The government issued helicopter sputtered across the city, heading for the East River. Jack Russell, and a handful of other S.H.I.E.L.D. agents were being hauled to a Super-Maximum Security prison for extrahuman criminals, called "The Raft."
No one was sure how it happened, or why, but there had been a large-scale breakout at The Raft, and it had to be contained before these super-powered maniacs reached Queens, or the Bronx, or wherever they happened to be headed. Of course, it was S.H.I.E.L.D.'s job to handle this sort of thing, so that was what they were doing. Jack looked up at the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent sitting directly across from him. He looked either incredibly nervous or incredibly nauseous. Who in their right mind wouldn't be? "So!" Jack shouted over the thundering rotors. "Remind me what we're supposed to do again...!"
The agent responded with nothing more than a queasy, irritated stare.
To pass what little time was left on the flight to The Raft, Jack began examining his new sidearm. He ejected the magazine and tapped it against the gun's grip. What they always do on helicopter rides in the movies Jack thought to himself. He reloaded the gun, chambered a round, set the manual safety, and holstered it.
Finally, the helicopter landed on the island. As he stepped out, the holster shifted sideways and started digging into his neck. He'd been a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent for all of one day, and already, he hated the uniforms. Fortunately, after throwing a bit of a fit, they gave up and only forced him to wear the top half of it.
The agents all made their way slowly toward the roof access door; the only way in at the moment. David, the young, airsick agent that sat across from Jack, reached for the handle, his hand trembling with anxiety.