THIS DAY, SAME AS ANY OTHER

By Aaron Stanley and Hunter Lambright

“Welcome to the Raft.”

It was such an oxymoronic statement, as if there were something welcoming about the way the building was set up, or as if anyone who came here actually wanted to be here. Still, for the dozen times Maureen Lyszinski had heard it on her way to meet with the warden and again on the way to her office, it had never left her mind. Most occupants of the Raft were not there because they wanted to be in prison. Most guards at the Raft were there only because it paid, and in this economy hazard pay was a great thing to have. The warden was there because it was easy to be a face for the press and to make paperwork decisions without having to exert any real force. He got to go home at night without bloody knuckles or the taunts of the prisoners in his head. And meanwhile, everyone who was paid to be here was harassed or just simply surrounded by dozens of men and women who would, if given the chance, quite happily disembowel, electrocute, or flambé them.

These were a few of the things that Maureen Lyszinski thought about on her first day of the job as the Raft’s new resident psychiatrist.

The petite, light-skinned woman shuffled through her papers in the bleak, white office. She would be moving in her obligatorily large set of books later, of course, but for now, this would have to do. She noted the time on her watch, ran out for a cup of watery coffee, and shuffled through the files until she came to the record of the inmate with whom she’d be conducting her first session. She came in right on time, a piece of evidence in favour of the clockwork of prison. Maureen took some time delving into territory the prison’s old psychiatrist had covered before moving into un-treaded territory.

“I want you to talk to me about when you first decided on your codename,” Maureen said, addressing the prisoner in front of her. “When did you first realize you were, ah, destined to become Lady Stilt-Man?”

“Are you patronizing me?” Lady Stilt-Man crossed her arms in a huff.

“Of course not,” Maureen said. “That’s an odd reaction to a question about your past. Are you used to being patronized?”

Lady Stilt-Man rolled her eyes. “If I chose Stilt-Woman, people would have thought I was that guy’s wife. I’m not on his level. I’m one up. My arms extend, too. His didn’t. I’m better. People gave me too much shit about the name. So yes, yes, I’m used to being patronized.”

Maureen nodded, chewing over how best to pursue the issue. “Do you think you have to legitimize yourself by being successful as a villain? I can see how being in the Raft would jeopardize that.”

Lady Stilt-Man eyed Maureen and laughed. “Haven’t you figured it out yet? The more time you spend in here, the more it jeopardizes everything you ever had planned.” Maureen’s poker face faltered for a moment, something that didn’t go unnoticed by Lady Stilt-Man.

“Yeah. Even for you.”

Cell Block C

Dominic Malcion walked out of his cell for the morning count. He looked at the new guard on C Block. His name tag read DeWitt, and he was being shown the ropes by one of the more senior guards, Jonathon Forrester. Dominic was counted, and he turned and headed back into his cell. He usually took the morning to read or take the opportunity to do some exercising. He didn’t currently have a cellmate, which he loved, because it meant he got to use two mattresses on his bed. It felt less like sleeping on razor wire and more like a cheese grater.

He opened the door to the small locker that each prisoner had and took out a bundle of letters. Each one was from his daughter, who was now ten. Dominic hadn’t seen her since she was two years old. Her mother had moved away from New York after Dominic had been sentenced and was living in Florida now. She still wanted the girl to know her father, and Dominic was thankful that he had that. He started on the first letter, which was written in the writing of a five year old. It’d only been in the last three years that she’d started writing him, but he got a letter every month. It was one of the few things that he looked forward to… that and the day he got out.

Dominic had been sentenced to 11 years, less a day, and he still had another 35 months, 29 days left in his sentence. While he had thought that robbing a bank would be a great idea at the time, the judge didn’t think it was as innovative and had charged him with armed robbery and kidnapping. The hostage Dominic had taken had been intended to be a measure to keep the police from doing anything stupid while he made his getaway. And if it hadn’t been for a former associate snitching, Dominic would have gotten away with the crime.

Ah, shit, no point in going down that road again, he thought to himself. Getting powers had been an accident anyways; it was his fault that he’d used them for criminal purposes. The ironic part was that the powers weren’t even as good as advertised. He’d been promised the power to wield fire like the Human Torch. What he hadn’t been told was that he couldn’t create fire, only bend it. When he’d gone to the man who gave Dominic his powers, he’d paid a large stack of money for the powers.

As Dominic continued to read through the letters, he heard the call for the midmorning count. Dominic didn’t think that that much time had passed while he was reading them, but he shrugged and bundled the letters up, and put them back in the small wooden box he had made in the wood shop. He walked out of his cell, and again saw the same young guard. He nodded to John, and then shuffled in line as the prisoners were led to the mess hall. It was another crappy meal, as usual, of “tuna” salad sandwiches, a drink, and a choice of what looks like grey slop, or the higher quality brown slop. Dom passed on both. He took his tray, got the drink, and walked to the table that he generally sat and, and shoved in next to his buddy, Paul Leif.

