flow in and out like the mail trucks used to do.

It isn't built for holding prisoners like the NYPD's facilities are. But there are enough rooms deep in the bowels of the building that can be adapted for that. A few armed JTF officers stand guard in a constant rotation. No one's risking the prisoners inside getting loose and wreaking havoc. One guard is drumming his fingers nervously on the stock of his rifle.

In one cell: Martinez sits at a table with his head in his hands. He doesn't get up except to pace. He's stayed quiet this entire time, barely even acknowledging the personnel outside. (He asks once, just once, for 'Eric'.) The model prisoner.

In the next cell over: Keller is the opposite. He rages. Slams his fists against the walls until his knuckles bleed and leave streaks. He presses his face against the glass in the door and hurls insults at the guard outside. He knows what's waiting for him on the streets. LaRae doesn't give second chances.

In the last cell: Torch yells over Keller's racket to 'shut it man, we ain't telling them shit'. He doesn't snarl like a caged animal. He doesn't posture at the guard outside. He merely keeps winding Keller up more and more. No sense in starting a fight. He didn't get a chance.

And up at the top of the stairs, Lindianne Parker rolls her eyes. "Jesus. What a racket."

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"Like a fuckin' zoo."

Rhodes and Lindianne have done what they can with the HVAC, but there are still pockets of the building that're colder than they should be, and so Voodoo's ditched his helmet for a watch cap. The rest of his gear is in his locker. He's kept his coveralls, because really, why not? It gets the SEALs instant recognition around here, and the spare ACUs look like ass.

(The guards have relayed Martinez's requests for him to Rabbit through Benitez - he hasn't found the time yet, but the intent is there. As soon as he catches a break between workups, he says.)

He squints, pointing to Keller. "Expected that from him," he says. "But I thought he'd be rolling on the floor clawin' his arms off by now. It's how skeezers do."

A senior NCO-looking type with a blackjack on his waist and a nametape reading COLE walks up to them, nodding to Lindianne and Voodoo in turn. "Benitez called ahead, told us you'd be coming. Which one do you want a crack at first?"

Lindianne's scrounged up yet another puffy winter coat from somewhere. She's stashed them all over the post office to keep them safe. She's even pulled on a pair of gloves to keep her hands warm. Her smartwatch glows comfortingly on her wrist; she hasn't taken the thing off since their last op. Faye's had to make adjustments to it while it's still on Lindianne's arm.

(They might not be able to block every outside signal. But they can make hacking it that much trickier.)

Cole gets to see a very shark-like smile creep onto Lindianne's face. "Him," she drawls, jerking her thumb in the direction of Keller's racket. She's still more than a little pissed at him for the WarrenGate plant. And honestly? It'll be worth it to see the look on his face when she walks in.

"He's giving me a headache." A big one. "Besides, when a guy keeps snarling like that, he's covering for something. He'll crack easy."

Or he will when confronted by Voodoo and her.

Cole nods, taking the key off his belt. "You got it. Just - keep it calm as you can. Anyone starts laying hands on anyone else, me and my guys're coming in."

Keller, to his credit, keeps back from the door as it's unlocked, but the two guardsmen outside stand ready - one gets the sense he's tried to charge the door before. When Cole opens the door to let Lindianne and Voodoo inside, Keller snarls. "Piggy's back for more, huh? Why don't you get rid of soldier boy there and we can sort it out," he says, jerking his head at Voodoo.

"Duly noted." No punching Keller. Even if he really, really deserves to eat a knuckle sandwich.

When she enters the room, she's smiling at Keller. It isn't a nice smile. "Oh, I don't know," she drawls. "He's the only reason you still have arms. So he stays." There's a spare chair sitting away from the table. It makes a hideous squeal as she drags it across the floor.

"Sit."

There's no room for questioning in that word.

Keller crosses his arms, the blood from his knuckles caking on his fingers. "Make me."

He jerks his head to indicate the world beyond the cell door. "I heard what they said out there. You can't do shit to me if I don't play ball, and I ain't playin' ball."

He glances down at the chair in disgust before fixing his gaze back on Lindianne. "I ain't never been a rat, and I sure as shit ain't about to start now. You think you can get at me? Attica, Auburn, Dannemora, Southport, Sullivan, Sing Sing - I been in an' outta them all. So whatever it is you think you got over me - think a-fuckin'-gain."

