survivors_of_new_york | (no subject)

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[The tattoo shop at the BoO started like a burr on a wool sock. They didn't have space for it before Lindianne and the AFOs cleared out all the shit from the post office, and they sure didn't have time for it before the 42nd ID got here and they had the manpower to push back the Cleaners and the Rikers enough for some tangible breathing room.

It wasn't much to look at when it started - there was only one chair, and the only artist was an old Master Sergeant from the intel shop who ran a tattoo parlor in civilian life - but it's going full swing now that Kandel's antivirals and vaccines have proven to be an unmitigated success. Things have stabilized down here in Manhattan enough that they're talking about putting apartments back up for sale by the end of the month. What stability operations are left to conduct are all down in DC. People are taking the time to get ink to commemorate both the good times and the bad while it's still fresh in their minds.

In time, what's left of the world will brush all of this off like it was a bad dream.

The shop has two rows of chairs now. The pros are off working on one side, the trainees still under supervision on the other, all underneath a stenciled sign that reads 42 ID TATTOO SHOP - YOU DREAM IT, WE INK IT. A sign below that says NO KANJI/CHINESE CHARACTERS. Classic rock blares from a stereo somewhere in the back as the tattoo machines buzz, doing work putting ink into the skin as the scents of disinfectant and stale cigarette smoke linger in the air.

Standing at the reception desk is the bossman himself. He's off-duty, with a perma-stained skivvy shirt up top, his uniform blouse down below, and his Army-issue boots below those. As Lindianne walks up, he looks up from the art portfolio he's organizing, sheaves of laminated tat pictures in a black binder that could stun a small mammal with the right hit. He looks her over once, the bad lighting exaggerating the bags under his eyes - he's 35, but could pass for 50. That's been going around.]

Help you, miss?

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[In a little under two weeks, ISAC will go dead. An emergency call will go out with coordinates for Washington DC. Things will deteriorate in the capital and Lindianne Parker will go to solve the crisis. But that is still in the future. For now she remains in New York.]

[For now.]

[People have stopped constantly about the remaining faction members rampaging through New York. There's talk of reclaiming apartment buildings outside the cordon, of reclaiming the city one block at a time. Hope rides high in the air; the world will never be the same after the Green Poison, but maybe something better can rise from the ashes. It's an ironic counterpoint to the phoenix on the SHD agents' arm badges. This may feel like a bad dream to the civilians, but it's a different story for Faye and Lindianne.]

[Neither one of them will ever be the same again.]

[Lindianne doesn't look much more rested or neatly-dressed as she approaches the reception desk. There are dark circles under her eyes and her hair has begun to go shaggy from a lack of hair care. Sweat circles stain her blue shirt. She scrubs a hand through her hair for a moment before sighing.]

Yeah. I was, uh, looking to get some ink.

[A beat.]

I know you guys are busy, but if you've got the time-?

[She doesn't even finish her sentence before he nods, putting a final laminate into the book.]

Yeah, we can work you in. Lemme get a station set up.

[He turns the binder around so Lindianne can flip through it, the tattoo sleeves on his arms flexing as he moves.]

Pick out what you like. Back in a few.

[The designs are exactly what you'd expect for a military-dominated shop in a military-dominated outpost. Lots of Spartan and American flag imagery, lots of "moto" quotes (DEATH BEFORE DISHONOR reads one, NEVER GO FULL ARMY reads another beneath a picture of RDJ's face), a few Celtic crosses and other Irish-derived designs here and there. Here and there are a few Green Poison-inspired designs that stand out - a picture of a technician in a full HEPA suit flicking a pile of dollar bills out of his hand beneath a caption reading DOLLA DOLLA BILLS Y'ALL is one.

It doesn't take long for him to come back, a pair of nitrile gloves in hand.]

Find somethin' you like?

[A few of the designs make Lindianne wince to look at them. One is of a crowd of people being showered in dollar bills, their arms full of shopping bags and wearing identical grins. Some wag (most likely one of the National Guard boys) has scrawled in the corner in unsteady writing 'KEENER FUCKING FUCKED US'. She snorts, turning the page away from the reminder.]

[By the time he comes back, she's flipping idly between two pages. She looks up, then taps a finger against one particular design.]

This one. Upper arm, if you could.

[The design is a simple one. A Celtic cross. It's small and decidedly unflashy in contrast to the other ones in the book. No doubt Voodoo would be teasing her mercilessly for her choice were he here; it's as close to a twin for his own ink as anyone's going to get.]

[AFO Neptune has impacted her life more than any of them will ever know. If this is the only memento that she has of them when all is said and done, it'll be enough. They will not be forgotten. Not by her, not by the personnel here at the Base of Operations, not by anyone.]

[(Months later, when Alani Kelso asks about the ink, Lindianne will duck her head and mumble about absent friends.)]

