Desperate Measures (The Division)

"Extremis Malis, Extrema Remedia" - Motto of the Strategic Homeland Division

When you were seized by unconsciousness, you felt like you were floating in a world of darkness and pain, pulled along by some unseen force. Jumbled words and unseen shouts echoing through everything. Above all, one image manages to cut its way through the darkness. A single white bedsheet flutters in the wind, partially shredded and hanging from the side of a skyscraper high above the ground. On it, the word HELP painted in sloppy black paint.

Then, it too fades away into gray.

When the world comes into focus it does so slowly, the bright light of the rising sun slowly diminishing to reveal the ruined cityscape of Manhattan. The steady drumbeat of a helicopter rotor thrums in your head as you try and sit up. "Wha-" you start, but wince as pain lances through your head.

"Good, you're awake." You blink and the fuzzy form in front of you resolves itself into Jake, "Relax, you're gonna be fine." He tries to give a smile and a reassuring smile, but with half his face covered in bloody bandages and the way it quickly sours it's not quite as reassuring as it ought to be. "You're going to way more fine than me, anyway. Fuck."

You look around in confusion, where is every-...then the memories come flooding back, the explosion, everything. What...who...why? "Oh my god, is everyone-"

"Yeah, they're all dead." Jake looks down and runs his hand through what's left of his hair, "Worse, I found out more about the first wave. Turns out they're all either dead or MIA, which in this case means-aah!" the man winces and grabs his leg, which is covered in yet more blood-stained bandages and a crude wooden splint, "Fuck me...it means that they're probably dead, we just haven't found them yet."

You blink once, and you can feel the very concept crashing through your mind, everyone's...dead? No, they can't be dead, they can't. It's...what? No no no this wasn't how it was supposed to be, a voice screams in your head, too loud. You were the second wave, but the first wave was supposed to- how could they possibly have died? With their training? What is going on? They have to be missing. Yes. Missing. It can't fall apart like this.

"Tower, this is JTF 121 coming in. I have two division agents on board, one severely wounded. That explosion was their ride in." You're broken out of your reverie by the pilot shouting to be heard over the wind and the rotor blades. "ETA Thirty Seconds! You should see the camp on your right!"

"Look!" You feel someone's hands grab your shoulder as Jake pulls your delirious eyes away from the ruined New York skyline and back to him, "Everything's fucked! But we can't give up now, we have to get through this, you have to get through this! So eyes up, I'm counting on you. Can't exactly afford not to."

"Yeah" you nod weakly, but when the helicopter touches down and you numbly dismount to push past the swarming JTF medics you certainly don't feel it. You let one of the medics pull you to the side, but all he does is shine a flashlight in your eyes before patting you on the shoulder. He lets you go because he thinks you're alright but you are not alright. Everything is a mess. The camp is disorganized. There's people rushing to and fro, but why are they all here? Why aren't you being flown in further into Manhattan? What is going on?

"You're fine!" the medic yells, shouting to be heard over the chopper, "but I don't know what you're looking to accomplish here, everything past this camp is a goddamn warzone!"

Warzone. The word echoes through your head as you're guided to a briefing, as if you're fine. You're not fine. You're not fine. But still they push your forward and still they guide you there. Everyone is dead but you have to pull it together. Your brother's voice echoes in your head, giving you some clarity. Mom's gone, Aisha's gone, your dad is probably gone but fuck him. Your brother's still there and you don't want to disappoint him by becoming a nervous wreck. That was never you. You were the guardian angel. Unflappable. Remember that. He's alive. You're alive. You can do this. You can be the person they expect you to be. You can be the agent they want you to be.

Focus. They're speaking. It's important.





Situation Report: The State of Manhattan

"Manhattan is an island at war with itself. Once the heart of New York City and the financial center of the United States, the borough has gained a new, unfortunate moniker: the source of the Green Poison outbreak. When the country rallied against what they thought was "just" a smallpox outbreak, Manhattan was the poster-child for CERA attempts to stop the spread of Green Poison and find a cure. Drawing a line across the center of Manhattan, they created the Midtown Quarantine Zone. The Division's first wave was activated and sent, along with the US Army, to restore order. Martial law was declared. Tent cities were built. Treatments centers were established. The sick were moved in, ostensibly, to be tended to.

It did not work. A cure was not found. The treatment centers did not work. Something happened. The Quarantine Zone was no longer working. In the third week of December, the Federal government issued an evacuation order to its military personnel. The Quarantine Zone went dark.

Guards and wardens from Riker's Island were withdrawn to Manhattan to become part of the Joint Task Force, a coalition of Manhattan policemen, national guard, animal control, firefighters, volunteers, and other emergency personnel, tasked with the impossible task of preventing a spiral into chaos. Much of the Army refused to leave, and deserted. The largest contingent formed the Last Man Battalion under Lieutenant Colonel Charles Bliss. Some of the JTF's best joined him.

In the emergency, New York's Public Sanitation Committee, tasked with keeping the streets clean and disease controlled outside of Quarantine, seceded. Aid workers, doctors, sanitation workers, and even a municipal councilor who had refused to leave the city with the Mayor joined together against the evacuation. They turned against the JTF, seized many of our depots, took our supplies. The fucking civvies even shot at us.

With everything going to shit, we were not prepared for the next group of assholes. The Rikers came out of nowhere, attacking our positions in Stuyvesant and Gramercy with military-grade explosives. You ever seen what a claymore does to your legs? We had to evacuate. No other choice was possible. In West Midtown, police were defecting. The remnant of pre-outbreak gangs were at war with one another, and with us. They were hanging us from the lamp-posts. We had no choice but to evacuate to several hardpoints.

In the northwest, there's the emergency broadcast center. We use it for announcements and important messages to civilians. Let them know we still exist. In the southeast, we still control WarrenGate and its power plant. Some good people there under Johanna Bradley, who knows how we'll get em' out if the Rikers come knocking. Lincoln Tunnel is under our commander Maria Cortez. It's our most fortified position but we can't get her out of there. Holds our last supply line, with Jersey; most of our food and supplies are coming through that way. Post Office across the street from Madison Square Garden was our former command center but we lost contact eighteen hours ago and we fear the worst because that's what we're used to. Camp Hudson, originally an evacuation point, is our last remaining command hub.

To make matters worse, the gangs are starting to get clever. Stronger. Five O's got a tight control over Chelsea. Fray holds all of Penn Plaza from Madison Square, though no one's playing games there anymore given it's a field hospital and fortress. Finch is recruiting from the refugee camp in Hudson Yards, preparing for something. Michelle Mason has killed a dozen of our people calls herself the "Chef" of Hell's Kitchen. The Captain holds sway in Piers South to the east shore of the Hudson. And then there's the fucking traitor, "Chief", former police officer who betrayed his precinct and now thinks he's the duke of Clinton.

And rumor has it that around Times Square and Columbus Circle...the Bullet King holds court.

The Upper West and East Sides have been abandoned, with most civilians evacuated to Queens or Harlem, where the military still has control. South Manhattan has been stripped and evacuated, with most of its people sent either north to us here in midtown or to Staten Island. Way things are looking, Midtown Manhattan's the only place south of Harlem where there's still people on this island worth protecting.

As for the Dark Zone and Central Park...we don't go there anymore."