“What’s the word, Paully?” he asked, looking to the guy next to him. Like Dominic, Paul was a wielder of one of the natural elements, but in this case he was able to control the earth. His codename, if you called it that, was Digger, which Dominic had always thought was stupid. But when your own codename was Molotov, you didn’t say nothing.

“Not much. Rumbling is that there’s some new guy coming onto D block, the Rhino,” Paully replied. He had been born and raised in a small town in Pennsylvania, and had gotten his powers shortly after his 19th birthday. He’d used them to kill his abusive stepfather, which had gotten him life behind bars at the Raft. Now 22, he and Dominic had been good friends since they had been assigned to laundry shop duty a year back. It had helped that Dominic was already engrained with the clique on the Raft. They even had a name for themselves, which Dominic had never spoken aloud, because he thought it was moronic. Being associated with a group that called themselves the Benders made him sound like he was in a recreational bowling league, and he’d rather have swallowed a bullet than call himself a Bender. But, the group had gotten his back a few times, when he had been close to being killed for various prison offenses, like walking onto the wrong area of the yard.

“The Rhino? He’s been in here before, he ain’t new,” Dominic shot back. He shovelled in the “tuna” sandwich, and washed it down with a gulp of water.

“No, this is some new Rhino, some Russian guy apparently,” Paully said. “Coming in this afternoon.”

“Who’d you hear that from?”

Dom and Paully turned to the man who spoke. Neither recognized him.

“Who the fuck are you?” Dom asked. The man was small, looked like a bookworm, and seemed to be extremely nervous.

“I’m Leonard Creme. The Bugle dubbed me the Lightning Rod, but I don’t know why. I don’t like the name, but that’s how it is. The guards told me I should sit with you guys,” replied the small man.

“You’re shittin’ me. You’re the Lightning Rod?” Paully asked.

Dom turned to his friend. “You know this clown?”

“Yeah, man. I mean no, but I read about him. He’s the guy that knocked over the First Bank of Manhattan, like five years ago. They finally caught up to you, eh?” he asked.

“Yes. I had thought they’d given up on finding me, but I guess that the First Bank itself put a bounty on my being returned to the States. And here I am.”

Dominic shrugged. If Paully figured the guy was legit, it worked for him. “Sit down, Lenny. Take a load off,” he said, indicating the seat.

After lunch, Paully, Dominic, and Leonard headed to the yard and grabbed a spot on the bleachers that had been put next to the dirty rundown baseball field. Dominic shook hands with a few other guys that he hung out with. For the most part, everyone was in for the long haul, at least five years. A block was for the short timers, those that got a year or less, B was for those that had anything from a year and a half to five years. C block housed everyone that wasn’t powerful enough to get onto D block, but had more than five years. A lot of long termers on C block tended to spend most of their time in their cells, or so it seemed to Dom.

“So, you guys ready?” asked a guy that went by the name Rocker. His powers were also over the earth. He was trouble, as Dominic figured, and had a bad attitude, so Dominic generally tried to keep his distance.

“Ready for what?” Paully shot back.

“Man, you guys ain’t heard? Looks like the Big Boys are beefin’ with the Meatmen,” Rocker said. The names were those that had been used to label all those prisoners who had super-strength or super-size, and those that had been physically altered, and were as similar to animals as they were to other humans.

“So? What we care? Those two are always beefing,” Dominic said. He looked around. The Big Boys usually hung out near the work out area. The Meatmen were nowhere to be seen, for the most part.

“Yeah, but I guess something jumped off last night. They’re looking to mix it up this afternoon. And we got primo seats,” Rocker said. He laughed and lay back on the bleachers, stretching his heavily tattooed body. “I figure, we hang until shit happens, then look to settle any scores you got before the screws break it up. That’s my plan. Got to square up with some of them Brainiacs for gaming me. Going to get my pound of flesh boys, y’all wake me up when it pops,” he finished, closing his eyes.

Dominic rolled his eyes. Rocker was always looking to settle a score, always scheming and planning. If he just stuck to dealing with his group, he’d be better off, but he kept trying to con other prisoners, and so he was always fighting one or another.

Dominic had a decision to make. He could get involved; he had some scores to settle after all, just like every con in the slam. But anyone seen encouraging or engaging in a riot would get extra time, and he was close to getting out. He decided that all he’d do is look after himself, and his buddies, and let any of the other Benders take care of themselves.

