ONCE YOU GET HOOKED

By Aaron Stanley and Hunter Lambright

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

Marcus’ instincts were instantly on edge. He didn’t like the looks of Coyote, and wasn’t all that sure that he wanted anything to do with him. “I’m sorry, but I have to get home. Maybe another time,” Marcus said, trying to move past the other man.

Coyote stuck his arm out. “Sure thing, just hear me out,” he said. “I have a friend that you might encounter in your days on the Raft, and I was wondering if you could give him something. I’d mail it to him, but it’s a little bulky, and I don’t want to pay the extra freight.”

“Sorry, Coyote, but I can’t do that. Take it to FedEx, I hear their rates are pretty decent.”

“Maybe you didn’t understand me, friend,” Coyote said, posting an arm against the rail in Marcus’ way. He reached into his jacket, and began to pull his hand out. Marcus tensed, getting ready to jump the man. The hand came out of the jacket, holding a picture.

“See, it’d be a shame if that pretty little girlfriend of yours was hurt in some random act of gangland violence. The neighbourhood isn’t quite what it used to be,” Coyote said, his false friendliness replaced with menace. He pulled a small package out of his pocket. “Think of it as medication. Get this to my friend and it’ll keep your girlfriend from getting lead poisoning,” the man grinned. He tossed the package to Marcus, and then walked off. “You got a week.”

Marcus looked at the small item in his hand. I am so fucked, he thought to himself. He left the ferry dock and started the short walk home. He didn’t say anything about the encounter to his live-in girlfriend Roni as he went about the rest of his day. She was a freelance writer with the New York Times, which meant she was home a lot. Coyote and whoever he had watching her would know that. Though Marcus’ lips said nothing, Coyote’s words stayed on his mind throughout the day.

He went to bed with the package hidden in the bag that he carried to work with him. Marcus tossed and turned most of the night before he found a troubled sleep.

0500, April 5

Marcus awoke and stretched. He hadn’t slept worth shit and was still troubled by what to do with the package. He thought on it as he ate a quick breakfast before he hit on the idea of talking to John, his probationary officer at the Raft. With the matter somewhat resolved, Marcus was almost back to normal as he began the walk to work. He turned the corner, and was three blocks from the dock that was used by the Raft personnel when he saw Coyote leaning against a lamp post. Coyote just smiled and nodded at Marcus as the guard walked by. In the pale light of early morning, Coyote’s features were still dim to him, but the smirk was unmistakable.

Marcus didn’t say a word to anyone as he rode the ferry to the maximum security penitentiary for super-powered prisoners. He got off and went through the morning routine at the prison, which involved getting into his uniform, and the morning safety briefing. No prisoner of note was being moved into the prison, and it was expected to be a typical day at the Raft. As the guards moved out of the briefing room, Marcus pulled John aside. “Can I talk to you a minute?” he asked the older guard.

“Of course, what’s up?” John said. As the probationary officer for Marcus, it was his responsibility to show the younger man the procedures at the Raft and help with his initiation.

“I was approached last night. Someone, some gangbanger calling himself Coyote, wants me to smuggle something into the prison, and threatened my family if I didn’t do it. I saw him on the way to work this morning. I’m not sure what to do, because it’s obvious he’s watching my place.”

John frowned. While it seemed like a very simple matter of just going to the warden or the police, if they were watching Marcus’ home, then they probably knew more than just what he did for work.

“Well, you know if you do it once, they’ll keep leaning on you to do it. But we can’t risk anything happening to you or your family. So, what we need to do is get your family out of town, and then tell the cops and the warden, and have them deal with the guy,” John said, reasoning out the problem. He himself had been approached a few times by various gangs and people to do the same thing. It was always just a matter of getting the police to chase them off, but there was always the risk that the people wanting the item smuggled would follow through on the promise of violence.

“Okay. So, should I call her now?” Marcus asked, the worry coming through on his face. The answer sounded so simple, but fear threatened to seep through the cracks of the plausible response to the threat.

“Tell you what, I’ll go tell the warden that we need to see him. It’ll take time, he’s a busy man, and we got a job to do, so it’ll be later today before we see him. For now, just avoid the prisoner who you’re supposed to give the stuff to,” John said. He led the younger man to C block, their assigned location, as the guards began the first count of the morning.