No reaction.

She leans forward, hands on her hips. "I don't think you get it," she says softly. "I'm not NYPD, dirtbag. I'm from the government." The smile vanishes in an instant, followed by a cold glint in Lindianne's eyes. Keller wants to play hardball? She'll play hardball. He won't win.

"Leavenworth. Miramar. Guantanamo. I can throw you in a hole so deep nobody'll ever see your stupid ass again." She glances at Voodoo over her shoulder. The cold look stays. "I don't answer to the JTF. They answer to me. I'm the one in charge."

"And if I wanted? I could make it so you never fucking existed."

The thing she doesn't talk about with anyone, the thing that hangs over her head, is that she doesn't answer to anyone on the ground. The only person above the Division is the President himself. It isn't something she wants to dwell on any more than necessary.

There's a long, long pause.

Then Keller acquiesces, pulling the chair over to him before sitting down in it.

"...fuckin' pig."

He snorts as Voodoo slowly moves from behind Lindianne, plodding over to Keller's side. "I ain't answerin' any fuckin' questions. You're wasting your fuckin' time."

Voodoo crosses his arms over his chest, fixing Keller with an even stare. Keller does a double-take.

"You mad-dogging me, pal? Or are you just a faggot, can't keep your eyes off me?"

Insulting her? Fine. She can deal with it. But hurling insults at her friends? Well. That's not going to stand.

Lindianne slams a fist into the table so hard that the legs actually rattle. "Hey. Eyes over here, I'm not done with you yet." Voodoo's probably never seen her genuinely angry at someone before. He's getting a good look at it now. She doesn't like Keller. She hasn't liked him from the word 'go'. And the fact that he shot her bulletproof vest full of 9mm rounds is just icing on the cake.

"You don't wanna answer? Fine. We'll dump you on the street and let LaRae have you." She'll kill him the instant his feet hit the pavement. The Rikers don't like turncoats, and they especially don't like the possibility of someone changing sides. That's hanging over his head like an anvil.

"Honestly, I won't be crying about it. Good riddance."

Lindianne's fist meeting the table actually gets Keller to jump, however slightly, and his head snaps back to her, eyes narrowing.

There's a moment of hesitation. He knows what LaRae can do. He knows what the Rikers can do. But he's still got to save face for as long as he can.

A smirk curls at his lip. "Heh." He nods to Voodoo. "Got yourself a spitfire, here."

He cracks his neck.

"I had a cellmate in Sully. Told me all about chicks like you. Told me that for all the game they talked..."

And now he leans in to look Lindianne straight in the eye, his scars and prison tats gnarled in the light.

"...ain't nobody cried harder 'n them when their panties were down 'round their ankles and they were pinned facedown in the dirt. Blubbered like little girls."

And now Voodoo leans in, laying one hand on top of the table and the other on the back of Keller's chair. He stares at Keller, then looks to Lindianne and jerks his head.

"Let's dump 'im."

There's a long pause.

Then Lindianne shakes her head ever-so-slightly. She leans in, pulling the collar of her jacket down to show her throat. The nick on it is still healing. No doubt it's going to leave a scar when it's all done. "You see this? Guys a lot harder than you have tried." She bares her teeth in a snarl. "I'm still here. They're not."

It's technically true. But Keller doesn't need to know that.

She leans in, hands braced on the table. "So here's how it's gonna go. You tell us what you know, you stay right here. Three hots and a cot and maybe, when this all blows over, I let the Correctional Department know how helpful you were." It won't help him, but it may make his life easier.

Now she nods at Voodoo. "Or he dumps you on the street and we make sure everyone knows you talked." She sneers at Keller with derision. "It won't be true. But do you really wanna gamble on anyone thinking otherwise?"

It's working. The cracks are starting to show as Voodoo leans in and Keller starts to fidget.

"I don't know shit. I ain't seen LaRae since she sent me out to WarrenGate with my boys."

He crosses his arms, leaning away from Voodoo.

"That was a couple weeks ago, in case you're retarded and forgot."

There's no forgetting. She had to wait for one of the JTF's patrols to find her a Kevlar vest that wasn't full of bullets after what happened. There's no forgetting that, just like there's no forgetting the bruises on her torso. It still twinges if she twists the wrong way.

