Nsia Prison

Nsia prison is located 6 miles South-West of Ilana in Tanzania. If you were to search for it on a map, or with a satellite, you will come end up in an endless loop of portals. It is home to the world’s most dangerous criminals, the ones that the general population has probably never heard of.

The guards are the most highly trained soldiers the worlds’ militaries have ever declared MIA. They are armed with the most reliable, well-tested weapons on or off the market. Currently, the facility employs 11 guards, giving them a roughly 4:1 advantage over their three prisoners. Nsia is overseen by a former Interpol president.

Nsia is the sixth such facility built around the world, with locations in China, Canada, Antarctica, Peru, and São Vicente Island.

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The most dangerous inmate to ever reside at Nsia prison was known to his guards as simply, Božidar. They had done an exhaustive search of Serbian and Croatian records, looking for a last name, but came up empty-handed. They still did not even have a birthdate for him, but estimated him to be about 35 years old.

He was a strikingly handsome man, to some women, though most found him to be too “mean” looking. His dark eyes matched his dark hair, which he always kept shaved nearly to the scalp. He kept his body free of tattoos, believing his body to be a temple to carnage and bloodshed. As such a temple, his back, chest, and arms were crisscrossed with a series of scars of various length, depth and color.

In full tactical armor, weapons hot, four armed guards escorted Božidar to his “therapy” session. Therapy at Nsia was more comparable to an interrogation. Each inmate had six sessions a week; in which warden Xanti Aiza would question them about their crimes, and their criminal connections.

Armed with Glock-17 side arms and Heckler & Koch MP5A2 sub-machine guns, the four guards walked on all sides of Božidar as they approached the door marked with a scrolling ticker that read, “Therapy in session”. The guard in the left-rear pressed a badge on his chest, which sent a signal to the Warden on the other side. He in turn pressed his own badge, which sent a signal to the door to open, which it did with barely a whisper.

The room was plain, 12’x12’, with steel walls and steel floors. A 6’x3’ 2-way mirror sat on the far wall, beneath a sign that read “Observation Window”. In the center of the room was a steel desk, bolted to the floor. On either side of the desk was a single steel chair, bolted into a small groove that allowed the chair to be moved back and forth, but not up and down.

The Warden stepped to the side as the guards escorted Božidar inside and directed him the chair on the left side of the table. He sat down and held his shackled hands up toward his captors. They would not be undoing the shackles, and he knew it. He was getting wise, and it would cost him later that night.

Even sitting, Božidar was a menacing figure. At 6’5” and near 300lbs, it was secretly a relief among the guards that he had never decided to give them trouble. In fact, except for the occasional moment like his gesturing for his shackles to be undone, he was a model prisoner. He never resisted the guards; he never attempted to communicate with the other inmates. In fact, since arriving he had only spoken during his “therapy” sessions.

A steel cable was pulled out from beneath the table and locked into his shackles, ensuring he could not move. The guards turned to salute the Warden, then left the two men alone. The Warden waited until the men had left, then had a seat in the chair opposite Božidar. “Good morning,” he spoke with an accent that betrayed his childhood growing up in the south of France, “Do you know why you’re here?”

English was the official language of Nsia prison ever since its inception. It was discovered in the early days that the majority, if not all, of the inmates they kept there spoke at least Basic English. It was, in fact, the only common tie that any of the inmates had.

“Yes,” Božidar spoke with an accent that even experienced spies had trouble placing. “I am here to make a name for myself.”

The Warden’s eye twitched, but he gave no other indication of his noticing Božidar’s odd response. In the year that he’d been going to these therapy/interrogation sessions, he’d never responded with anything other than: “I am a murderer on a scale that would make most men blush.”

“Why are you here? Please do not be so unresponsive this time.” The Warden unconsciously ran his fingers along the handle of his Glock-26. He was waiting for a response, his mind going over various scenarios and his responses to each.

He was so lost in thought, he didn’t notice when Božidar reached up with his right hand and nonchalantly brushed some imaginary dirt off of his prison overalls. “I said,” Božidar spoke a little louder now, “I am here to make a name for myself. I am going to be the first man to escape Nsia prison alive.”

