MEET THE F.N.G.

By Aaron Stanley and Hunter Lambright

As Marcus DeWitt hit the off button on his alarm, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stretched. He’d gotten to bed early, and had tossed and turned all night. Must be getting old, letting my nerves get to me like that, he thought to himself as he stumbled into the kitchen and poured himself a bowl of cereal.

Every morning since he was 15, he’d had the same routine, and he’d found it had worked for him, through high school, college, and he figured he might as well keep it up.

After a quick shower, he put on his fresh, crisp new uniform, and looked at himself in the mirror. Standing 6’6’’ and weighing close to 230 pounds, he could have and had been mistaken as a pro athlete, but what he did was far more important. For the last five years, he had been a guard at Ryker’s Island Penitentiary, and had recently made the All-Star team of guards. He was the newest member of the security guards on the Raft. Housing super-powered prisoners, the Raft was where he had tried to get into for the last three years.

As he left his small apartment, he walked down the block and hailed a cab. He was fifteen minutes ahead of schedule, as was his nature. Sitting back, he chit-chatted with the cab driver as he was drove from his apartment to the ferry that transported all the staff and personnel to Ryker’s Island. He’d thought it strange at first that everyone going to the Raft had to go through Ryker’s, but he had figured that it was another level of security for the most high-security prison in the United States.

Walking from the dock to the smaller ferry that would take him to the Raft, he formed in line with the rest of the guards, behind an older man.

“You must be DeWitt,” the older man said, turning to Marcus.

“I am,” Marcus replied, surprised that someone would recognize him. “And you are?”

“Jonathon Forrester. Call me John,” the older man said, extending his hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

Marcus smiled, and returned the greeting. The conversation stopped there as John stepped up to be scanned. Everyone seeking entrance to the Raft went through all the various steps of an arduous and extensive security system. Guards had their own line whereby they were searched at Ryker’s, and were able to pass through all other checkpoints after that. Visitors had another two checkpoints to pass through.

Marcus stepped forward when it was his turn. He was first scanned with a metal detector, and then frisked by hand, as his lunch was searched for any contraband. This was taken seriously on the Raft. Years of dealing with super-villains and geniuses had led to a lengthy contraband list.

“You’re clean,” said the surly guard. He waved Marcus through, and then followed him aboard the ferry, as all other guards were aboard.

Marcus found an empty seat for the short trip to the Raft. He waited and climbed the stairs to the Raft with all the other guards, and was waved over by the woman who handled the administrative work on guards.

“Hi Marcus. Ready for your first day?” Helen Paige said. A short woman in her mid-40s, she was the type most would describe as matronly. She’s long since stopped acting out the look, as the Raft had the ability to make even the nicest people jaded.

“Sure am,” Marcus replied. He followed her into the administration building, and went through the process of making sure his badge, passes, and other equipment worked properly. He was then led to the guard’s briefing room. He took a seat at the back, and listened to the morning briefing. It was comforting to him that the Raft functioned very similar to the greater Ryker’s Island, in that any rumours from the prisoners or any situations that had developed over night were mentioned in the morning meeting. This kept all the guards abreast of any development in the prison.

“Okay, one last thing. We’re hearing rumblings about a black market drug that’s new on the streets of the world. It’s called Kick, and apparently it causes vivid hallucinations, with effects similar to PCP. As of yet, it appears Ryker’s and the Raft are clean, but keep your ears open,” the chief guard, a burly man by the name of Harold Black said. “Other than that, business as normal. That’s all I got to say. Let’s go home,” Harold said, and the guards got up, and went to a posting board on the side. Similar to Ryker’s, guards operated in the same building, but different tasks each day, so as to avoid the prisoners picking up on a pattern.

Marcus found his name, and saw that he was posted to C block. He followed a few other guards that were also posted to C, and found John Forrester amongst them.

“Looks like I’ll be your probie officer,” the older guard said to Marcus as they made their way to C block.

“Sounds good to me,” Marcus replied. “Anything I need to know right off the hop?”

“No. Supercons are just like other cons. Treat them like people, and you’ll be okay. Try to push them around and they’ll find any and every opportunity to do the same,” John said. He looked at the younger man, who appeared a little nervous. “You’ll be fine. Now, you’re going to help me do the mid-morning head count. We do a dark check at 0400 hours, then the morning count at 0630. Breakfast is served from 0700 to 0800, then another count at 0815. Mid-morning check comes at 1030.”