"Do I look stupid to you? You honestly think I'd forget kicking your sorry ass?" She barks out a laugh before standing up away from the table. "So LaRae's in the wind. Any ideas on where she'd go? Gotta be a hell of lot better than slumming it in WarrenGate."

Lindianne's never going to look at the place the same way again. Kind of hard to forget about nearly getting blown up along with it.

"Let's face it, Keller. She sent your ass there to die."

Keller snarls. "Bullshit she did! You know how many guys we came in with? Twenty! You know how many guys you had in there? Three, geeky engineer types! It woulda been perfect if you hadn't fucked it up for us."

Voodoo rolls his eyes. "Yeah, okay. Sorry we couldn't leave a power plant in the hands of convicted felons. My heart fuckin' bleeds for you chumps."

"Shut it, wiseass!" Keller's lashing out, like an animal feeling the walls closing in on him. "You got fuckin' lucky!"

Voodoo leans in closer, his eyes like those of a tiger fixing on a rabbit. "LaRae Barrett. Tell us where she is, or we kick you out of a helo into West Harlem."

Keller fidgets. "I don't know. She moves. She's catchin' on that you guys are listening in whenever she gets on the air. Only gives orders in person or in writing."

There's a derisive snort from Lindianne's direction. She folds her arms over her chest and tuts quietly. "Figured as much. Dumbass like you, she's got no use for." She walks past Voodoo, drumming her knuckles on the door. It's a signal to the guards outside.

"Judge's probably gassing up at Chelsea. We can drop him out in Harlem." She turns back, grinning savagely. "Maybe he won't break both his legs on landing," she coos in an exaggerated parody of cheer. "We can give him the same chance he gave the plant's engineers, don't you think?"

They had no chance. It's not the most subtle threat on the face of the planet. But guys like Keller don't do subtle. the only thing they understand is when they're not the biggest dog on the block any more.

Because eventually, somehow, there's always someone more ruthless.

"Last chance, Keller."

Keller bows his head, runs his hands through his hair. If you listen closely, you can hear the gears grinding away in his head.

Then, just as the door opens and a guardsman in ACUs steps in-

"The Salvation Army center! On Lexington!"

The guardsman pauses, looking to Lindianne, then to Voodoo. Keller's got a frantic look in his eyes as he wrings his hands.

"She's got a whole bunch of guys there - forty, fifty, maybe more! That's all I know!"

Then, as the realization sets in:

"-fuck."

Jackpot.

He's sung like a canary. The grin on Lindianne's face twists into something less savage and more triumphant. Keller's spilled his guts. Time to wring a little more out of him. "Stay put," she says casually to the guardsman. "We've got this."

And as soon as the door closes, she crosses back to Keller and Voodoo. She puts her hands on the table again. Leans in. Keller's got nowhere to run. Nowhere to recoil. He's as good as done already.

"Well. So much for 'ain't a rat', huh?" Her mimicry of him is pretty good, if a bit higher-pitched than his voice. "Now you're sunk. Give up what you got, Keller, your boys can't help you now." Nobody's going to be coming to his rescue. And honestly, she'd be lying if she said she isn't enjoying watching him fidget.

(Not exactly something to admit in polite company, though.)

"Forget it!" Keller snaps. "That's all I know!"

Voodoo crosses his arms. "You willing to bet your legs on it?"

A beat.

Then, from Keller:

"It's one of her field HQs. She rotates between them, doesn't stay in one place for long. She might not even be there right now - but that's it, that's all I know!"

"Well, it's gonna have to do."

They've still got Torch to give them leads on the rest of the Rikers. She pushes back from the table, smile not fading in the slightest. "Don't go anywhere, we might still have questions for you! -Oh, wait."

She jerks her head towards the door, a sign that she's done tormenting the poor shlub. They've gotten a lead out of him, at the very least. It's something to go on. LaRae isn't going to get to hide in the shadows forever. And when the reckoning comes? It's not going to be pretty.

It's about time the shoe was on the other foot.

Voodoo smirks, standing straight and following Lindianne out the door.

"They're waitin' for you!" Keller shouts after them as they exit. "You're all gonna fuckin' die!"

(A man has to make an effort to save his pride, after all.)

Cole shakes his head as he locks the door behind them. "He's going to be a bitch and a half to handle after this, you realize," he says, moving down to Torch's cell. "He's not used to being bottom dog, and he'll probably take it out on my guys."