Before the words fully registered with Warden Aiza, Božidar was across the steel table. He drove his fists into the Warden’s chest, forcing him backwards and actually breaking the chair loose from its mooring. The two men landed on the floor with a clang, Božidar rolling away from the shocked, but moving Aiza.

Aiza reached for his sidearm, managing to raise it to shoulder level before Božidar was upon him. The aging Warden was still fast, but his opponent was that much faster. The weapon was wrenched from his hands as an elbow was driven hard into the center of his face. He saw stars and tumbled backwards, falling against the steel table. He tried to raise himself up, but was shoved back into place by Božidar’s booted foot pressing against his chest. His own weapon was now trained on his forehead, the safety off.

The only door to the room opened and two guards entered, weapons raised. “Welcome, Mikhailov and Mata, please lower your weapons.” They did as they were told, shocked to hear their names coming from a prisoner’s mouth.

Much care was taken to be sure the identities of the guards are never known to the inmates. It’s all about control.

Mikhailov and Mata dropped their submachine guns on the floor at their feet. “Very good, gentlemen. Now kick them over to me.” This time the men refused. “Not smart, gentlemen. Kick your weapons over to me, or I’ll kill your employer.” Mikhailov made a move to give the inmate what he wants, when Mata put a restraining hand on his shoulder.

“On your head be it, Mata,” Božidar called as he leaned forward, using the table as a fulcrum to snap Aiza’s spine in two. The Warden managed a weak gasp before shock overcame him and he slipped into unconsciousness. Mata made his move then, rushing Božidar.

Mata crossed the space between him and Božidar in the blink of an eye. In that time he was able to reach into his bulletproof vest and pull out an extendable, electric prod. He swung the prod at his target’s midsection. Unfortunately for him, he missed.

Božidar moved back, narrowly missing the electrified sting of Mata’s baton. He waited until Mata’s swing came all the way around and grabbed his arm. He gripped it strongly and swung Mata around into the steel table just in time to see Mikhailov making his move. As Mata slammed into the table, cracking his hip, Božidar brought his foot straight out and slammed Mikhailov backwards into the floor. His head slammed into the floor with a loud crack. A pool of blood began collecting in a halo around Mikhailov’s head as a now fully armed Božidar ran through the room’s door.

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The hall leading away from the therapy room terminated in a T; to the right was the armory, locked behind a one inch thick steel door, to the left was the cell block. Waiting outside the armory were two of the remaining nine guards. The remaining seven were four floors below, guarding the prison’s only exit. They were taking no chances.

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The outside appearance of Nsia is most comparable to a large drum. One hundred yards wide at the top, with a helipad and a small clinic, it narrows down to less than 20 yards across at the bottom. Its surface is such that it blends into the surrounding grassland. In fact, it is almost impossible to see from the outside. Half a mile below the surface of the Earth is a garage containing a number of cars, vans and buses. , transports for official purposes only. It would be shocking to any of the guards to see the idling Jeep waiting just yards from the prison.

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Božidar overestimated the force that would be waiting for him. He was able to dispatch the 2 guards that awaited him without much trouble. He used his bare hands to dig in to an eye socket of one his victims. He pulled out an eye, mostly intact, and used it in the security scanner keeping him out of the armory.

Inside, he found what he needed, a Norinco type 69 and a case full of M67 hand grenades. He dropped his submachine guns and shouldered the rocket launcher. On the far side of the room he found a line of rope and climbing gear. He smiled to himself, pleased at the information his inside man had provided. He grabbed what grenades he could carry and headed down the hall, toward the cell block.

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Božidar shared the cell block of Nsia prison with 2 other inmates, both of whom had been there for a very long time when he’d arrived. In the cell 2 doors from Božidar’s was Hong Ruan, an assassin from China. His hair was silver and long, reaching down to his knees, but his face was clean-shaven. He did not look up as Božidar approached his cell door. He simply rocked back and forth on his cot, mumbling to himself in his native Cantonese.