“That’s a lot of checks. Ryker’s does three a day. Why so many?”

“Let’s just say the warden has found it’s best to count a lot. He likes to make sure that things run smooth on his watch,” John said. He swiped his card into the lock that opened the cell block doors, and pressed the button on the microphone.

“Cell block C, mid-morning count. Set from your cells and look at the cameras,” John said, and his amplified voice came through over the loud speakers. Slowly, the prisoners started to come out of their cells, and line up in front of their cells, across from a row of cameras. Up close, Marcus thought they didn’t look half as colourful as they did on the news. He realized that most of it was the lack of costumes.

“Take this, and make sure that every mug shot you see on the clipboard matches a face on the screen. Any missing get a big X marked next to their mug shot,” John said, passing Marcus a clipboard.

Marcus worked through the sheets of paper, and finished five minutes later. “All prisoners present and accounted for.”

“Excellent. Load the prisoner monitor system, enter your name, id number, and pass word, then mark the mid-morning count done and all green,” John said, guiding Marcus through the computer system. “Here on the Raft, we double up on everything. We log everything into computer records and the sheets get sent up to admin for a manual check. If it’s electronic, we assume that it could and will be corrupted, so we do paperwork on everything.”

“Makes sense to me,” Marcus replied. He could appreciate the stance the prison was taking on the issue of monitoring the super powered prisoners. “So, at what point do the prisoners get exercise?”

“From 1300 to 1630 the prisoners are allowed onto the yard, into the library, or to relax in their cells. Most take the opportunity to spend some time out in the fresh air. That’s when you have to watch them. Any that can fly will look a little antsy. We try to watch the fliers the most.”

Marcus nodded. So far, the job seemed to be pretty self-explanatory, as well as mostly about common sense.

“So, where are the real bad boys kept? I see guys on here that don’t look that bad, but I know for a fact that there are some guys on the island that could put a hurting on the Hulk,” Marcus asked.

“They’re on D block, which is below ground and strictly off limits to all guards. The only people allowed on that block are guards that are permanently stationed there. They’re mostly S.H.I.E.L.D. agents over there. Separate procedures and everything. You probably won’t see too much of them. For now, let’s take you on the block, get you acquainted with some of the more permanent resident,” John said, moving to the door. He signalled the guard in the control booth that ran all the doors on the cell block. “Open one,” the guard said, as he slid open the door that led from the guard booth to the holding area. “Closing one,” he called, as he closed the door, than opened the second. “Opening two.” Marcus thought the procedure a classic of the New York Penitentiary Service, whereby only one door could be open at a time. Another method of controlling the prisoners from escaping the prison.

John led the way down the aisle outside the cell blocks, and went to a cell that was across from a window. He poked his head in, and talked to the inmate.

“Up for meeting the new guard there, Monty?” he asked.

“Sure,” said the old man. When Marcus was ushered into the cell, he saw a man that was in his eighties, at least.

“Marcus DeWitt, meet Monty Alighery. Monty, meet Marcus. Monty here was one of the first inmates we got here at the Raft. He got his powers back in the 40s. Why don’t you tell him the story, Monty?” John asked the older man.

“Well, I was a young man back there, eager to get into the big one with the rest of the men,” Monty recalled. “Only problem was, I volunteered when I was about 16, and all of 5’6’’. So, I was approached for a program that was still in the trial stages, testing a formula that would create a new breed of soldiers, bigger, stronger soldiers,” Monty continued. Marcus almost laughed, not believing the old man. But when he thought about it, the Super Soldier formula had to be tested on someone at some point before Steve Rogers got the serum.

“Well, it worked on me, except it didn’t. I got real big, real strong. Then after a few days, my body started to ache. And ache. Then I shrunk back down to my old size. Well, I went back to the doctors, and they told me that it looked like the serum hadn’t taken, so they injected me again, with a slightly different formula. This one took as well, for a few weeks. Then I ached and shrunk again. They injected me three more times. After the serum seemed to take for a few weeks non-stop, they figured it had worked, and sent me into the fight.”

