THE DCFutures Underground Fan Fiction group acknowledges that DC Comics owns the concepts behind Green Lantern and all DC characters that may be used here. These concepts are used WITHOUT permission for NO PROFIT, but rather a strong desire to peer into the future of the DC Universe. However, the original concepts presented here are the intellectual property of the author.
GREEN LANTERN:DCF #6
"Fireside Chat"
Written by David Lee
Edited by Alex Cook
NorAm: New Coast City, Central Fire Station
"So you're here for a tour of New Coast City Central, are you? Well, I'm not surprised. If you're gonna have a look at how a Fire Station works, then you might as well take a look at the best, and believe you me, New Coast Central is the best you'll ever find. Why? Because this place is full of heroes in the best sense of the word. Don't believe me? Well, that's your prerogative, but maybe I'll have you convinced once the tour is finished."
He points his thumb over his shoulder at the Central Fire Station and motions for you to follow.
"First off, let's have a look at the building itself. Hardly the equal of a Justice League HQ, right? Even so, this compound has a barracks and a rooftop full of high-tech vehicles, but it's more like a college campus than a military facility. The public library doesn't store as many volumes as this place, and this particular facility boasts more big brains than the local Justice League."
Your guide taps his finger against the side of his skull, and you can't help wondering whether a hollow sound isn't being produced thereby.
"How can this be? Well, the fact of the matter is that not every brainy guy out there falls in love with tech. Some prefer the arts and others prefer the humanities. Don't let the school system fool you, non-technical majors are still alive and well as courses of study, even if they don't pay much. And the good ones whose relatives aren't corporate or government bigwigs usually end up here."
He makes a sweeping gesture with his arm to indicate New Coast Central, and some of you raise some eyebrows to express your disbelief.
"Still don't believe me? Well then, let me introduce you to my squad. You won't find a better team of firefighters in all of NorAm so don't let anybody tell you any different. Take Jackson here. You wouldn't know it by looking at him, but he's one of the best pilots around. He was taught by his daddy, but he never went NAF so he doesn't have a commercial license. That's how he ended up here."
Having lead you to the roof, he indicates a man with a goatee wearing a black turtleneck and dark sunglasses who looks like the last guy you'd want piloting your commercial transport. A half-empty cup of coffee in his hand, and an ashtray full to brimming with cigarettes at his side, Jackson turns a bleary eye towards you. He's sitting in a folding chair with an antique book in his hands. Apparently, firefighting does pay very well.
"Fighting fires ain't no big thing," says Jackson, having made note of the fact that he now has an audience. "Ain't that much difference between blowing out a match and putting out a burning building. Fire doesn't destroy, man destroys! And we are all the destroyer, each and every one of us! We set fires to the garbage of our lives, in the vain hope of not being cast away ourselves. The heat warms us. The smoke blinds us. And the tears wash the flames away. Burn baby! Burn!"
Jackson's words horrify you, but the other firemen just start snapping their fingers by way of applause. It seems strangely appropriate.
"Not only is Jackson our best pilot, he's also our resident poet. Every squad has at least one, and ours is a bit crazier than the rest. Still, they say all the best pilots are crazy so remember the name. Kerouac Jackson might well become famous one of these days."
He leads you away from Jackson's maniacal grin back to the turbo lift, taking you down one floor to the hangar, where the fire engines are parked. Instead of hover-converted trucks, you see vehicles that look more like flying submarines than anything else. Each one seems to have the image of a beautiful woman in a swimsuit, striking a cheesecake pose, painted onto its side.
"Say hello to the Anne-Marie Godwin, people! This is a state-of-the-art firefighting machine, complete with sonic disruptors designed to extinguish heat sources and a payload of ten tons of compressed, deoxidizing foam. Heat-shielded and equipped with military-grade force fields, we've got four of these birds ready to go at a moment's notice at all times."
The canary yellow paint job detracts from the impressiveness of the vehicles, but you still can't help admiring them. While you're examining one of them, its side hatch opens to reveal another fireman, this one holding a holocam. Annoyingly, the holocam seems to be trained on you.
"Don't mind him, that's just Hartley, our resident filmmaker. He used to be an actor way back when, and he was moderately successful. Still, he really wanted to direct so he put all of his own money into his directorial debut. It bombed, and he ended up here."
He stands there, apparently attempting to focus on you and your companions before triggering the device that will record his dictation.