“Today, we’re going to do a manual count. Grab that clipboard; it has a list of all the prisoners on the block. We start at the bottom of the block, do that level, and then go up to the next, and so on. For the morning count, we don’t open the door, or need the prisoners to even be awake. It lets us get at least one count done without any trouble,” John said. He led the way onto the block, and began the walk down the row of cells.

“I’m sure you know this, but never, ever, step closer to the cells than this yellow line,” he said, indicating a two inch thick line on the floor. “We only cross that line to enter a cell, and you only enter a cell with at least two other guards. Some of these guys have powers that don’t turn off. You don’t need super strength to kill a man if you’re eight feet tall,” the older guard continued. He nodded and said good morning to some of the earlier-rising prisoners. As they proceeded through the count, John continued to run through the morning routine.

“At 0630, we turn on the main bank of lights. At that point, we do a cell out count, which has the prisoners stepping out of their cell. Then we take them to breakfast, which is served from 0700 to 0800. After that, they’re returned to their cells until the mid-morning count,” he told Marcus, who was busy checking off prisoners on the clipboard as they passed each cell. “The other thing we do, once we’ve done the first count, is take all the prisoners that help with kitchen duty over to the mess hall to get started. They don’t help with food preparation, but help as servers. They slop the stuff onto the trays,” John said. “If you don’t ever have to eat the food in the cafeteria, don’t. I’m not sure what’s worse, solitary, or that food. No joke.”

Marcus nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said. They had reached the end of the cell block and all prisoners were accounted for.

“Okay, the next sheet has the list of all prisoners that help with the cafeteria. We’ll start up here, than move down. After that’s done, we’ll go over, and see the warden.”

“Sounds good to me,” Marcus replied. “First on the list is Johnny DaMond, cell 625,” Marcus said. They walked to the cell, then John signalled the guard that ran the doors. “Open 625 for one,” he called out. When the door opened, John poked his head into the cell. “You good to go here, Johnny?” the guard asked.

“Yessir, I am,” came the reply. John and Marcus backed up, and let the prisoner out of the cell. He was a big man, towering over Marcus and John. He had a quiet air about him, however, and Marcus and John had no problem with him as they moved him to the holding area that would house the prisoners as they were brought one-by-one out of their cells.

“Next on the list is Leroy Jenkinson,” Marcus said. Rumor had it that Jenkinson had been part of a cell of criminals that had only been caught because he had rushed in against the plan. “Cell 521.” The two guards walked up to the fifth level, then went to the 21st cell. “Jenkinson, you going to behave today? I don’t want no trouble, and you don’t want to go back to the hole on your first day on breakfast duty, do you?” John asked. Clearly the prisoner had been trouble before.

“I ain’t going to be no trouble,” said the prisoner.

“Good,” John replied. “Open 521 for one,” he hollered to the guard on the door controls. The prisoner that exited the cell was not more than 5’10’’, but his skin was a dark black, and looked like it was a solid piece of hardened plastic. They moved the man down to the holding cell, and then continued the procedure for another half dozen prisoners before they escorted the prisoners to the kitchen en masse.

“You all behave yourselves now, and we’ll come get you when you’re done,” John said. He turned to Marcus. “Now, let’s go see what we can do about your little problem.”

Fifteen Minutes Later

As the two guards were escorted into the warden’s office, Marcus was struck by how Spartan it was. There was only one hanging on the wall, a painting of the prison from the air. It was a nice oil painting, Marcus decided, but it didn’t serve to lighten up the mood at all. He took a seat and quietly waited for the warden, who they had been told was on his way from a brief meeting.

The warden walked into the office, and moved behind his desk. “John, how are you?” he asked politely to the older guard. “You being gentle with the FNG?” he joked.

“Oh yeah. As gentle as you were with me when you broke me in,” John replied, laughing. Obviously the warden had been a guard, and moved up in the ranks, which Marcus thought was a good thing. It might make the conversation easier.

“So, what can I do for you two?” the warden asked.

Marcus looked to John, who nodded for him to go ahead. “Sir, last night I was, uh, approached by a stranger who called himself Coyote. He wanted me to smuggle something to a prisoner. I’d have told him off, but he’s threatened my girlfriend. It’s obvious he’s watching her, and I was afraid to put her in danger. So… I took the package.” He rubbed the back of his neck in embarrassment.

