The Question

[survivors_of_new_york]

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."

Comments

[boston_bruiser]

The next few minutes are a blur of activity. Judge doesn't spare more than a minute picking the team up before they're back to flying amongst the skyscrapers. The SEALs are checking and rechecking their gear - it may not be the best kind of loadout to use in an all-out firefight with an unknown number of Cleaners, but it'll have to do. To borrow a turn of phrase, they can't tell Faye they don't do windows.

"There's no room for nuance with this," Mother says. "We'll be fastroping down to the deck right in front of them. Parker, take Voodoo, suppress Ferro from the front. Me, Preacher, and Rabbit will circle around, get on his flank and put some enfilading fire on him and his boys."

There's a click as he checks his pistol, then slides it into his chest holster. "Remember, we want Ferro alive. Anyone else is a bonus."

Preacher raises an eyebrow as he taps the forward assist on his carbine. "So much for 'they need help'."

"I'm out of sympathy for them," Mother says. "Everyone's lost a lot, but somehow they're the only ones raiding apartments and burning people alive." He shakes his head, pursing his lips. "All the logic of five-year-olds, I swear to fucking God."

They're over what used to be East Village now. Anything more specific than that is hard to tell - they're going too fast to make out street signs. But as Judge swoops in low over the streets, it's hard not to notice the Cleaner patrol further down the street, led by a true Goliath of a man - easily six foot, likely more, with a bright yellow HAZMAT suit and three massive napalm tanks affixed to an external frame on his back.

There's no time for talk. They're already taking fire from the patrol. The rounds whiz harmlessly by, for the most part - they're janitors and garbagemen, not professional soldiers, but there's no time to dawdle.

The crew chief throws a rope out each door. It's showtime.

[divisionary]

This was someone's home once. Down there, in the blur of streets going by, people lived their lives and never dreamed that it could end. But that was another life. Another time.

Lindianne doesn't hesitate when she grabs the rope. She's out first in an instant. She lands on both feet. Pauses just long enough to let go. And then she goes for her rifle. She flicks the safety off and sights down the street.

Ferro is huge, easily dwarfing her in size and armaments. It doesn't matter. She takes one step forward, towards the patrol of Cleaners. Her voice rises clear in the late afternoon air, with a weight behind it that she never uses. Voodoo and the others are getting a glimpse of the side of her that almost never comes out.

"Joe Ferro. You have committed treason, murder, and destruction of property." A beat. "...This is the part where I'd say 'disarm and you'll be fine', but we're past that point. You wanted me? Here I am."

The first shot goes wide. But she's not aiming to kill right off the bat. She's looking to pin them down.

[mr_clean]

The other Cleaners dive for cover, but Ferro doesn't miss a beat as he plods towards her, murderous intent in every step as Mother and the SEALs fastrope down.

"Real considerate of you," he rasps through his mask. "You feel like a hero, killin' my boys?"

He sweeps the street in a broad swath with his flamethrower, catching long-abandoned cars with jets of napalm. That thing's got a longer range than you'd think - the jets are going out to at least 50 meters.

"You think it don't tear them up inside, cleaning the streets? Getting rid of all the carriers?"

Another burst of flame - closer this time. Voodoo takes cover by a concrete bench, and Mother and the others duck out of sight around the corner.

"'course it does. But they know it's gotta be done. They're doing what you don't got the guts to do. "

[divisionary]

"I don't take any joy in it."

She stands her ground even as Voodoo dives for cover. Maybe it's suicidal overconfidence. Maybe she just doesn't give a damn about napalm and incineration any more. Maybe she's tired of doing this dance with the Cleaners.

She fires again. The round ricochets off the blacktop just in front of Ferro. A warning shot. "We're going to cure this, and we'll do it without burning the borough to ash." She sneers. "Can you say the same?"

A lick of napalm gets too close. There's the stench of burned hair and singed clothing. She curses, retreats behind a garbage truck. But she doesn't stop talking.

"The only thing that has to be done is to stop this. Just give it up, Ferro."

[mr_clean]

"'Just give it up'. That's how you JTF types operate, huh?"

He continues to plod forward, slower now. Voodoo pops up every now and again to take shots at his henchmen, but Ferro's too quick on the trigger to give him much breathing room.

"You gave up on the Dark Zone. You gave up on New York. You gave up on the people. And now you want me to follow your lead."

Another burst from Ferro scorches the garbage truck Lindianne's hiding behind. "You left us to die. And I'm all outta forgiveness."