"Here approach an uncertain group of wayward primates," says Hartley, speaking into a small mouthpiece connected to his holocam. "Strangers in a strange land, they look all about them with terror in their eyes. Surrounded by their supposed protectors, wondering whether or not they should feel safe..."
Nervously, you look first at Smith and then at each other. Was this man truly responsible, at least in part, for their safety and well-being?
"I wouldn't worry too much about the narration. Hartley said pretty much the same thing back when he was filming love stories, and now, he's on this documentary kick. UN policy requires that a holo recording be made of every fire we fight so that pretty much works out well for us."
Strangely enough, this makes sense to you. No doubt, requiring this rowdy group of adventurers to record their exploits was a sound fiscal policy. Continuing on your tour, you're taken down one more floor to yet another hangar. Lined up and down it are suits of mechanized armor, designed for firefighting and painted a familiar, canary yellow pattern.
"Well folks, here we have the F-2000 battle suit. It's your basic Tempest Industries design, but it's been heavily retro-fitted for firefighting instead of combat. It has all the systems available on our fire engines, plus force fields that can be projected around rescue victims and tractor beams to help move and support fallen debris."
The armor does, indeed, look impressive, and it makes you feel just that much safer. If, heaven forbid, you ever were caught in a fire, perhaps this armor would be successful in rescuing you despite the firemen within them.
"If you look closely at this particular unit, you'll see that its current resident is our prettiest fireman. Say hello to Christine Carpenter, people."
At that moment, the chest cavity of the battle suit opens up, and a woman with long, red hair climbs out. Saying nothing, she ignores you completely and goes on about her business, apparently running the suit through some kind of maintenance check.
"Not only is Chris our prettiest fireman, she also happens to be our best mecha pilot and the only woman in the squad. Of course, we have strict regulations against inter-squad relationships, but she's drawn the attention of most of the squad. I've caught our newest recruit staring at her more than once."
Looking at her, you can't help wondering how it was that an attractive, intelligent girl like her ended up in a place like this, working with men like these. Was she, perhaps, fleeing a bad marriage? Or had she been sentenced to duty here as part of some criminal penance? You will probably never know.
"Every now and then, you run into a fireman who doesn't want to talk about his past, or her past as the case may be. As long as she does her job, it's considered impolite to pry so we'll leave Chris be. She's the best mecha pilot we've ever had, and we'd hate to lose her by being rude."
That said, your guide takes you down to the next floor. The turbo lift doors open to reveal a room whose walls are lined with both holovids and antiquated LCD displays. A single man sits at the center of this web of datastream activity.
"Here we have our communications center, which is actually the hub of all activity at any fire station. The displays you see are connected to every other public institution in all of New Coast City, not to mention a few private institutions as well. This includes the hospitals, schools, churches, police stations, the Justice League HQ, and the museums, plus a few others I can't remember at the moment."
Looking at the various displays, you can see that some of them aren't monitoring official business, data-streaming entertainment and infotainment channels instead. Some are surprisingly outdated.
"The man you see before you is one Juan Ramirez, our so-called communications expert. Personally, I think he spends more time watching twencen vids than doing actual work. He's notorious for his love of bad puns, and he drives the rest of us crazy. He also has a doctorate in twencen media, specializing in science fiction and fantasy genres if you can believe it."
One one of the displays, a movie about a Scottish highland swordsman who wields a Japanese katana appears. Seeing this, Juan's features light up excitedly. He jumps to a standing position and pulls a sword from behind one of the holomonitors, striking a pose.
"I am Juan Ramirez of the Clan Ramirez. Now is the time of the gathering, and the quickening can only be mine! Because in the end, there can be only Juan!"
You wonder what he's talking about when it dawns upon you that he's probably making one of these bad puns that he's supposedly notorious for.
"Yeah, I know, you don't get the reference, luckily for you. Believe me though, if you did, then you'd be cringing. Last time, that one left the Chief's right eye twitching for days. We'd get rid of him, but he's damned good at his job. He also happens to be the Chief's son."
Juan looks as if he's about to say something else, perhaps even open up with another pun, when your guide quickly exits the room. All of you follow his lead and make your way out as well. Navigating narrow corridors, you finally arrive at a large room filled with athletic equipment, obviously the gym or fitness center for this facility. Sitting at a desk is a very large, Native American man with his arms folded across his chest. He stands to his full height as you enter, easily surpassing six and a half feet.