The warden frowned. “Well, I won’t lie and say that it isn’t concerning that you’ve been approached so quickly. We’ve had a problem with this in the past, and I thought that the institution had gotten better at hiding who we were hiring in order to avoid situations like the one we’ve found you and your family in. On the plus side, as sad as it is to say, we do have a standard procedure for dealing with this. What are your thoughts on relocation?” the warden asked Marcus.

“Relocation to where, sir?” he asked. He had just rented the apartment when he had found out he was being promoted to working on the Raft. It was a great place, but safety came first.

“Well, at first, I think it’d be best if we relocated your entire family to a building that’s a little more secure. We have a contract with the NYPD to provide a safe building for all personnel that need it, from Ryker’s as well as the Raft. As you can imagine, many guards are approached and threatened, so a few years ago we began a process to protect our employees,” the warden said. “However, that only delays the problem. We can’t protect you and your family forever. We need to find out who these people are, and what it is that they want to smuggle in. Also, we need to find a way for you to live your life without being harassed, and always having to look over your shoulder.”

The warden’s frown deepened. “Unfortunately, the problem is compounded by the fact that you already took the package from him. He’s already got his hooks in you, and that’s not something that we can easily remedy.”

John looked up. It was obvious that he had been chewing something over in his head for the past few minutes. “Sir… I have a better idea that might serve to cut the problem off at its source. If I may…?”

The warden shrugged. “By all means, let’s hear it…”

Cell Block C

In the back half of Cell Block C were cells for incarcerated individuals who had special needs. This did not mean that they were disabled or anything else of the matter, but that they simply needed something that the other, more normal prisoners did not. For some, such as alien prisoners, it meant that they had closed cells filled with certain gases that allowed them to survive as if they were on their home planet. For extradited Atlantean prisoners, it meant that the cell was supersaturated with moisture in the air, allowing them to survive on dry land without necessarily being fully submerged.

For the creature known as the Hippo, this meant an oversized cell, an adamantium-reinforced cot, and a much wider radius of empty space in the cell allowing for movement. He relaxed on the cot, staring down his spectacles over his muzzle at the copy of The Origin of the Species he clutched between the fingerless stumps at the end of his arms. His thick, gray skin showed between every button in his too-tight shirt, as even the special-order clothes had been too small for him. He looked up as the guard patrol walked past his door.

Jerry Dahl paused at the door, peering inside. Visiting the Hippo was one of the routine parts of his day. While the other guards typically avoided the elephantine man, Jerry enjoyed his company. “How’s Darwin treating you, Mr. Hippo?”

The Hippo sighed. “I’ve told you, Jerry. No ‘Mister.’ And to answer your question, Charles Darwin hasn’t given me anything particularly intriguing this time around compared to the past dozen. He apparently doesn’t allow much for freak accidents transforming hippopotami into human-like creatures when he suggests his theory on the survival of the fittest.”

Jerry shrugged, smiling. “Sorry, Hippo. If you’d like, we could arrange to switch it out for another volume from the library sometime.”

Snorting, the Hippo said, “I’m sorry, but unless you can sneak me in a copy of the latest issue of Busty Beauties, I’ll stick to trying to determine where I fit in the course of evolution.”

“I’ll leave the higher thinking to you, then, my friend,” Jerry said. “Tell you what. I’ll swing out to the library and see if they have a copy of Mrs. Dalloway. Probably the closest you’re gonna get to tits with the library’s classics-only rule.”

“I’d appreciate that, actually. Perhaps I could learn for myself why Woolf has appeared on so many banned books lists,” the Hippo said, baring his thick, round teeth.

The day continued onward as normal after that, but both men appreciated each other’s company as a break from the monotony that was all prison life.

The Yard

Mr. Think was on his daily walk around the edge of the Yard when he noticed the first sneeze. It was a small thing to see, really, when he thought about it, and it would barely have made him notice if it had not been the Dementoid who had sneezed. The green-skinned man with the elongated, alien-like skull hardly ever showed any sign of physical malady.

“Are you all right, friend?” Mr. Think asked, the gray skin on his forehead scrunching up in concern.

Dementoid nodded. “Ssso weird, that wasss. Sssneezing hasssn’t happened sssince my transssformation.”

Mr. Think nodded, and looked around the Yard. For a moment, there was nothing. Then, after just a few seconds of waiting, he saw the former doctor known as Blindside sneeze. A few moments later, a third sneeze followed.

