E.F.D. #1 (Part 1)

As promised, here's the first part of my prose "webcomic" experiment.  Notice that when I envisioned this story  it was as a set of comic issues, and although I think the story works better as prose--hopefully you'll see why in a minute--I decided to leave the issue breaks in place instead of trying to break the story into more traditional prose chapters.  What that means long-term, I have no idea.

Anyway, this first part was the first three pages of sequential art when in script form.  It's about the same length in prose but broken out a little differently.  Enjoy!

Our Story So Far:

In the near future, tailored genetic mutations become the new weapons of mass destruction.  Easier to hide, cheaper to control, and with far less long-term clean-up costs than so-called “dirty” bombs, non-persistent chemical agents, or even conventional munitions, soon every tin-pot dictator, cult-leader, and nefarious non-state actor on the planet is developing some kind of “ultra-human” capability to push its agenda or just keep its people in line.  Against this, the United States initially deploys small numbers of home-grown uniformed ultra-human soldiers, augmented by an array of costumed vigilante “superheroes” with whom it has a close but unofficial working relationship.  Unfortunately, the mid-21^st Century is a litigious place, and in time, this unofficial relationship becomes untenable.  Costumed ultra-human battles create massive property damage as well as frequent civilian injuries or even losses of life.  Moreover, vigilante superheroes are themselves little better than non-state actors once they become involved in international affairs. 

All concerned soon realize that a better strategy is needed.

The Enhanced Forces Division (E.F.D.) is a pilot program that seeks to answer America’s ultra-human security needs.  In exchange for scholarships in the Reserve Officer Training Corps (ROTC), a handful of the country’s best and brightest ultra-humans—many the sons and daughters of well-known costumed superheroes of yesteryear—are recruited into the New York State National Guard where they are trained, commissioned, and placed on assignment in New York City. These young officers represent America’s first, best line of defense against the genetic monstrosities the outside world now has on offer.

 For the officers themselves, however, the E.F.D. is more than just their job.  This is their story.

E.F.D. #1 (Part 1)

The moon was full overhead, but the lights of the City below outshone the stars in the sky.  In a thirty-third floor penthouse, Captain Blaine Winters lay quietly, trying not to think. 

When his phone rang, it was almost a relief.

“Pick up.  Audio only.”  He sat up.  “Centurion Six.  Go.”

“Hey Blaine, sorry to wake you.  But you said to call if—“

“It’s alright.  I wasn’t asleep.  What’s up?”

“NYPD called for a consult.  Some skrag gangbangers got torn up in the Bronx.  Down around 149^th Street.  Looks drug related.”

“What time is it?”

“About midnight.  Listen, I can take this solo if you want.  It’s only a consult.  No big deal.”

Blaine sighed, hoped the sound didn’t make it through the phone’s mike.  “Nah,” he said, swinging his legs around.  His feet hit the floor.  “I’m already up.  You there yet?”

“En route now.  Trying to figure out which exit to take off the freaking Sheridan.”

Blaine walked to his closet, pulled a uniform blouse down off a hanger.  “Alright Zee.  I’ll be there in twenty.  Tell those asshole cops they better have some coffee for me when I get there.

“Will do, boss.  Zulu out.”

* * *

Blaine wasn’t exactly happy about being out on the streets of New York at half-past-midnight on a Thursday.  But it wasn’t all bad.  The streets were empty—a legitimate rarity in the City.  He was able to get the Ducati up to a hundred and ten. 

All too soon, Mainframe was beeping in his ear, telling him to get off the Expressway.  A minute later, he was pulling up to the flashing lights of a south Bronx crime scene. 

The scene was at a rundown row house, one of many in the neighborhood.  Most of the houses in the row had boarded up windows behind black iron bars that were, in many cases, missing some of the bolts that secured them to the sides of the houses.  One on the top left of the crime scene swung free, hanging down below its window by a single attachment.  The entire neighborhood was then embellished with graffiti tags and empty fast food wrappers.  All around, folks sat out on their porches, watching the excitement of local police activity.  Blaine saw bottles passed, cigarettes burning.  He got the feeling that these folks would be out, police or no.  As it was, NYPD was just the night’s entertainment.

The police themselves had come in three cars.  Most were standing around.  A couple were stringing crime tape across the scene’s front door. 

Zulu was standing, talking to one of the cops.  He broke away and headed towards Blaine, carrying a cup that looked like coffee.

He handed Blaine the coffee.  “Damn boss.  You look like Hell.”

“Thanks Zee.”

“Seriously, Blaine.  Coffee is not sleep.  You didn’t need to come out here tonight.”

“I told you.  I was already up.”

“I mean it.  You’re letting this promotion thing get in your head.  Just because you are leading the team now doesn’t mean—“

“Enough Zee,” Blaine said.  He needed to cut that off before Zulu got lathered up.  “I get it, man.  But we’re here now, so let’s just do the job, okay?”

“You’re the boss, Blaine.”

Blaine let that go, walked up to the oldest of the cops.  “What’ve we got, sergeant?”

The sergeant took one look at Blaine, at the uniform, and shrugged.  “Drug lab.  Bunch’a cut-up skrags.”

Blaine thought, Yeah?  If it was that obvious, why’d you call us for the consult?

Zulu arched an eyebrow, let an edge of disbelief creep into his voice.  “Skrags?”

Suddenly the cop looked uncomfortable, realized what he’d said.  “Uh… no offense.”

Zulu let a beat pass before replying.  “None taken.”

Oh lord, here we go, Blaine thought.  He led the way into the scene with his flashlight out.

The scene was a horror show.  Blood spattered walls and the shit-smell of death.  There were several bodies, all looking like they’d been mauled by an angry grisly.  One had been eviscerated, its guts flung against a wall and left in a pile.  Beyond that, the place was an obvious drug lab.  Blaine could tell by the smell of acetone in the air—overpowering even with all the bodies—as well as by the sheer amount of glassware in the room.  There must’ve been twenty beakers, now all smashed along with the tables on which they’d sat, and at least a dozen Bunsen burners.

“As it happens, sergeant,” Blaine said, “I’m guessing that these really were skrags.”  Blaine shook his head, couldn’t quite resist adding, “I don’t know if you know this, but ‘skrag’ is actually our term.  For ordinary humans who try to acquire gifts through artificial means.  Usually leads to the kind of chemistry-shop set up we’re seeing now.”

Blaine couldn’t help feeling smug when he saw The Look flash across the sergeant’s face.  “Uh… ‘our’ term?”

“Sorry.  Guess we should’ve introduced ourselves.”  Blaine stuck out his hand, and the sergeant shook it.  “Captain Blaine Winters, Ultra-Human Enhanced Forces Division, New York State National Guard.  Callsign Centurion 6.  My associate is Captain Jacob Mbeke, on permanent assignment with the E.F.D. from the South African Army.”

Jacob smiled.  “Callsign Zulu.  And before you ask, sergeant, the answer is yes.  We are both legitimate ultra-humans.  Not ‘skrags,’ as you might say.”