DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN TOM CLANCY'S THE DIVISION. THAT RIGHT BELONGS TO UBISOFT. EVERYTHING MENTIONED IN THIS STORY IS FOR ENTERTAINMENT PURPOSES ONLY.
My chest, back and face ached with pain as I curled in a ball at the back of my cell, trying to rest in the least painful position. Around me, there were shouts of defiance, anger, then pain. Ultimately, anyone who chose to scram or yell in any act against our captors would simply endure more pain. They would be beaten, starved, and a couple had even been shot and stabbed in non-lethal areas. Above the noise, you could still hear the guards patrolling past each cell, and when they passed, an evil grin would show on their faces when you showed that you'd lost. The Last Man Battalion. Rikers Island's new resident prison guards. After the Rikers left, not wanting to stay here if they could get out, the LMB had taken it over, keeping their own prisoners here instead. Inside, well, that was the problem. It was the First Wave. At least three of the original were killed-either by a rogue agent or one of the other factions-and a few had gone rogue-bastards-but, despite that, thirty-eight First Wave agents had been taken captive by the leader of the Rogues, whoever that was, and the LMB. They knew that if a cure was found, however unlikely, the US military and CERA would have stormed the city and killed all of them, so they took hostages instead. That way, they couldn't take back the Rikers Island without effectively killing all of their own people.
"Mikey," My cell mate reached over and poked me in the shin.
I groaned, and looked over at her. "Yeah?"
She gave me a weak smile. "I think I have an idea." She said, tying her long, dirty blonde hair into a bun.
I sat up, but immediately shrunk back into a ball when my ribs screamed in protest. "What? What is it?"
She looked out of the cell through the iron bars, staring at the large clock mounted on the opposite wall, and I followed her gaze. 11:45. The guards had been letting us out into the open area outside every day at noon sharp since I'd been thrown in here, four days ago. Today would most likely be no different.
"The water." She said, as if that would explain it.
"What?"
"If someone was to swim from the lunch area, they could reach the Coast Guard patrol boats. They could get off the island."
"Anna," I said, "That would never work."
Anna Roche was a Division agent, specialising in medical. With 29 years of age, she had graduated medical school from the military, and worked as an EMT as soon as her contract was up. Two months after that, the Strategic Homeland Division approached her, offering her a job.
"Why not?" She asked.
"First of all; that water is nearly freezing, and second; never mind the water you gotta survive the drop down first. It's gotta be near fifty feet." I answered.
"That's why I'm telling you; I know you can do it. No one else in here would be able to. You've been in here the least amount of time, therefore would be the strongest and healthiest of all of us. On top of that, being from Anchorage I thought you would have been used to cold water."
"For short periods of time, yes. But to swim that far would be suicide. You couldn't survive immersion in that water for that long. You'd freeze to death."
"Look. I'd tell you it doesn't matter and that you don't have to do it, but it does. You're our only hope at getting out of here and taking the city back. You need to. It's your choice, of course, but you're the only one who can. You have fifteen minutes to decide."
The way she looked at me gave me only one choice: I'd do it. I was going to find a way to safely jump fifty feet into cold water, then swim to a boat five hundred feet away, and drive it back to the mainland. All that without being spotted. Fuck, that's going to be difficult.