As Božidar manipulated the stolen eyeball to open Ruan’s cell, the inmate across the wide hallway began to stir. Pasco Botterill was not a part of the plan. He was an anarchist and unpredictable. While Ruan could be counted on to carry out his part of the plan efficiently and completely, there was no telling what Botterill might do.

Once Ruan was free, Božidar turned toward Botterill in his cell. He took two long steps forward and stared at the mad man. Like Ruan, his hair was long and silver, but unlike Ruan, it was unkempt. It knotted and frayed and clung to the side of his head. His beard was equally as long and matted in places with old food.

“I’m afraid, old man, that this is the end of the road for you.” Božidar placed the Norinco type 69 rocket launcher on the floor and reached behind his back for the Heckler & Koch sub-machine gun he’d shoved into the back of his pants

“I know, I know. You kids with your plans, no room for old timers like me,” he pressed his body against the bars of his cell, giving Božidar a clean shot at his heart. “Just promise me one thing? Promise me you’ll finish my work? Kill the Queen?”

“Imam veće stvari da ostvari.”

The sound of the gun shot reverberated off the walls of the cell block, but was completely unheard by the guards waiting four floors below. Each floor was sound proofed, so that prisoners could be isolated more effectively over long periods of time.

Božidar handed Ruan the box of grenades and gave him a brief salute. It was the least he could do before sending the man on a suicide mission. Ruan nodded his understanding and began attaching the grenades to his body at various points, dangling them from holes he’s cut into his coveralls using only his teeth. Ruan turned and ran back down the hall, approaching the hidden door that opened to a secure elevator. With the guard’s severed eye now in his possession, he’d have no trouble reaching his destination.

Božidar turned toward the far wall, settling the Norinco into place on his shoulder. He took aim and fired the weapon, the rocket firing down the hall with blinding speed and crashing into the wall. The resulting explosion would be heard, as well as felt, throughout the building. No amount of soundproofing could stop that, but it didn’t matter now.

As the smoke cleared, Božidar laid his eyes on something he’d not seen in almost a year: a sunrise. Without a moment’s hesitation he ran toward the gaping hole he’d created in the wall. A hot breeze blew in from the hole, and he thought he’d never felt anything more refreshing.

As he got closer to the opening he unfurled the length of rope he’d stolen from the armory. He was disheartened to see that it was not long enough to reach the 60 or so feet he’d need to repel down the side of Nsia prison.

He’d come too far to give up, however, and so he tied an end of the rope around a jagged piece of what was once an impenetrable obstacle. He dropped the rope out into the world and guessed that it ended about 20 feet from the ground. Not that bad a drop, after all. Turning to look one more time at the place that had been his home for the past year, Božidar grabbed the rope and leapt out into the world.

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He fell into the open air, rope in hand, and enjoyed the freedom for a moment. Then he tightened his grip on the rope, slowing his descent even as the life-saving rope tore into his skin. As he approached the end of the line, the rope became a deep crimson, stained forever by his blood.

He braced himself at the end, reaching up with his free hand to catch himself. The pain was almost unbearable as his shoulder was almost pulled free of the socket. Still, he pulled it off.  Dangling 20 feet in the air he allowed himself a brief smile, then turned to watch as the Jeep he’d arranged for approached.

The Jeep and its driver had been parked beneath a nearby tree, to stay out of sight. Now it roared across the open plain, coming to stop directly beneath Božidar. Once the Jeep was in place, he let go of the rope, landing hard on the roof of the Jeep and rolling off, onto the dusty ground.

The driver of the Jeep leapt out, examining the enormous dent in his roof. He turned to Božidar, to tell him that he would need extra money to pay for the repairs. Instead he only screamed as Božidar’s enormous, strong hands gripped his head and twisted his neck until it snapped. The sound seemed unusually loud in the quiet, morning air.

Kicking the body aside, Božidar climbed behind the wheel of the Jeep and drove off into the sunrise, a man intent on fulfilling his purpose.


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