“Well, back then I was a normal size with the serum pumping through my veins. And it worked great for a few years. I was 6’1’’ and close to 200 pounds. I wasn’t half as much as Captain America turned into, but I thought I was hot stuff. So when I shrunk back to a state halfway in between the two, I was desperate to get back to what I was. Well, when I finally found the scientist, he told me that it’d take close to a million to remake the serum. Being dirt poor, I figured I’d try to find the money through alternative methods. I set about robbing banks. I got three or four under my belt before the cops showed up as I was in the middle of a job,” Monty said. He paused, and took a long sip of water, whetting his lips.

“At that point, I panicked. I was desperate to get more serum. I took hostages, and when the cops stormed the bank, I opened fire. What I didn’t realize in the state I was in, I was using a tommy gun, in the middle of a bank, on a day when a local school had organized a field trip. Long story short, I was charged and convicted of killing 5 kids, 2 officers, and wounding 5 more officers. Because the serum had been partially successful, I was classified as a superhuman, and incarcerated at Ryker’s, on death row. I got 6 consecutive life sentences for my crimes. I been here nigh on 50 years, and I ain’t never felt like I haven’t deserved every minute of my jail time. And that’s about all I got to say about that. You be a good guard, fair and honest, and you’ll be all right. I seen all kinds in my time here. Good guards, bad guards, guards couldn’t care less. Only ones that last are good, fair, and honest. Be that, and you be here long after I’m gone,” Monty said, finishing. He sat back, and was quiet for a moment.

“It’s time we go,” John said, putting his hand on Marcus’ shoulder. Marcus thanked Monty for his time, and left, heading back to the control booth.

“I think that’s good for now. We’ll take ya over to the cafeteria, set you up for lunch duty.”

As John and Marcus made their way from the cell block, Marcus reflected on what he’d heard. While Monty had seemed like a nice, quiet old man, it was contrasted starkly by his own confession of the brutal nature of the crimes that landed him in the prison.

“So, what we like to do after the mid-morning count is come on over, and sweep the cafeteria for any contraband. Contraband includes any drugs that might have been smuggled in, any tools that could be used to disable the inhibitor collars as well as anything that is on the contraband list. The list is in the employee handbook that you were sent,” John said, as they walked into the cafeteria. It was stark, and very large. Along one wall was a long food bar, with small 6 inch high slots for the cafeteria staff to pass food to the prisoners. Along the top of the wall, there was a walkway for the guards that ran around the perimeter of the room. In the centre were solid steel tables, similar to picnic tables, except for the fact they were welded to the floor.

“We sweep the cafeteria the old fashioned way, with hands and eyes. We look under every bench, and under every table. Any where that could hide something. It generally takes five or six of us about an hour, at which point we begin to move the prisoners over, one block at a time. It generally takes about an hour and a half to get them all fed. Then we send them out for their recreation. Usually, if you come over during the 0800 shift change, then you’re done after the prisoners are sent back to their cell before supper.”

“Sounds good to me. What say we get going on the sweep, so we can get it done?” Marcus said.

John smiled. “Sure thing.”

As the two went about their work, they drifted apart, and came back together, chit-chatting about various things, none of which related to the job at hand, as a way to pass the time during the tedious task.

It was 1115 before Marcus turned to the older guard.

“So, how long you been here?” he asked, as they finished the job of sweeping the cafeteria.

“Well, I started at Ryker’s back in ’79, and made the transfer in ’88. So, 21 years at the Raft. It was much smaller back then.”

“So, you must be one of the more senior guards?”

John smiled, and shook his head. “One thing you learn quick around here is the politics. I been here a long time, but made the wrong friends, so I been stuck in the same job for quite some time. Probably will be until I retire, which ain’t all that far off.” Marcus looked at the man, and tried to nod, but couldn’t bring himself to say anything. What is there to say? he wondered to himself.

They continued their menial duties until a klaxon sounded in the corridor. “What’s going on?” Marcus asked.

“To the helipad,” John said, breaking into a jog. Marcus followed, unsure of what he was about to get into. Was this a prison break, or had something else happened?