He glances over his shoulder at them as he sticks the key in. "Not that I'm complaining - I mean, do what you gotta do. I'm just saying."

The door opens to reveal Torch sitting in a corner of the cell. There's a strong odor of bleach - behind that odor, vomit. A forced heroin detox isn't pretty. Torch moans as the door opens, shielding himself from the light. "Shut the doooor, man," he drawls. "Don't you have anything better to do?"

Voodoo shrugs, stepping inside. "Not really. And watchin' you make an ass outta yourself has been one of the high points of this place, so..."

Lindianne shrugs apologetically at Cole as he locks the door. "His bite's not as bad as it used to be," she says. "Guy had an MP5 when we nailed him. Tried to fill me full of holes." 'Tried' being the operative word. They're both still here. He failed.

The smell is what hits her first when the door opens. Bleach and vomit isn't a great odor. She recoils back half a step, face scrunching up in distaste. Her own stomach is in knots for a moment. But the feeling passes. She still avoid breathing too deeply through her nose.

"We'll make this quick and get out of your hair." It comes out almost pitying. Detox is not a pleasant thing to go through. Torch isn't in good shape. There's no sense in taking the same stance as they did with Keller. She doesn't move away from the door.

She closes it gently behind her and leans against it.

"So. You can probably guess why we're here."

Torch groans, holding his head. "You got Keller to squeal on LaRae. What more do you want?"

"LaRae's only one part of the Rikers," Voodoo says, crossing his arms as he leans against the wall. "She's the head of it, but even without her, your boys will keep on wrecking shop."

"Man, I don't even get where you're going with-"

Voodoo cuts him off. "You ran guns for them. Where'd you get them from?"

Another groan from Torch as he writhes in the corner, scratching his head. "JTF, mostly. Lockups, armories, dead pigs."

"Bullshit. There were way too many Kalashnikovs in your closet, pal. We don't use Warsaw Pact crap."

Edited 2016-06-07 04:22 (UTC)

"You ran guns for her." Lindianne hasn't moved. Hasn't shifted from the way she leans against the door. Hasn't lowered her arms to her sides. But despite the relaxed posture, she's focused on Torch with the kind of sharpness that a sniper gives their target.

Running guns is a huge risk. No way was this guy doing it out of the goodness of his heart. "So what'd she have on you? Blackmail? Drugs?" Probably the drugs. LaRae Barrett doesn't exactly strike Lindianne as the kind of woman who's going to play fair.

Two can do that, though.

"Just give us who's been supplying you. You stay in here, and she never finds out." Unlike with Keller, there's no threat there. She means it. She honestly means every word of it.

"I- I don't know. I can't- can't remember..."

He lets out a long-suffering groan, clutching his stomach and rolling to his side. "I feel sick..."

"Hey. Hey!" Voodoo closes the distance between them and snaps his fingers in Torch's face. "Don't you puke on us, Janis. Not 'fore you give us your supplier."

Torch groans again. "Why you gotta be all up in my face, man?"

"Don't worry, I'll be outta it soon's you answer the fuckin' question."

And now Torch lets out a low whine, leaning his head back against the wall. "Mafiya guys. I don't know their names. They're bringing them in nightly from the Bronx, over the Alexander Hamilton Bridge."

Mafiya? Russians.

Because even in this day and age, New York just can't seem to shake the ghosts of organized crimes past. She huffs quietly from her place at the door. "Suppose this means another trip to the Bronx," she says to Voodoo with a frown. So much for staying inside the cordon.

"PMCs, convicts, sanitation workers... might as well throw the Mob in there, make it the whole package." If it's an attempt at gallows humor, it's a bad one. there's no joking note to her voice. No teasing little upward lilt at the end of her sentence. Even the light in her eyes seems to have dimmed.

"Just tell him what you know, Torch. Do him and you a favor."

"You heard her, Torch. The sooner you cough it up, the sooner I leave you to your misery."

Torch issues another pathetic moan, lolling his head to one side. "When I met 'em they were working out of the railyard in Highbridge. They said they had JTF people on the payroll. I don't know who. Someone - someone-"

He whines, scratching his arm. "Man, can't you get me a hit? I'm dyin' here."

Voodoo stands up, looking to Lindianne and rolling his eyes.

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