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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Mother sees them - and squints down at them as Judge banks, circling the complex. It's hard to make out details from up here, but - they don't appear to be armed, or wearing a gas mask.

Curious.

"Parker, keep an eye on that hole."

Then it's back to the P.A. system. "Armed combatants will be shot on sight. Drop your weapons and put your hands on top of your head. This is your final warning."

He returns the receiver to Judge before saying a few words into his ear. Judge nods, and the helicopter banks once more towards the hole in the roof, coming to a steady hover just near it.

The crew chief tosses the rope out the door, and Mother's first on the rope and into the downdraft. Then it's Preacher, then Voodoo, the three of them spreading out onto the snowy roof. Voodoo takes point, approaching the hole with carbine up.

Rabbit stretches out his neck before taking position by the door, his carbine up as he provides overwatch for the other SEALs. "Don't like this," he says, shaking his head. "Too much can go wrong."

Lindianne hums thoughtfully in reply as she takes position on the other side of the door. She braces against the downdraft, watching the trio down below with sharp eyes. She pauses for a moment. Then, without hesitation, she pulls her own rifle from her back and sights down at the hole in the roof.

"We have their backs," she shouts over the sound of the engine. "We have this under control." And if there's the slightest waver in her voice? It's nothing.

(It's good to know she's not the only one who's been worrying about this going sideways.)

There's no noise from down below. The figure doesn't move from staring up at Rabbit and Lindianne. Then, ever-so-slowly, it raises its hands and puts them to the back of its head. Whoever it is, they're not taking any chances when it comes to Mother and the SEALs.

But are they just a civilian? Or are they bait?

Hard to tell from up here. Come to think of it, hard to tell from down there, too. They're compliant, at least, not resisting when Voodoo forces them down to their knees and pats them down.

"They're clean."

"Which apartment are we looking for, Mother?

"361. That's what the records say, anyway."

"361, huh? We gotta lotta fuckin' walking. From the numbers, this is deck five."

"Looks like. Judge, circle around so you can cover us through the windows."

Judge comes on the air as the helicopter banks into the courtyard, almost level with the roof. "Roger, Mother. Coming in."

"Check. Parker, see anything?"

Lindianne's voice on the radio is level. "Nothing so far. -Wait."

There are windows blackened by soot or smashed out from the inside or boarded up by some enterprising soul trying to keep their home safe. In a few of the windows, there are onlookers. A pack of teenagers, wiping grease off of the glass to peer out at her. She lifts her eye from her scope to salute them with two fingers. They retreat back out of view.

"We've got live civilians, at the least." Then: movement. She puts her eye back to the scope. Halfway up, there's a figure pounding on a locked window. It's a woman in a deteriorating sweatshirt waving frantically for help. Then a telltale lick of flame from behind her ignites and the window instantly goes black. "Shit. Some of them didn't get the memo."

There are a few Cleaners in the courtyard in scavenged FDNY gear and flamethrowers. Can't be more than six of them in the group. They look up at the chopper. Look at one of their number. (They guy's huge, big enough to probably give even Voodoo a run for his money in hand-to-hand.) And once their squad leader disarms, the rest follow. Every pair of hands in the courtyard goes up.

"Some did," she adds, though there's no joy in the statement.

A window shatters two floors below Voodoo, Mother and Preacher. There's a man in a singed business suit choking on smoke. "Oh god," he screams up at them. "Oh god, make them stop! Do something!" It's obvious from the severe burn on his face that he's barely escaped with his life. "Oh god, please!"

Rabbit keys his radio. "Civilian, third deck, your side. Looks like he just escaped some Cleaners."

"Christ," Voodoo mutters. "We need to get the JTF in here, Mother, we can't secure the whole fuckin' block on our own."

"They'll get here. For now, we make do with what we have. -stairs. Double-time it, gentlemen."

It's not long after that before Mother re-appears at the shattered window, pulling the businessman back inside. Then - gunfire, and he ducks into cover.

"Contact, down the hall!" Voodoo shouts.

"Goddammit but I can't see shit." Mother coughs. "Parker, we're taking fire but this smoke's too goddamn thick to see through. What're we up against?"

"I don't know."

It's eerie how calm she sounds saying that. (Better forced calm than active panic. No one benefits if she loses her head.) There's the sound of a barely-suppressed curse before Lindianne speaks over the radio again. "Stand by, I'm checking. Just- stand by."

