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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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?"

He's still alive, but if he doesn't get medical attention, he's not going to stay that way for long. He rolls his head to the side to look at Rabbit. His lips move. He's wheezing with every breath. "Jaime," he finally manages. "Rosado. It hurts. It hurts!"

From the way Lindianne winces when he squeezes her hand, it's obvious that the kid's in a lot of pain. He flinches every time Rabbit touches the bullet wounds. And every time he flinches, it hurts worse. There's a long, low whine in the back of his throat. "I didn't do anything," he manages after a moment. "Stop."

"Easy," Lindianne interjects. "Don't hurt yourself." She looks up at Rabbit from her location at the Cleaner's side. "Let's hope nobody else has to die. Kinda had enough of it for one day."

"Yeah, no kidding," Rabbit says, tucking the empty gauze packages into his vest before slinging his rifle across his back. "Okay, I've done all I can. We're gonna have to move him. Back out to the courtyard should be good." He slides one arm under the Cleaner's back, and another under his legs. "Get 'im up in a seat-"

Just then, Judge swoops low over the complex, hovering over the rooftop close by. Its rotor wash sends snow kicking off the roof as its crew chief lowers a winch down onto the roof.

"Mother, Rabbit. We'll put this kid down in the courtyard then come to you."

"Copy. We're loading intel onto Judge now. We'll wait for you here."

"Check." He has to adjust his grip a few times - the blood on his gloves makes for slippery handling. "Faye, Rabbit. You got any good news on that platoon?"

When they lift him, the only response is a low moan in pain. His head droops sideways onto Rabbit's shoulder. The kid's eyes are glassy. He's either going into shock or the pain is catching up to him. Or both are happening at the same time. The dressings on his chest are stained red and getting darker by the minute.

"You're in luck, Rabbit." There's no smile in Faye's voice. She doesn't really do much of that lately. But there's the slightest hint of encouragement when she talks. "The platoon's almost there, ETA two minutes. We've got a medic with them. Just hold on."

Indeed, from behind them, back through the building, there's the tell-tale crunch of snow under boots. Someone's radio goes off in a muddled burst of static. Gear jangles. Someone coughs once, a clearing of the throat against a whiff of smoke.

"Hey." That'd be Lindianne, on the other side where she's supporting the Cleaner's weight. Snow covers her shoulders like a layer of dust. There's the slightest tinge of blue to her lips from the cold. "We got this." She flashes a brief, almost hesitant little smile in solidarity.

"Patching you through now." Faye's voice stops. A new one comes on the radio. Male, gruff, with a nasally Brooklyn accent. "'kay, hotshot, where's the patient at? I can take over. Just lemme know where's he at."

"Hotshot", huh? Rabbit can't help but smile despite himself. "Main courtyard, right in the middle of the complex. It's a straight shot through from the south entrance. Look for the Cleaners in cuffs, you'll see him nearby."

It takes a little longer than is optimal for them to reach the courtyard where they fast-roped in - debris isn't so easy to side-step when you're carrying a wounded man between the two of you, but right now it's not a question of easy, it's just a question of getting it done.

"Okay, let's set him down here," Rabbit says, nodding to a concrete bench. "Easy does it, keep that back straight-"

As if on cue, Judge comes flying over the courtyard in the direction of the post office, its rotor wash beating down on them as it zips by.

"Faye, Mother. Intel is aboard and Judge is away."

"Roger, Mother. Stand by for additional tasking."

Rabbit shakes his head, lips pressed together in a thin line. "Jeez. The fun never stops, huh?"

"We're not set for additional anything right now." There's no alarm in the tone of voice, but she's not happy one bit. "It's all strictly non-lethal, minimum collateral gear. Shit, Rabbit."

Lindianne helps set the wounded man down, then turns to key her radio. "Faye, Parker. What do you mean 'additional tasking'? I thought this was a quick op for the doc." It's the first time she's ever questioned orders. The first time she's ever found a problem with one of Faye's plans.

Any further near-insubordination is interrupted by the arrival of the JTF squad. They stream by both Rabbit and Lindianne to take over sweeping the building. One, a man wearing EMT scrubs under his bright green vest, nudges her out of the way. "Lemme see," he says curtly. "Get outta my light, agent, I got a life t' save."

She huffs, but moves further into the courtyard. She peers up towards where the rest of the SEALs must be. She sighs. Then she keys her radio one more time. "...How big is it, Faye?"

The response from Faye is unusually terse. "Standby."

Rabbit follows Lindianne, for now - their part of this op is over. Best to get out of the way, let the rest of the JTF take over. Civilians start to trickle out of the building now, shepherded out by more JTF personnel. Some cops help the detained Cleaners to their feet, arms firmly hooked around theirs as they lead them away towards the post office.

Then, as Judge swoops back in down to the courtyard, Faye comes back on the radio.

"We have a confirmed SIGINT hit on Ferro. He's leading a squad of Cleaners west on East 10th towards the apartment complex."

Benitez comes on. "Looks like some of his guys at that complex got word of what you were doing up the chain. He ain't happy."

Then Faye: "You're to capture him if possible, kill him if necessary. This is the best chance we have of grabbing him - while he's out on the streets. That napalm production plant is a damn fortress, and if he holes up in it, it'll cost more lives to get him out than we can afford."

Judge sets down in the courtyard, and the crew chief throws the door open, beckoning for Rabbit and Lindianne to get in.

"If we take him alive, we have a chance of getting him to convince the rest of his guys to come in peacefully. We can knock the Cleaners out of the fight for good with this one, agent. Don't let us down."

Rabbit looks at Lindianne and smirks. "No pressure, huh?"

The response is just two words.

"Holy fuck."

Lindianne turns to Rabbit, and all the blood has drained out of her face. There isn't a single bit of flush in her cheeks. She's nearly as white as the snow on her shoulders. "Yeah. No pressure." The last syllable cracks. She swallows before climbing on the chopper.

Joe Ferro is coming to kill them all. He's coming to kill her. But her time in Manhattan has been building to this moment. Every skirmish, every low-level operation, it's all led to this confrontation. It's either him or her. And even if she's not equipped to kill, she still has enough firepower to make Ferro think twice.

"He'll probably want me more than you guys." The grimace on Lindianne's face show just how enthused she is about it. "If I have to play bait, let me know. We have a score to settle."

He's torched enough of New York's civilians. It's about time to put Ferro in his place.

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