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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"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.

She rolls her eyes right back.

"Seriously?" If she were close enough, she'd probably smack Torch on the back of the head for that stupid question. He's in custody, and he has the gall to ask for a hit of heroin? Like it's just going to fall into his lap in a building full of what's left of law enforcement?

Idiot.

"No, you're not getting any drugs! What are you, a moron?" Evidently. Lindianne huffs in disapproval, flexing her hand in an attempt to distract herself from being angry. "Look, just... stay put. You'll thank us once you're done with detox."

JTF on the take from the mob. The only person she's met that could remotely be connected to that was the guy in charge of communications from the Flatiron District's safehouse. But that guy is a local. No way would he risk having everyone higher than him on the food chain come down on him. This is going to be a tricky one to solve.

"And Torch? I ever catch you running guns again, running into a doorframe is gonna be the least of your worries."

The only response from Torch is a low groan as he clutches his stomach, rolling to one side. Voodoo shakes his head, opening the door and stepping out into the hall.

"What a fucking putz," he says to Lindianne. "Least we got something out of him other than puke."

Cole locks the door behind them, shrugging. "Be grateful we got it out of there before you came in. He was messed up the first few days." He nods towards Martinez. "Him next?"

"Him next."

Him last. It makes sense to go for the easiest last. Better than trying to deal with Keller at the end of a long, exhausting day. Already there's a headache building behind Lindianne's eyes. She punches the bridge of her nose for a moment.

Sighs.

"He wants Rabbit. We'll... we'll just have to wing this." He doesn't know her. The only time she saw him was from the other end of a rifle scope. Who knows how he's going to react to them? Who can say?

She stands by the door. Then, gently, she knocks. "Mister Martinez? We're coming in," she calls out.

There's a brief shuffling from behind the door.

Then, after a few moments, muffled by the door:

"Okay."

Martinez looks different without the gas mask. Thirty years ago he would've been quite the catch for any number of ladies in the Loisaida, but time has put grey in his hair and wrinkles on his skin. He's seated at the table, hands in his lap. He looks from Lindianne to Voodoo, then back to Lindianne again, his eyes like those of a bloodhound stuck out in the rain.

"You guys were with Eric."

Voodoo stays silent and crosses his arms.

"Do you know if he's coming? I just-"

He bows his head, rubs the back of his neck.

"-I'd really like to thank him."

Jesus. He looks old enough to be her dad.

(The thought rattles her for a moment. The last time she saw her old man, he'd been going gray at the temples just like Martinez.)

"Y-yeah. We're with Ra- uh, Eric." Lindianne stumbles over her words for a moment before rallying. It feels weird referring to Rabbit by his real name. Like it's something she's not supposed to know.

"He's on his way," she says quietly as she sits down across from Martinez. "We made sure he got your message, trust me." It feels weird to have a conversation with a Cleaner. This guy has probably killed people. And yet, sitting here, he looks less like a menace and more like...

Well, he looks like just some average guy.

"I'm Parker."

Martinez nods, then he looks to Voodoo, as though expecting him to follow Lindianne's lead.

He doesn't.

Martinez perks up his eyebrows before looking back to Lindianne, nodding to indicate Voodoo. "Your buddy's not much of a talker, huh?"

And then, with the chit-chat out of the way, he sighs, scratching his stubble.

"...so I'm guessing you want me to spill what I got on my guys."

He gestures to the door by way of explanation. "I could hear that first guy raising all kinds of hell about it."

Edited 2016-06-08 03:33 (UTC)

"Yeah."

An answer to both statements, really. She does glance over at Voodoo and raises her eyebrows at him. He's not usually this quiet. Whatever's eating at him, they'll hash it out later.

"A lot more people are gonna get hurt, Mister Martinez," she says as gently as she can."Your guys and ours. Neither of us really want that, am I right?" She doesn't want JTF or civilians getting hurt, and he doesn't want his buddies hurt.

"So please, help us out here."

Martinez nods, slowly, his eyes on the tabletop.

"So you want me to be a chota. A snitch."

He shakes his head.

"When I was younger I woulda told you to, y'know-" He slaps his hand on the inside of one elbow, holding it ramrod-straight in the 'up yours' gesture. "-fuck off to where you came from. Maybe I would've done it a few months ago, too."

He lets out another sigh, shaking his head. "But...the more I think on it, the more I think - maybe we ain't cut out for this. Maybe we're just - wrong. Maybe every time we set a burn, we're taking more than we're giving."

He nods. "So I'll tell you what I know." Then, pointing to Lindianne for emphasis: "But you gotta promise me something. You gotta promise me you'll bring 'em in alive. All of 'em. Every last one."

He lets the hand drop to his side, glancing at Voodoo.

"They're good guys. They - we've just...lost a lot."

They've all lost a lot.

New York's never going to be the same after this is over. No one who lives through this is going to be the same. That's an undeniable fact. It doesn't matter what the future looks like. It's never going to be the same.

Lindianne hesitates for a moment, then squares her shoulders. "Ultimately, it's their call," she says without a bit of nervousness. "But... I promise, I'll do my best to bring them in." She can't promise more than that.

Folding her hands on the table, she looks at Martinez with a somber expression. "So... let's start at the top." Ferro. "I know Ra- Eric said he wouldn't tell about this. Neither will we. You have my word."

A brief smile makes it way on to her face. "Besides... this is my home town, too."

There's a bit of hesitation from Martinez.

"Well...okay."

That's less of an assurance than he would've liked, but it'll have to do.