As thick as the smoke outside might be, inside is worse. It stings the throat with every breath. In the gloom, there's only the telltale flicker of the Cleaners' weapons to guide Mother and the rest. The smoke clears for a moment. Long enough to give Lindianne a clear view from the chopper. "Four! Four hostiles!"

Three have flamethrowers. The last, a guy in a turnout jacket and a balaclava, is crouching behind a pile of garbage. He isn't toting anything to 'cleanse' the locals from their makeshift refuge. He's got another toy with him. The only warning Mother, Preacher, and Voodoo get is the quiet 'click' of collapsible legs snapping into position.

Then a steady stream of bullets roar towards them from down the hall.

Turns out, camera tripods are just as effective for holding up mini-turrets as holding up a Nikon.

"Turret!" Mother shouts. "Get to a hard point!"

Their reaction is instantaneous - as the turret opens up on the SEALs, they dive for cover in the hall among the debris. Desk and armchairs are not perfect cover, but they do the job well enough for now. Over the radio link, there's a dull THUNK and a grunt from Voodoo.

"Voodoo!"

"I'm good! Goddammit, I'm good! Round fuckin' ricocheted off-"

It's tough, breathing all this crap in without coughing up a storm. It's easy to see what the Cleaners are trying to do - the turret pins them, the burners move in and roast them. That can't be allowed to happen - not when they're so close to what could be a linchpin in this whole thing.

Mother comes back on. "We cannot stay here! Let's move, cover to cover! Aim for the flames, no heroics! Parker, cover us as best you can!"

And so the three of them emerge from cover, their fire precise and directed downrange towards the Cleaners as they stalk down the hallway. It might seem loud from out there in the courtyard - but with the reverb, it's even louder on the inside.

Silence.

Then, through the shattered window behind them, Lindianne's rifle barks. Her rate of fire is mechanical. Shot after shot zings through the space just above Mother's head. She doesn't have the best angle from her current location. But there's just enough to make any of the Cleaners hesitate in charging the SEALs.

The engineer catches a rifle round through his arm. He retreats behind his buddies, blood oozing through his fingers. The smoke is thick in the hallway. The only interruptions to it come with every bullet Lindianne sends zinging down the hall.

One by one, the Cleaners fall. The only one left after the charge is the man who set up the turret. He's pressed himself against the other side of an open door to try and escape the withering gunfire. But even so, he's bleeding badly from his arm. From the way his breath hisses, he's obviously got his teeth clenched.

"Fuck off," he snarls at Mother.

~~Well fine, be like that.~~

The only response Mother gives is the crack of his carbine's buttstock against the engineer's forehead - just enough to stun him to let Mother get the flexicuffs on. "And here I thought we were friends. Voodoo, Preacher?"

"Clear so far," Voodoo says.

"We're at 311," Preacher says. "361's down the hall."

"If it ain't been torched yet."

Mother glances up and out onto the courtyard as he pats down the engineer for weapons. "Judge is a sitting duck. Parker, fastrope with Rabbit into the courtyard, secure anybody who's surrendered, and work your way up from the ground to third deck. I'll call this one in."

He rolls the engineer onto his stomach, cuffing his ankles together with another flexicuff. "Faye, Mother. We've got more civilians and prisoners than we can keep on eye on here. What kind of reinforcements can you send our way?"

That familiar two-tone alert on the radio. "Mother, Faye. We have a JTF platoon inbound from our safehouse in Clinton, but it's going to take time. Whatever you're doing, do it quick." There's a pause. "If need be, Judge can exfil any intel you find in Amherst's apartment."

Lindianne, halfway through clipping in for leaving the helicopter, makes a noise not unlike a cat whose tail just got stepped on. "Yeah. Sure. Hold the line. We're good at that." There's no bite behind the grumbling, though. It's less insubordination than venting. "Right. On our way up, Mother. Try not to die, please."

(It should be noted that the very first person she secures is the big guy in the courtyard. It takes any idea of fighting back right out of the others.)

There's the scrape of gravel underfoot. A sniff. Then a round of coughing. "We're gonna need air freshener after this mission. God, what a stink."

"Thought this kind of napalm use was going to be stuck in Vietnam war movies," Rabbit concurs, securing one of the smaller dudes near the squad leader. For what it's worth, they seem to be cooperating - he doesn't resist as Rabbit flexicuffs him, then disables his weapon and pats him down.