It had been an hour of relaxing when Dominic noticed a large group of the Meatmen moving onto the yard.

“Rocker, it’s jumping off,” he said, shoving the other man. Rocker sat up, and walked to the bottom of the bleachers. He watched the Meatmen closely, as they moved close to the exercise yard. All of a sudden, they rushed the Big Boys, who had gathered together. Rocker seemed to enjoy the anticipation of the coming riot, and started looking for people he wanted to catch up to.

As the alarm blared across the yard, it erupted into anarchy. The hundreds of prisoners all seemed to turn as one and start attacking each other. Rocker seemed to love it the riot, and joined into the fracas, bolting off the bleachers and making a beeline for one of the brainiacs. He had to dodge around all the other prisoners that were punching, kicking, biting, scratching, wrestling, and doing anything they could to hurt other prisoners.

Dominic saw Rocker tackle a tall, thin man to the ground, and proceed to punch the man over and over again. Dominic thought about pulling him off the man, but Rocker was always getting into trouble, and Dom thought that he’d be best off letting Rocker cool off in solitary for a month.

As Rocker filled in the man he had on the ground, Dominic looked over the whole yard. Scores were being settled on all sides, as even those prisoners who weren’t instigators or primary targets in the riot took the opportunity to even up. Riots generally happened on the Raft less than twice a year, as afterwards many cons were in solitary, and the rest were on lock down for a month.

All of a sudden, the guards burst onto the block, but not in their normal outfits. In case of a riot, the guards would wear watered down suits, similar to Iron Man’s. They were called the Guardsmen. As they began to move onto the yard, Dominic could hear a guard over the loudspeaker telling everyone to grab a piece of dirt if they didn’t want any trouble. Dominic got off the bleachers, and then lay on the grounds, keeping his hands in plain sight. He didn’t want any trouble at all, and figured that at worst he’d be on lock down with all the other prisoners.

It was an awesome scene when it seemed like, en masse, the prisoners that were looking for a fight turned on the Guardsmen and charged them. The charge didn’t last very long, and it fell apart, as the Guardsmen began to use their arm-mounted tasers to shock all the prisoners. Dominic laughed as he saw Rocker twitching on the ground.

“Looks like history repeats itself,” he muttered into the ground, closing his eyes as he waited for the dust to settle.

“You’re late,” observed the Hippo, hearing the sound of Jerry Dahl’s book cart squeak down the corridor. “Big day?”

Jerry scratched at the back of his head. “You have no idea, Hippo. A few of the gangs got a little rowdy today in the Yard. It’s been a big mess. The struggle is getting the rest of the day back to normal after half the guards have to jump in Guardsmen suits to keep the peace.”

“Ruffians, the lot of them,” said the Hippo, letting out a hearty, roaring laugh. “Forgive me, Jerry. I pictured you suiting up and couldn’t help but have a laugh. Nice job, by the way.”

“With what?” Jerry asked, cocking an eyebrow. “I was one of the guys on the sidelines trying to keep everything else from screwing up while half the staff was in the Yard.”

Hippo guffawed. “With not addressing me as ‘Mister’ Hippo. You’re learning. I’m impressed.”

Jerry smiled. “Well, when you put it that way, sure.”

“I’ll have you domesticated yet,” the Hippo responded. “Speaking of which, what have you brought for me today?”

Flipping through the cart, Jerry produced a copy of Mrs. Dalloway. “Told you so.”

Hippo’s tongue flitted around the edge of his enormous maw. “Well, I imagine I’ll be having an interesting evening tonight. On the subject of ‘interesting,’ I have a rather high-level question that I was wondering if you’d entertain for me.”

Jerry shrugged. “Go for it.”

“If I were to have sex with a hippopotamus, would it be natural mating, or would it be bestiality? And would it be bestial of a human woman to have sex with me?”

Jerry’s jaw opened and closed a few times. “I… y’know, I don’t know. That’s… It’s not a question I’ve ever considered, I guess.”

Hippo smirked. “Just a taste of what it’s like to be me, sir. Now, if we could just find me a perfectly nice anthropomorphized hippo woman with a knack for Italian dishes and a perfectly-molded badonkadonk, all of the world’s problems will be solved. Or at least the ones that matter most to me.”

“Well, stranger things have happened,” Jerry said. “Lightning’s struck some people twice. Maybe there’s a perfectly good female Hippo out there waiting to be humanized.”

Hippo nodded. “Thank you, Jerry. Your optimism, as always, is greatly appreciated. But let’s be honest with ourselves, can we? If wishes were horses, I’d have ridden out of here on a maddened equestrian herd by now.”