“The helipad’s where they drop off some of the prisoners,” Marcus explained. “The alarm goes off every few days, as sometimes the restraints we have just can’t compensate for a power level we don’t expect to see a prisoner have. These villains are getting better at what they do. Just means we have to get better ourselves.”

At that moment, Marcus and John emerged into the light. “Stay here,” John said, and Marcus could only watch as the scene unfolded.

A man adorned in metal plates that led up to a barbed horn on his forehead had broken the oversized restraints on his wrists and ankles, and was swinging them around as bludgeons. The double-rotor helicopter was on its side, smoking at the top. Its crew was out cold, as was this new, cybernetically-laced Rhino’s transport crew.

However, it was not the new Rhino that impressed Marcus. It was the efficiency with which the advancing guards did their jobs. The new Rhino charged at a speed that would have flattened a semi-truck, much less a man, but the guards knew what they were doing. They sidestepped him like a matador teasing a bull, tagging him with their cattle prod-like devices along the way. One guard was buffeted by a sideswipe of the Rhino’s head, but he was immediately swarmed by medical staff.

For a few minutes, the battle seemed to be at a standstill, but slowly, as more and more electricity flowed into the new Rhino with every charge, he began to slow down. As he collapsed and the guards moved to restrain him with stronger restraints, Marcus understood that this job was not just moving up a level. It was a completely different dimension. These were the best of the best.

John walked back to Marcus, dusting off his pants. “Super-villains,” he shrugged. “Not a speck of originality these days. Ready to go back to work?”

The Yard

Compared to decades ago, super-villains were a dime a dozen, and their presence in the public’s eye was limited to a handful of villains that constantly targeted a select few heroes. To the public, then, faith in the prison system was at an all-time low, as Ryker’s Island and the Raft appeared to be revolving doors, with the same prisoners seeing escape from the legal system or the jail itself time and time again. This was what the public saw.

This was not the reality.

A gray-skinned man who went by the moniker of Mr. Think walked the Yard along the outside edges. Thirty years he had spent here, losing every hair on his head somewhere between his cell and the Yard over the course of the decades. He’d considered himself an evil genius of sorts, but he’d been taken down easily at the end of the Korean War by a flag-wearing super-hero whose name he couldn’t quite put a finger on anymore. Had it been Captain or Colonel Stripes? He shrugged to himself as he continued walking. It wasn’t like it mattered anymore.

Mr. Think was perfectly content to live in the Raft compared to the existence he’d had outside it, though he’d never have believed it before. If not for the company of his unlikely friends, he’d long since have hatched an escape plot.

“How do you like this weather?” Mr. Think asked a red-skinned man.

Doctor Everything cocked his head to the sky. “Simulated,” he said, shaking his head. “Nothing in here is real. Mr. Think, if the world is my oyster, who determines who gets the pearl and who gets the undercooked ones rampant with disease?”

“Delightfully optimistic as always, I see,” Mr. Think said, smiling. “I hope you are doing well, friend.”

The Yard’s inhabitants today were largely its regulars. Many of the upper-tier villains, “the vacationers,” as Mr. Think and his friends liked to call them, either stayed in their cells or were forced to stay on Block D at all times anyway. They had made that mistake recently with the Steel Serpent, as the mystic seals that Dr. Strange routinely put in place on the Raft were weaker in the Yard. Thankfully, he had been recaptured.

In the end, it was another peaceful day. That was all that Mr. Think could ask for. He had an existence here, and a role in educating the new long-term inhabitants of the Raft, the ones who didn’t have the lawyers or super-villain friends to get them out on a weekly basis.

He also knew that, if anything threatened to hurt that existence, they would have to deal with him long before they would ever have to deal with the guards…

Five Hours Later

Marcus stepped down the steps into the ferry and grabbed an empty seat. It’d been an interesting day, learning all the tricks of the trade. He’d enjoyed it and figured that he’d do well on the Raft after all.

As Marcus felt the air off the water, a stranger tapped him on the shoulder. In the light, he could barely see the outline of the man’s face. “Excuse me, sir, are you Marcus DeWitt?”

“Uh… yeah, I am,” Marcus said, confused. He’d thought he was done meeting people for the day.

The man nodded, and Marcus could see the stubble on his chin. “They call me Coyote, and I have a proposition for you…”

To be continued!