From the apartment blocks, there's a scream, then shouting. "Rabbit, Mother." (Some of the shouting is coming through the radio link, something like you've got to get us out.) "We've encountered some civilians en route. We're going to be delayed."

"Copy, Mother."

Once he's satisfied the Cleaner he's flexicuffed is secure, Rabbit turns to the squad leader, hands on his knees as he addresses him. His eyes don't stay on him - instead, they flicker to the ones who've yet to be secured.

"Okay, sir, gonna need some info from you. How many of your buddies came here, and where are they now?"

The guy Rabbit's talking to is bigger than the rest of the men with him. Behind the full-face mask he has on, the guy's eyes are darting from place to place. He looks at Rabbit for a second before talking. His breath fogs up the inside of the mask. "We ain't got many," he says lamely. "Most'a the guys're up on th' second floor. Probably 'bout five up there." He tests the flexicuffs; Lindianne's done a good enough job that they don't give.

She's moving down the line and restraining one Cleaner after another. The man gives her the stink-eye before looking back to Rabbit. "Look, pal, y' don't get it. We go quietly and Joe'll flip his shit. We only surrendered 'cause'a that loonie on the megaphone. Dave or what-the-fuck-ever his name is." He means Mother.

He jerks his chin at the building to emphasize the point.

"We ain't traitors. You geddit?" A pause. Then, firmly: "Y' mind? Can't see shit in this thing."

And Rabbit obliges, yanking the mask up and off his face. It's a cold New York winter, but that's got to be better than sitting around in a fogged-up gas mask.

"Let us worry about Mr. Ferro, sir. He'll be in cuffs soon enough."

A brief sigh, then Rabbit squats down on his haunches to look the Cleaner in the eye. "Look. For what it's worth, I'm glad we didn't have to try and kill each other. You made the right choice here."

An easygoing smile, and a gentle pat on the shoulder. "My name's Eric. You'll see more of me back at the post office."

Then he stands up. "How're the rest of them, Parker?"

Lindianne, down at the end of the line, is trying to get a very reluctant Cleaner to keep still for five seconds. She has half of a set of cuffs snapped to his wrist, and his other wrist is firmly in hand. But he keeps flinching away from her. "Just- sit still, you- no, stop that- gah!" It's all a bit comical, like a parent trying to get a kid into a seatbelt.

"-Stay still." The cuffs finally are secured. She sits back on her haunches, drags the back of her hand across her forehead, then throws Rabbit a thumbs-up. "Set for transport, Rabbit. Other than Chuckles here-" She throws the last Cleaner a disapproving frown; the guy sneers back in response. "-No problems."

It's been (mostly) smooth sailing thus far. The entire situation is a damn sight better than the last time their crew went toe-to-toe with Ferro's men. Less civilian deaths, less Cleaner deaths, less broken noses, less guys getting their skulls caved in. (And less radiant heat burns.) All in all, it's been cake thus far.

Which is not a good sign.

"We staying here, or we going in after the guys, Rabbit?"

It doesn't take Rabbit very long to decide at all.

"We're going in." He sets about disabling the Cleaners' weapons as quickly as he can - fuel hoses on flamethrowers are slashed, rifles field-stripped and broken, grenades disassembled and their contents dumped out onto the ground. "Check your ammo." One of the Cleaners starts to sputter out a protest as their rifles are broken apart, but a glare from Rabbit stops him in mid-sentence.

"Faye, Rabbit. Five Cleaners secured in the main courtyard. I'm moving with Parker to secure ground deck and rendezvous with the others on deck three. Mother, five tangos moving on deck two, side unknown."

"Copy. We're moving to Amherst's apartment. We'll get whatever intel we can scavenge on Judge and stay and clear the compound afterwards."

"Check."

Once they're out of earshot of the Cleaners, Rabbit nods to Parker. "Stay soft and check your corners," he whispers over the radio. "A complex this big, there's gotta be more than just five left."

Snow crunches underneath his boots as he crosses the courtyard, rifle up and sweeping the windows.

"This's been too easy. I don't like it."

Edited 2016-07-08 06:18 (UTC)

"Ammo's good." Lesson learned the hard way.

(She doesn't say a word when Rabbit glares at the Cleaner, but she clenches her jaw just the slightest amount. It's a reminder that despite his general friendliness, Rabbit is still fully capable of destroying pretty much anyone in the state of New York.)