He leans forward, resting his hands on the table as he twiddles his thumbs. He exhales through his nose.

"Joe's taken over an abandoned construction site in the East Village. It's where the napalm for our tanks gets made. There's...forty, maybe fifty guys there at a time. Most of the time, he's with his boys planning our next moves, but sometimes he'll lead a patrol out to - clean up the neighborhood."

He averts his eyes and rubs the back of his neck, as though aware of how macabre a euphemism that's becoming.

"I don't remember an address or anything. But you guys have helicopters, right? It should be pretty easy to spot from the air."

'Clean up the neighborhood', here meaning 'incinerate people alive'. Lindianne's face twists up into a disapproving scowl before she forces her expression back to neutral. It's a struggle. This man has blood on his hands. She can't forgive him for what he's done.

(But doesn't she have blood on her hands, too, in the end? The circumstances are different but she's still killed for what she wants.)

"Yeah. We have choppers." Her voice is flat. She takes a moment to inhale deeply. The emotion comes back into her tone. "I don't know if Ferro's going to want to listen to me, Mister Martinez. We aren't popular as of late." Not a lot of people take the JTF seriously as of late.

"You're... going to have to answer for what you've done," she adds in the gentlest tone possible. "Eric and I, we'll put in a good word for you. It might not seem like much, but... I'm glad you chose to come in."

She's glad she didn't have to kill him.

Martinez bows his head for a beat.

Then:

"Two weeks before the bug hit, we celebrated my niece's quinceañera at Taqueria on Saint Mark's. There was a party, drinks, my whole family was there - it was a good time. She'd been looking forward to it for years."

And now he looks up, his eyes misting over.

"The next week, my daughter told me she was getting married. Dominican boy from Washington Heights. Good-looking kid, treated her right, good job in a welding shop..." He shakes his head. "She was talking about the penthouse on Fifth. I kept telling her that we couldn't afford it, that we'd find something just as good closer to home."

He's quiet - sniffles, runs a hand over his face.

"First it was my cousins. We thought it was just the flu, so we joked about them screwing around on the town at night. We thought it'd blow over. The next day it was my nieces and nephews."

He inhales, steeling himself for what comes next.

"The day after that, they were all dead. On Friday night I held my baby girl's hand while the fever cooked her brain."

Another shake of the head. "She was delirious. Didn't recognize me, didn't know where she was."

He bites his lip.

A shift of his head, and he's looking right into Lindianne's eyes.

"Everyone's got a breaking point. That was mine."

He nods to the door. "That's all I got."

Lindianne stands from the table, eyes dark. Her mouth is pulled into a thin line. She doesn't flinch away when Martinez looks her in the eyes. She merely bites down on the inside of her cheek. She turns to go.

Pauses with one hand against the door.

"...The bastard who did this to us will pay." Her voice is choked. She swallows against a sudden rock in her throat and continues. "We'll find him. And he'll answer for what he's done. That I can promise you."

There are too many stories like Martinez's. Too many people have lost their loved ones. Too many good people have died. One more may not seem like much. But to someone, that loss is their entire world.

"...And I'm sorry." For your loss. For everything. For the sorry state of the world. For not being there to save your family.

For not being there in time.

It isn't until they're outside of Martinez's cell that Lindianne's armor finally cracks. She reaches out to slam a fist against the wall. "Damn it. God damn it!" She takes a moment to lean there, shoulders trembling. But she swallows her pride long enough to regain composure.

"...I'm going to kill whoever caused this."

Voodoo lays a hand on Lindianne's shoulder, his expression stoic. It's a moment or two before he speaks, his voice lowered.

"This island ain't big enough for them to hide on. Not from us."

A curt nod.

"We'll find 'em."

Then, he nods to the stairs. She's put some eyes on the two of them, but it's nothing they can't handle - most of them are looking elsewhere by now, anyway.

"Hungry?"

"We'll find him, and he's gonna wish he was dead."

She reaches back to press her hand on top of Voodoo's. For a few moments, she stands there like that. Then she straightens up, drops her hands back to her sides, and heaves a sigh.

(She's back on an even keel when she turns to face him, even if her eyes are still prickling.)

"Starving," she responds. "And I really need some coffee. Faye better not have drunk it all." She flashes a brief, wavering smile at the joke. "Think they'd give me an extra cup if I said pretty please?"

It'd certainly go a long way to solving the Keller-induced headache pounding behind her eyes.

Voodoo returns her smile with one of his own, a little less wavering but equally brief. "Can't hurt, right?" He nods to the stairs. "C'mon."

They're halfway down the stairs when Captain Benitez rounds the corner. He glances up at them and stops. "Oh. Was just lookin' for you guys."

He scratches the back of his head. "Listen, no rush, but report to the Situation Room as soon as you can. Kandel thinks she's got something and won't stop bugging Faye about it."

"What is it?" Voodoo asks.

"No clue. But she's been talking a lot with that civilian you pulled from the LMB." With a half-shrug: "Apparently he was a virologist at Columbia. Go figure, right?"

Well now. That's interesting.

"You mean the guy that Keener's boys were terrorizing? The one with Rada? That guy is a virologist?" There's a pause, long enough to be unsettling. But afterwards, she shakes her head and 'tsk's in disapproval.

No. Not the cause.

"Why the hell would LMB want a virologist? Hell, what would the First Wave want with the guy?" The answer is obvious as soon as the question comes out of her mouth. She blanches.

"...They need him as much as we need Kandel's. They may be doing their own fieldwork."

Their own research.

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