[divisionary]

They couldn't hold midtown. Between the sickness, the desperation, and the lack of supplies, no one could hold it. And so they pulled back. The JTF left everyone in those neighborhoods to fend for themselves. The First Wave was recalled against their will. And they put up walls to seal everyone in. Everything that's gone wrong, everything that led to Brooklyn, it all stems from that one moment.

Because Ferro's right. The powers that be gave up. They saw an impossible struggle and chose to walk away despite the agony it caused them.

But she's not them.

The ambient heat from the flamethrower raises blisters on her arm. The pain is like a lightning bolt straight down her nerves. "I wasn't here for that," she calls out over the thrum of bullets and the roar of the flames. "But if I was gonna give up, I would have been dead a hundred times over now."

Brooklyn. The warehouse in Chelsea. The checkpoint near Grand Central. WarrenGate. The Waldorf-Astoria.

Lindianne leans out from behind cover, staring defiantly at Ferro. "You're not the only one out of forgiveness." She's never going to be able to let this go. Maybe, in some way, she's never going to be able to move past this moment in time.

But it's a price she'll gladly pay.

The next round she fires, she aims straight for Ferro himself. And the next.

And the next.

[mr_clean]

Lindianne's aim is true - Ferro grunts as the first round hits him in the chest, staggering him. A red blotch starts to spread over the suit just in time for the second round to hit, stopping him in his tracks.

He wavers on his feet, issuing one last wheezing breath as he fixes his gaze on Lindianne, fingers slackening on the flamethrower. The shaded lenses on his gas mask hide his eyes, and so it's hard to tell what's going through his mind. Is it regret? Is it remorse?

Maybe, just maybe - it's relief that it's over for him.

The last 7.62 round fired by the PSL tears through the HAZMAT suit like tissue paper and sends Ferro crumpling to the ground like a marionette that's just gotten its strings cut.

All is quiet along the avenue. The surviving Cleaners stare in abject shock and horror as Mother and the other SEALs round the bend.

There's a scuffle, some shouting - then one by one, the Cleaners drop their weapons. One by one, their hands go up.

"Mother, Faye. Mike Charlie. Ferro K.I.A." A soft sigh into the radio. "Good shooting, Parker."

[divisionary]

No response.

Lindianne is a statue down at the other end of the street. The only sign of life is her breathing and an occasional blink of the eyes. There's a nasty second-degree burn up her firing arm in an angry red stripe. Her hair is burned short on one side. Soot speckles her shoulders. Her hands are steady.

She didn't even think about it. She gunned him down like a wounded animal. Like he was something to be put out of his misery.

Still no response on the radio from her. Slinging the rifle over her shoulder, she takes a few steps towards Ferro's body. Pauses. Takes a few more.

Kneels down next to him.

Then, with only a faint trembling to her hands, she reaches over to peel the mask off of his face. She presses two fingers to the arteries in his neck, a vain attempt at finding a pulse. But there's nothing. He's dead.

"...Confirmed. Ferro is KIA." No emotion. She clicks her radio off.

She doesn't even look up as the other Cleaners start surrendering. Not even as a few peel off and flee the scene. She kneels there. Staring down at Ferro's body.

[boston_bruiser]

Even with such a quick skirmish as this one there's things to take care of after the dust settles - weapons to disable, prisoners to guard and separate. Faye and Mother are talking it out over the radio as Preacher and Rabbit watch the surrendered Cleaners like hawks.

Ferro's not the only dead one - Voodoo's a quick shot. The fallen need to be searched for intel, for whatever good it'll do them - the Cleaners are practically done, now that their leader's gone. The smarter among them will realize what this means - that the JTF is growing in influence and that surrender is quickly becoming their only real option. But there's no telling how quickly they'll kowtow. Could take an hour, could take the rest of the week.

It's a little while before he circles back around to Parker, tucking some scavenged cigarette packs into his vest. (He doesn't partake, but they make good bartering material.)

He clears his throat, squats down next to Ferro to glance over his fallen form.

Then he looks at Lindianne, finger pointing down to Ferro.

"You gave him a chance. Everything that happened after that is on him."

[divisionary]

It's true.

It doesn't make it feel any less... sad, though.

Lindianne looks up from where she's kneeling, looking at Voodoo with an oddly doe-eyed expression. "Yeah. I know. He made his choice." He brought this on himself at the end of the day. But it won't change a thing.

He doesn't have anything in the gear on his HAZMAT suit. Nothing but a picture of a woman. The edges are worn and crinkled with time. She hesitates, holding it gingerly in her good hand, before she tucks it back next to his heart.