"I told Voodoo to stop catching bullets with his vest," she offers as a bad joke. She's right behind Rabbit. There's no movement in the windows or from higher up towards the roof. Smoke drifts skyward lazily. Her breath is a cloud in the cold New York winter air. Snow crunches underfoot.

"...Yeah. It's been going too smoothly." The last time things went this well, she wound up on the floor of a ransacked warehouse. Peace is more of a theory at this point. Quiet is not always a good thing.

She pauses. "Hold up. Second floor, right side, by the hole." She aims her rifle up towards a smouldering gap in the complex's side. "...Four- no, five guys. Tanks on their backs."

Looks like the guy in the courtyard wasn't lying. Lindianne keys her radio.

"Mother, Parker. Got a visual on five Cleaners, second floor, right side."

The answer is immediate. "Check. Drop 'em."

"On it." Rabbit jogs to a slim tree, dropping to a knee just behind it and sighting in. They seem to be confused, conferring with one another - perhaps the P.A. announcement didn't make it to them, or perhaps they're adjusting the plan now that they're hearing gunfire. It doesn't matter. When Mother said "last warning", he meant it.

"Rabbit - no tank shots. We want to minimize collateral damage."

"Roger."

"We're almost to Amherst's apartment. Raise you when it's secure."

Rabbit steadies the barrel against the side of the tree trunk. "I got right and rear, you got left and closest."

A brief check with his thumb to make sure his rifle's on semiautomatic, then:

"Goin' loud on you."

Even with the scope, the Cleaners look small from the courtyard. She's braced herself against an overturned garbage bin. The smell isn't exactly Chanel No 5 but it makes an excellent flat surface to prop her rifle along.

They're probably trying to figure out what to do. As she sights in, the closest target throws his own gun to the floor and turns away from his buddies to undo his tank. It looks like he's trying to leave without them. Smart man.

But not smart enough.

The one next to him, the leftmost Cleaner, raises his own flamethrower to roast the would-be deserter. "Going loud," Lindianne calls just before pulling the trigger. Guy on the Left gets the first round in the chest. Center mass. His intended victim gets one through the head.

(Behind them, back at the knot of detainees, the squad leader bows his head in mourning.)

As Lindianne gets two, so does Rabbit - one who jumps at the first shot, and another who pivots on his heel, seeing Rabbit and Lindianne too late. Number five is lucky - he ducks out of sight and into cover just in time for a round from Rabbit's rifle to give him a very close haircut.

"Shit," Rabbit mutters under his breath, standing and repositioning to a tree just a few meters to his left before shaking his head. "I don't see him." He keys his radio. "Mother, Rabbit. Four E.K.I.A. Lost sight of the last one. Don't know where he's headed."

"Copy. We're about to breach Amherst's apartment. Keep an eye out for him."

"Check." Rabbit jogs over to the entrance, waving Lindianne forward. "On me, Parker. Let's smoke this son of a bitch out."

"Rabbit, take it slow. That flamethrower he's got beats anything you two have up close."

Voodoo comes on. "Yeah, seriously. Do me a favor and don't get charcoaled, you two."

There's a bark of laughter from behind Rabbit. "Says the guy who chased a Cleaner behind a bus." Lindianne grins sardonically at Voodoo's concern and shakes her head. "We'll be fine. Trust me."

She's right on Rabbit's heels as they head to the entrance. Somewhere up on the floor above them, one enemy still stands. One enemy who's no doubt going to be more than a little miffed about getting shot at. But they've got this.

The building groans. They don't have a lot of time left. "Think he's going to surrender?" The words are barely out of her mouth before there's a distant sound of gas igniting. She 'tsk's quietly in disapproval. "-Guess that answer that."

There's no visible way upstairs from their position; the door to the stairwell is piled high with debris and there is smoke visibly trickling out from the jamb. If they open it, it won't end well.

But just around the bend is a glimpse of shattered windows and an inner courtyard. Lindianne jerks her head towards it. After you.

Rabbit is silent as he takes the lead, rifle up as he follows the wall. You wouldn't think he was on the wrong side of 30 from the way he moves, one foot after the other - silently, smoothly, like a wolf stalking a deer in deep snow. An upturned desk blocks the hallway, and he mantles over it with what looks like no effort at all.

"Faye, Mother. We're inside Amherst's apartment. Tell Rhodes and his boys we're bringing home lots of hard drives. Rabbit, status?"

Rabbit's only response is the keying of his receiver - but that's enough.

"Roger. Raise us when you're in the clear."