"Let me introduce you to Cameron Redfoot, our athletic director. Some of you may recognize him as the former center lineman for the Kingston Bombers. A knee injury forced him into early retirement, and rather than disappear from the face of the planet or start doing sportscasts, he decided to join our little family instead. He's meaner than an NAF drill sergeant and twice as big..."
Grunting his irritation, Redfoot just stares at everyone coldly before going about his business. Seeing a stray three-hundred-pound barbell, he lifts it up with one hand and carries it back to the rack. Once that's done, he stares at you again, and you find yourselves nervously trying to avoid his gaze.
"... but he's also a very busy man so we should let him get back to whatever he was doing as quickly as possible."
Your guide coughs into his fist and quickly makes his way past the high-tech exercise equipment to another turbo lift on the other side of the building. Apparently, there's one at each corner of the building. Going down two more floors, you arrive at what appears to be a recreational facility. Sitting next to a jukebox replica is a rail-thin young black man who's playing blues riffs on a guitar. The floor includes several pool tables, a wet bar, a few dart boards, and other entertainment paraphernalia.
"Here, we have the rec room. At any given hour of the day, you're likely to find Chicago Skinnie here, wailing away on that guitar of his. We call him Chicago because that's where he's from, but his last name is actually Skinnie. It's not just a nickname based on his build. Anyway, all the good fire stations have a blues player in residence, and New Coast Central's got one of the best."
Skinnie says not a word. Instead, he immediately going into an old, Muddy Waters tune. Most of you don't recognize it, but the tune moves you as little else has.
"New Coast Central is actually in the process of forming a band. Jackson plays a mean harmonica, and Chris sings like an angel. Just check out the station's website for our performance schedule."
Lost in the music, you make a mental note to do just that. It should be well worth attending. Stepping back into the turbo lift, you're led down to the basement level, bypassing the rest of the residential areas. Apparently, they're not a part of the standard tour.
"Moving right along, we find ourselves in the maintenance bay. Here, you'll find our newest recruit, Martin Ulster, working tirelessly almost night and day. Even though he doesn't have any degrees, you'd think he lived an entire lifetime as an engineer, what with the way he works with these machines."
This Martin Ulster looks familiar to you. Perhaps you've seen him in one of those calendars that the fire stations produce to help raise money for charity? Perhaps his face has appeared on a poster you've seen somewhere? As soon as the notion comes to you, it slips out of your mind. It's surely nothing more than a silly notion, a mere flight of fancy.
"Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the New Coast Central Fire Station," says Martin, wiping his greasy hands on his coveralls. "I apologize for the state of disarray, but please rest assured that your safety is in good hands."
His polite discourse is a most refreshing change of pace, and you find yourself breathing a sigh of relief.
"Yeah, Martin is still green. That's why his manners are still so good, especially for a self-educated wrench monkey, but there's no need to worry. The rest of us will wear away that polish soon enough."
Unfortunately, it seems more than likely that this terrible fate does in fact await this earnest young man.
"Now, don't look so glum. We wouldn't let anything bad happen to Martin. He's our lucky charm. Ever since he joined up, we haven't had a single fatality, and we mean to keep things that way. Anyway, he's got to get back to work, and we've got just one more stop left to make on this tour."
Martin smiles and waves as you're led away. You're led up one floor and taken back to the entrance of the fire station. To the side of the entrance is an office marked 'Fire Chief.'
"Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce you to Chief Saul Ramirez of the New Coast Central Fire Station. The Big Kahuna. The Big Cheese. Our fearless leader."
Your guide has a goofy grin on his face, but Chief Ramirez seems to be anything but amused. Taking a brief respite from the daily red tape that he has to deal with, he takes the time to address you.
"Ignore the Deputy Chief, folks. He's just mad because I made him take you on this door. Normally, tour guide duties would have fallen to Ulster, our newest recruit, but I'm punishing my second-in-command for being too much of a hot dog out in the field. I don't care how good any of my people are, none of them takes any unnecessary risks without my say so, and that goes double for you, Hal Kalmaku. Do I make myself clear?"
Deputy Chief Kalmaku, your erstwhile tour guide just raises a hand and makes an 'OK' gesture.
"Clear as invisible glass, boss. Won't happen again."
Taking him at his word, Chief Ramirez just nods his head before focusing his attention back on his paperwork.
"Good. Now, get these tourists out of my office."
Still smiling, Kalmaku just turns around and gestures toward the main entrance, indicating that it's time to leave.
"Well, you heard the Chief. Get out. And don't forget, the lives we save one day could be yours. Have a nice day."
- End of GREEN LANTERN:DCF #6 -