The other stuff is a bit too high-speed for me.

[The bossman picks it up and squints, practiced eyes flashing over the design before nodding. Simple, elegant, workable. It's good.]

Sure, [he says, closing the book and nodding to the chair behind him.] Have a seat and we'll started.

[He snaps on the nitrile gloves, taking a fresh box of alcohol wipes and a new disposable razor out from underneath the counter. Across the way is a young soldier getting a tattoo of a flaming reaper coming down out of some clouds and firing an M240 down at terra firma below. Next to him, his buddy is getting what looks like a Spanish proverb across his shoulder.

There's one bit of business left to discuss as the bossman sits down in the chair across from Lindianne and rips open the alcohol swabs:]

Left or right arm?

Right arm.

[On her left wrist, her ISAC glows a comforting orange. The young soldier across from her flashes a cheeky grin that quickly shrinks when he sees the SHD gear. She says nothing. The only thing she does is wink briefly (and stifle a laugh as he immediately looks away).]

[The radio switches tracks to something a little more muted. The bass thumps loud enough for it to hammer in the ribcage. Outside in the base, life goes on. The world keeps turning. The sun still rises in the morning. Patrols still walk their beat even as the violence dwindles down to nothing.]

[Voodoo will never recover from shrapnel to the face. But he's alive. Preacher is alive. Faye has finally regained her mobility even as the worst scars still linger. Lindianne is alive. It's victory of some kind.]

[And it's been worth it.]

[She rolls up her sleeve obligingly.]

Probably not what you were expecting, huh...?

[That gets an old-salt raise of the eyebrow. Maybe even a hint of a smile as he works the alcohol pad across her arm.]

A few months back I had a mother of three come in for a huge flaming skull between her shoulder blades. You don't fit the stereotype - but you're not the first, you won't be the last, and you're not the most extreme.

[The alcohol pad gets tossed. There's a crinkling of wrapping as he takes the disposable razor out of its packaging, takes the plastic cap off, and starts shaving her from the bicep to where her deltoid starts.]

Name's Hesher, by the way, Master Sergeant Hesher. Seen you around the intel shop a time or two.

[She cracks into laughter at the story.]

Man, why didn't we recruit her? That takes some guts at the very least.

[It's astonishing just how far single-minded bloody determination can take a person. Hell, it's probably one of the only reasons Lindianne is sitting in a chair instead of taking pride of place on the memorial board at Camp Hudson right now.]

[Offering a hand for a shake is awkward, but Lindianne reaches her right hand over for a quick one nonetheless.]

Parker. Glad to meet you, Master Sergeant. Kind of felt like I lived in intel for a while there, to be honest. [A quick, almost bashful smile.] Probably looked like it, too.

[It's been a long, strange time of it.]

Yeah. You had the look down.

[The shave goes quick, and he puts the design into the therma-fax. Seconds later, it spits out a stencil for him to use.]

Your old boss, what was his name - talked to him a few times, but he mostly worked graves and I did days. -heck, guess I don't need to tell you that.

[His expression falls, ever-so-slightly, as he places the stencil against Lindianne's skin and rubs over its face with a stick of unscented deodorant.]

Then there was that whole thing that went down on Fifth and-

[(The bullet was meant for Parker, but you wouldn't think it with how it plays out - when the round hits, Mother's eyes narrow in annoyance, like he just stepped on a bag of flaming dogshit, then there's a flash of pain as the round cuts through his SAPI like paper, shredding his spleen like it was confetti, and when he falls it's in slow-motion, and when he hits the ground, you'd swear the earth shook like a Greek titan had fallen, his weapon clattering out of his unflexed hand like a pile of useless plastic, then Mother took one, Mother's down goes out over the net and the radio goes batshit-)

Hesher is quiet, but doesn't stop working.]

He was a good man. Hell of a chief.

[Silence.]

[Lindianne is there in an instant, pressing her hands to the fatal wound even as she tries to drag Mother to safety. Blood oozes from his mouth and a dark streak marks her futile efforts to keep him safe. The radio is going insane. ISAC flashes warning after warning- critical injury, immediate medical assistance required- but she can't hear it, she's screaming bloody murder as he dies under her hands, as tears block her eyes and her voice gives out from the strain, as his blood soaks her gloves-]

[She snaps back to awareness. It takes a moment of frenzied blinking and swallowing before she speaks again.]

Mother. That's what they called him. [David Baskas. She clears her throat.] That's, uh, what the guys called him. "Mom".

[Her eyes sting. The soldier across from her looks as somber as Hesher. So does his buddy at the next chair over. Silence falls again, only barely kept at bay by the radio.]

[Lindianne clears her throat again. Tries to summon up something other than grief.]

He'd laugh, I think. About the ink, I mean.

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