Jerry rolled his eyes. “Like I said, Hippo. Stranger things have happened…”

John Forrester was cleaning his workstation when he got a tap on the shoulder. He couldn’t remember for the life of him who the woman was. Sheila? Shelly? But the worry about the name disappeared as he heard her words. “Warden wants to see you ASAP, has something he needs to tell you but doesn’t want you missing the ferry.”

He acknowledged this and finished cleaning quickly. It wasn’t every day he got a summons to the warden’s office, and usually if it was something normal, the messenger was able to give a hint about the context. He hoped it was about the Coyote’s smuggling business again, or maybe the warden wanted a status report on DeWitt, who was nearing the end of his training period. Still, the feeling in the pit of his stomach said otherwise.

When he reached the warden’s office, the door was open. He knocked on the inside of the doorframe. The warden looked up. “Ah. Come on in, John. Have a seat.”

John gulped. Sitting was never good. “May I ask why you’ve called me here, sir?”

“You may,” the warden replied gravely. “It’s my duty to inform you that Clay’s sentence has been commuted. He’ll be paroled on Monday.”

John felt his eyes bug out. “Monday? Sir, if we’re talking about the self-duplicating assassin Clay, I thought he was supposed to be in here for the next twenty years. I…” He took a deep breath. “How?”

The warden sighed. “The district attorney ignored my warning. They got him to rat out his arms dealers. All twenty-seven of them. In return his sentence was commuted. Heavily. Don’t expect to see this in the newspaper, either. Some weight’s being thrown around on this one because they’re thinking it’s better to put away near-thirty rings of munitions trafficking than to protect the family of one prison guard. I’m sorry, John.”

His heart was racing. “Okay, okay. So now what?”

“I’ve already ordered two men to be stationed at your house at all times. Your wife’s been given a document containing everything I just told you, so she knows why she’s being guarded. For now, until he’s released, that’s all we can do,” the warden said.

John sighed and stood up. “Thanks, sir. I guess we’ll see how this all plays out, won’t we?”

The warden coughed pointedly. “Before you go, John, I just thought you should know that, should Clay be found guilty of committing any other crimes before he leaves the Raft, he wouldn’t be released. But then, you knew that already, didn’t you?”

Nodding, John said, “Yes sir, I did. My new plan for cracking down on the black market will be on your desk in the morning. If I can keep that bastard inside these bars, it’ll be good for all of us, sir.”

Mr. Think milled about in his time in the Yard. Thankfully, the mess had been cleaned up before his scheduled time outside. The morning groups’ Yard-time had been cancelled while the Guardsmen put everyone back in their cells. It had been quite the mess, he heard. It hadn’t cut into his daily routine, though, and for that he was grateful.

“So, what do you think of that little mess?” the Redeemer asked, casually strolling up next to Mr. Think.

Frowning, Mr. Think said, “I think it was detrimental to our cause with those who already needed some persuading. But I also think that it may be a catalyst, my friend.”

“A catalyst?”

“Yes.” Mr. Think stopped, saying, “Think, for a moment, if you were someone who never liked their life before they put on a costume and then certainly hasn’t enjoyed anything about repeat visits to the Iron Bar Hotel, if you will. For those who were in today’s riot or those in our Yard section, the more quiet ones, the idea might already leave you more open to consider what we’re offering.”

The Redeemer nodded. “You’re right. If anything, now is the time if you want your friends to be re-educated into normal lives.”

Mr. Think laughed. “Normal lives? We’re superhuman, friend. Normal lives? No such thing. And when you try to live a normal life, no matter what, you can always come back here. It’s always so tempting to take the easy way out when we want something in life and have the power to take it. I find there’s no such thing as normal lives.”

“I’m not sure I’m following you,” the Redeemer said, shifting uneasily.

“You follow the news well?” Mr. Think asked. The Redeemer nodded. “Then you’ll remember what happened recently with Wonder Man. A child was killed because he brought down a building in a temper tantrum. What happened to him? Charges of criminal recklessness? No. He’s out there playing hero. I would guess that unless he screws up publicly in a way that the Avengers cannot possible pretend to cover for him, he will stay outside of bars, despite a criminal past.”

“I understand,” the Redeemer said, “but I don’t see the point behind the reference.”

“You want to redeem these people? The ones who are directionless, who carry no vendettas except for one against a society that has given them the ability to take what they want and punishes them for using it?” Mr. Think gestured across the Yard at Blindside, Haymaker, Dementoid, Doctor Everything, and all the rest. “They need this, Redeemer. Don’t take this away from them.”

“What could I take away?” the Redeemer asked. “When I tell them to talk to you for a way out, what am I telling them?”

“Just that,” Mr. Think said. “You tell them to come for me for a way out. But I’m not going to teach them how to live normal lives.

“I’m going to teach them to become heroes.”

To be continued!