The rest of her movements are mechanical. Slice the fuel line. Disassemble the flamethrower. It isn't until the last piece is laid out in front of her that she dares look up again.

"I still kind of hoped, you know."

[boston_bruiser]

"Yeah."

A beat.

"Me, too."

He looks back up the street. Mother's still talking with Faye over the radio. Even now, something in the air is...different. The Cleaners still under guard are still as stone, half staring at their feet and the other half staring at Ferro.

Voodoo looks back to Lindianne, eyes drifting towards the burn on her arm. He nods to it.

"That'll scar."

He reaches up to his shoulder to unhook what looks like a CamelBak tube from his vest.

"Want water on it?"

[divisionary]

Mutely, she holds out her arm. It's definitely going to scar. Yet another mark for her to carry as a reminder. She tries to crack a smile. "So much for t-shirts." Her heart's not really in it.

She looks over Voodoo's shoulder at the knot of Cleaners. Half are staring at Ferro- at her- like they expect this to all be a bad dream. The other half have their eyes fixed on the ground. She doesn't meet any of their eyes. She ducks her head back around Voodoo for cover.

"Cold water?" Anything else isn't going to help. Already the pain is radiating up her arm. It hurts to bend her elbow. It hurts to move it too much. Kandel, no doubt, is going to be thrilled to have to deal with Lindianne getting hurt again.

At least it's not a head injury this time.

"...Something feels different. You know?" It's a victory. Bitter? Yes. Not easy to reach? Definitely. But it's a decisive moment. Something's changed.

[boston_bruiser]

"Cold-ish."

(You wouldn't think it, what with all the snow on the ground, but ice is in rather short supply right now.)

Gingerly, he takes hold of the closest unburned skin as he lets water pour out from the nozzle onto the burn. It's far from any kind of steady, consistent stream, but it's better than nothing.

"Yeah," he says. "Like we turned a corner, right?"

It's then that Mother walks up to them, and Voodoo nods in greeting. "What's the deal, Mother?"

"We're packing it up, taking these guys back to the post office. They say the Cleaners are already talking about Ferro."

"No shit?"

"No shit." Mother glances back at the captured Cleaners. "Faye's sending a negotiator in with an escort. We'll see if the rest of them want to pack it in. After the yards, the apartments, and now this - I can't imagine they've got much of a stomach for fighting us left."

After a beat, he nods, then looks back to Voodoo and Lindianne. "They're almost done clearing the bridges onto the island from Jersey City and Brooklyn. We'll be getting resupplied and reinforced after that."

[divisionary]

The water helps, if just enough to cut the pain down to manageable levels. It still earns a sharp inhale from Lindianne. "Thanks, Voodoo." There's a brief, genuine smile. Then Mother comes over and it's all business once more.

"No kidding? We're getting help?" So Brooklyn hasn't fallen after she left. They've held on despite nearly losing the police station by the Hudson River. That's as big a morale boost as taking down the Cleaners.

But if the way back is open...

"Mother." A beat. "You're not... I mean, you're not heading back, right? You guys are still linked up with JTF, right?" Because the thought of going back to doing this alone is still in the back of her mind.

And she doesn't want it. They're doing this together or not at all.

[boston_bruiser]

Voodoo looks at Mother, awaiting his response - which comes with a half-hearted shrug.

"We're staying until I hear otherwise from JSOC. Probably until the island's secure. This's the biggest city in the country. Washington wants it brought back into line as fast as we do."

Voodoo smiles, clapping Lindianne on the shoulder as Mother nods towards the surrendered Cleaners. "C'mon. Let's get these guys off the streets. Voodoo, you're on point."

"You got it, Mom." With a grunt, he stands, sparing one last look at Ferro before offering Parker a hand up.

[divisionary]

For a moment, Lindianne remains where she is. Then, with a quiet little sigh, she reaches up to grab Voodoo's hand and pull herself up.

Her knees are aching. Constantly running and roping out of helicopters has done a number on her legs and feet over the course of the day. She winces as she stands. "I'm good," she says with a harsh little chuckle at the end. "I'll be right behind you, Voodoo."

She doesn't look down at Ferro. Another time, at somewhere that isn't in the middle of the street, she'll stop and try to process through the entire string of events. As it stands, all she feels is numb. Weary.

But a little hopeful, too. It's the first concrete victory the JTF has had. And it's thanks to them. All of them.

It's a start, at least.