First things first - check the courtyard and the space beneath the windows. Never know what could be hiding there.

First window: debris, furniture, detritus fallen from apartments above and scattered on the ground like freshly-fallen leaves. There's a gash in the complex up above that's still glowing with cinders. Someone whimpers up above before being shushed. No faces peer down, but it's not their guy.

The second window: more debris. This looks less like actual damage and more like someone rooting for supplies and salvage. Suitcases lay half-filled with snow from the last storm. What isn't frozen is water-logged and smoke-damage beyond repair.

Final window: one Cleaner, huddled as low as his gear will let him hunch. His flamethrower is lit, the pilot light dancing in the breeze. There's blood oozing from a shallow cut to his scalp. The guy looks younger than any of the SEALs. He has his mask off, his brown eyes narrowed against the cold. Or maybe he's just trying to spot Rabbit before he gets shot at again.

But the fear on his face is plain as day. "Oh shit, oh shit-!" He fumbles blindly for his flamethrower.

It stutters a stream of fire. "Get- get back!"

Is the kid scared? Out of his wits, probably. Can Rabbit blame him? Not really. But he's got a wife and six kids counting on him to make it through this - and in that kind of equation, a Cleaner with an itchy trigger finger like this loses every time.

It's quick. One-two-three-four-five shots to center of mass, and the kid drops onto his back. The 5.56x45 NATO is a curious round, designed to wound rather than kill - a wounded soldier is a bigger burden on logistics than a dead one, you see. That, along with a healthy dose of luck, is this Cleaner's saving grace.

Then again, "saving" and "grace" are kind of stretching it here. He's staring up at the sky, letting out low soft moans like a buffet-goer who ate too much and is trying to puke it up (huuuuuuuh. huuuuuuh. huuuuuuuh.).

"Mother, Rabbit. Area secure. One E.W.I.A."

"Check. Meet us top deck ASAP."

"Roger."

There's a beat of hesitation - then Rabbit mantles over the windowsill, dropping to a knee beside the Cleaner as he sets his rifle against the wall. The flamethrower's getting its fuel line cut for his safety, of course, but after that, out come his trauma shears as he cuts away the clothes on this guy.

"Parker, you got a blowout kit?"

The answer comes from behind him. "Yeah."

Lindianne hops out the window, wincing at the sight of Rabbit's handiwork. It takes a moment of digging through her go-bag before she finds the kit. She's never had to carry one with her before this point. To be honest, it seemed like a waste. One agent can't do impromptu surgery on themselves alone. But ever since midtown, since Voodoo and the others came crashing into her life, it's been dug out of storage.

The kid's still moaning. He claws at the ground for a moment like he's about the try and get up. "Shh, shh, none of that," Lindianne murmurs. She grabs his hand. So instead of thrashing around in pain, the wounded Cleaner spends his time squeezing her hand for dear life.

"I got him, Rabbit. You do your thing."

There's the distant thrum of helicopter blades on the wind. Judge must be inbound for the intel right now. She doesn't look up at the sky. She keeps her eye on the courtyard. Looking for trouble.

Because at this point? All of them are magnets for the stuff.

Rabbit takes the kit, muttering a thanks as he tugs the Cleaner's clothes apart. The entry wounds are neat and small - it's the exit wounds that are messy. At this range, every shot is practically a guaranteed through-and-through, and Rabbit gently tilts the Cleaner over onto his side to take a look at his back.

He shakes his head, gently setting him back down. "Jesus, what a mess." There's no time to waste. He's almost a machine as he starts tearing packages of QuikClot gauze, wrapping them around the gunshot wounds. No use trying to get the bullets out - the heat of ignition in the barrel makes them sterile, and he'll do more harm than good digging around for them in this kid's body. As he works, blood drenches his black gloves.

But it's not just the gunshots he's got to worry about. From the kid's breathing and location of the bullet wounds, it looks as though one lung is on its way to collapsing.

"Mother, Rabbit. Call in one CAT Alpha. Tell Faye to send in some docs on wheels with that JTF platoon if she can."

"WILCO. What're you thinking, Rabbit?"

"I'm thinking nobody else has to die here today."

There's one bullet hole right next to one the kid's lungs that seems to be letting in air. It probably hurts like son of a bitch for Rabbit to even touch it, let alone affix a three-sided seal to it, but it's got to be done.

Rabbit looks into his eyes. He's still among the living, for now - best to keep it that way. "Can you hear me, sir? What's your name?"

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