Approaching the guard tower, Mr. Think covered his eyes as he looked up. “Excuse me,” he said, raising the tone of his voice. “I believe that there is a problem with one of our inhibitor collars.”

The guard looked down sceptically, levelling his gun at Mr. Think. “What kind of ploy is this? If that’s true, why would you tell me?”

“Because I enjoy this quiet existence, and I hate when it is disrupted,” Mr. Think said, scoffing. “Based on the number of sneezes I have witnessed, I’d like to believe that you’ll find a short in Haymaker’s inhibitor collar.”

The guard laughed. “And what makes you so sure of—achoo!”

Mr. Think smiled knowingly. The guard stared daggers into him. “I’ll radio it in.”

As Mr. Think continued his daily walk around the Yard, he felt, rather than saw, another man fall into step with him. He looked down to see a peculiarly short man keeping stride with him. “Hello, I do not believe we’ve met,” Mr. Think said without breaking his pace.

The little man nodded. “You seem like a man who wishes only for quiet, but I’d like to ask for your help in so much more.”

“Excuse me?”

“Let me be frank,” the little man said. “I was called the Redeemer on the outside of these bars, and my goal was to redeem those like the Punisher and Venom, those who were heroes who killed indiscriminately. I lost my court case here, but, I believe, my mission hasn’t deviated. How would you like to help me rehabilitate these people you call your friends?”

Mr. Think wanted with every instinct to push the Redeemer away, but he looked up. He saw Mister Everything, who had been in and out of the Raft three times so far, always coming back on the same charges of using illegal means to try to find out of the meaning of the universe. He saw the Dementoid, who never once had been able to get away with a convenience store robbery. He looked at the people he called his friends, and then back to the Redeemer.

“My answer? Keep talking.”

Cell Block C

Marcus DeWitt waited for the guard patrol to make their way around the corner before he continued into the back of Cell Block C. He continued past the Hippo’s cell on to one of the super-hydrated cells, tapping on the Plexiglas.

“Are you Beemer?” Marcus asked quietly, withdrawing the package from within his jacket. He had done his research and found that the only reason Beemer had been extradited to the United States for his crimes was because Namor had found dealing with his own cousin too bothersome to leave for himself. The records had recorded that Namor believed it more fitting that Beemer be tried and incarcerated by those he hated the most.

A blue face appeared at the transparent barrier. “Yeah, that’s me.” The voice was jittery, that of a junkie. Beemer’s eyes were yellowed save for their thick, bloodshot capillaries.

“Got something for you,” Marcus said. “Give me a sec.” He looked back and forth for a moment and slipped the package in through the square opening in the Plexiglas at waist-level.

“It’s the Hook, right?” Beemer asked. His hands shook as he opened the package. Hook was a drug of Atlantean origin that had its greatest effect on water-breathers. Beemer stuck a fingernail in the package, drew it out, sniffed it, and then started coughing. “The fuck? Is this… powdered sugar?”

Marcus held up his hands. “Whoa, I don’t know what you’re talking about, man. All I know is the Coyote told me to give this to you or else he’d hurt my girlfriend.”

“Oh yeah? Well you take this shit back to the Coyote and tell him that he’s getting paid good money not to screw me over!” Beemer said, stuffing the package back through the square panel.

In a panicked tone, Marcus said, “But I don’t even know how to contact him. He contacts me. And if he finds out I screwed this up, he’ll kill my girlfriend, man. How do I find him?”

“Coyote operates out of that stupid-looking pink warehouse down the block from the ferry, makes doing business with the Raft easier,” Beemer said. “He thinks it’s funny because of how close he is to the Raft without actually being inside it.” Beemer paused. “What are you smiling about?”

Marcus ignored him. “Did you get that?” he said, speaking out into the open air and opening the buttons on his shirt to reveal a wire heavily taped to his chest.

“Every word,” said John over the earpiece Marcus wore. “Code: Blue is on its way right now. Coyote should be delivered to us within the hour.”

Marcus looked at Beemer, dipping a finger into the powdered sugar and tasting the pure sweetness on his tongue. “Thanks, Beemer. Pleasure doing business with you,” he said, walking away.

Next: Tensions rise in the Yard between power-typed gangs of criminals! Can Marcus and John handle a full-scale riot? Plus, the Redeemer and Mr. Think begin their first attempt at rehabilitation, and the Hippo gets news that will change the dynamic of the Raft for some time to come!