The year is 2045. Fifteen years ago, the world collapsed and half of humanity died.

'Died' is a complicated and contentious word, of course. Most of them are still alive. In the cool of the dark you can hear some of them, moving high up against the hills. They click and chitter like a nightmare flock of cicadas. It's funny, you've been a veteran of the work for this long and it still freaks you out a little bit.

You can't stop thinking about what an idiot proposition the job was. It started out simple: a woman from out West wanted a painting retrieved, intact. She'd had a summer home in a gated community hidden out in the middle of the boonies, all private police and service robots. When shit hit the fan she was in New York, and so owner and property were tragically parted. Get in, grab the goods, get it out and to its rightful owner.

You wince, imagining the two faces screaming beneath a mass of dead flesh as you ran. The other one- Sparrow, you think her name was- got clipped by the same bastards who have you now. As far as you can tell, they're Nazis, or at the very least skinhead fucks of some description. They've got you locked up, and you're not entirely thrilled by the fact they've kept you alive. There are worse fates than a bullet to the head.

You are lying at the bottom of an 8 x 8 hole in the ground. Above you, iron bars keep you locked down here, far away from sunlight. There is a pair of handcuffs locked around your wrists.

The objects around you are:
A bucket full of fresh rainwater
An empty bucket (you think they intend this to be a latrine)
A ceramic plate, covered with the residue of expired canned meals
The bobby pin you've secretly snuck inside your cheek
You are out of Damoclin. Without it, you will die within the next few days.

What do you do?
>Pick the handcuff locks
>Smash the plate into shards
>Drink some water
>Listen for noises above
>Inspect yourself
>(write-in)