Whatever Happened To The Bulldogs?

Panel 1:Splash page. Head-and-shoulders shot of news presenter Nicholas Roberts, positioned to the right of the panel, with a photo of the second St George over his right shoulder.

“Roberts: On this evening's special edition of UK Today, almost ten years to the day since the disappearance of Britain's very own super team, The Bulldogs, we take a look back into the past and try to establish what happened on that fateful day as we ask "Whatever happened to the Bulldogs"?”

Panel 1:Grainy archive newsreel footage fills the panel: a black-and-white photograph of the original Bulldogs team lined up on a rooftop, capes and costumes silhouetted against a cloudy London skyline.

Narrator:“Ten years ago, The Bulldogs were Britain's line of defence against threats no ordinary soldier could face.”

Panel 2:A newspaper clipping fills the panel, headline reading 'BULLDOGS VANISH WITHOUT TRACE' above a grainy photo of the team.

Narrator:“Then, without warning, they were gone. No bodies. No explanations. Just silence.”

Panel 3:Cut back to the studio. Nicholas Roberts, now shown in a wider shot behind his news desk, leans forward with a solemn expression.

“Roberts: Tonight, we speak to those who knew them best - and uncover the truth behind Britain's greatest unsolved mystery.”

Panel 1:A softly lit interview set within the studio. Nicholas Roberts sits across from a guest, an elderly woman in academic attire, in comfortable armchairs.

“Roberts: Joining me now is Professor Eleanor Hayes, who has spent the last decade researching the disappearance of The Bulldogs. Professor, thank you for being here.”

Panel 2:Close-up on Professor Eleanor Hayes, a composed woman in her sixties with silver hair pulled into a neat bun, speaking earnestly.

“Eleanor Hayes: Thank you, Nicholas. What happened to that team has haunted this country for ten years - and I don't believe the official story tells the whole truth.”

Panel 3:Roberts leans forward, intrigued, his expression sharpening.

“Roberts: The official story being a containment accident during a classified operation.”

Panel 4:Eleanor Hayes shakes her head slowly, her expression grave.

“Eleanor Hayes: A convenient explanation for a government that never wanted the public asking questions.”

Panel 1:Eleanor Hayes reaches into a leather satchel beside her chair and produces a thin folder, setting it on the small table between them.

“Eleanor Hayes: I managed to obtain a partial copy of the incident report. Most of it is redacted - but not all of it.”

Panel 2:Close-up on the folder's open page: rows of blacked-out text, save for a few visible fragments - a date, a location, and the words 'anomalous energy signature'.

Panel 3:Roberts stares at the document, visibly caught off guard, his composed anchor-man demeanor slipping for just a moment.

“Roberts: An anomalous energy signature. That's not language you'd expect from a routine training accident.”

Panel 4:Eleanor Hayes meets his gaze steadily, her voice quiet but firm.

“Eleanor Hayes: No. It isn't. Whatever happened to The Bulldogs that day, Nicholas, it wasn't an accident at all.”

Panel 1:The panel fades from the newsroom's clean lighting into desaturated, grainy color - as though we are stepping directly into the archive footage itself. A hidden underground briefing room, banks of old monitors humming along the walls.

Narrator:“Ten years ago. The day it all went wrong.”

Panel 2:The original Bulldogs team stands around a briefing table: Boudica leaning on her broadsword, Swordfish silent and still at the back, Tom Swift fidgeting with a data pad. At the head of the table, the first St George - visor lifted, face obscured by shadow - taps a map.

“St George (Original): Command's tracking a reading like nothing we've seen before. We go in quiet, we assess, and we get out. No heroics.”

Panel 3:A teammate - Amazonian in stature, brown hair, clad in chainmail armour and a smock adorned with the St George's Cross, a long broadsword strapped to her back - smirks at the warning.

“Boudica: Since when has that ever stopped us?”

Panel 4:Exterior shot: the team's transport arrives at a fenced-off industrial site at night, warning lights flashing red, a strange violet shimmer visible faintly in the air above the compound.

Panel 5:Full-width panel: the violet shimmer erupts into a blinding wall of light as the team rushes forward, their silhouettes swallowed by the glare. Debris and loose papers are caught mid-air, frozen in the chaos of the moment.

Narrator:“No warning. No mercy. Just light - and then nothing.”

Panel 1:A sparse, wood-panelled government office, blinds drawn against the daylight outside. A single desk holds an old reel-to-reel recorder and a thick, sealed file stamped CLASSIFIED.

Narrator:“Present day. A government office, far from any camera.”

Panel 2:Sharpe sits behind the desk, lighting a cigarette, his expression unreadable as smoke curls upward. Across from him, a second official in a dark suit waits, tense.

“Sharpe: Before this goes any further, I want you to hear something. Something that never made it into any report.”

Panel 3:Close-up on Sharpe's hand pressing play on the old reel-to-reel recorder, the tape reels beginning to turn.

Panel 4:The panel shows jagged, broken radio waveform lines across a black background, representing the crackling transmission - visualised as fractured text bursting from a small speaker icon.

Narrator:“St George (Original), recorded transmission: "...can't hold it... tell them to stay back, whatever's coming through, I can't - I can't guarantee I can contain it, do you copy, I can't -" [TRANSMISSION ENDS]”

Panel 5:The second official leans forward, his voice tight with unease.

“Official: So what happens now?”

Panel 6:Sharpe leans back in his chair, a thin smile crossing his lips as he stubs out his cigarette with deliberate calm.

“Sharpe: Five years, and I haven't wasted a single one of them. It's time you saw what I've been building. A new Bulldogs team.”

Panel 1:A large facility room lined with banks of humming computers and various pieces of futuristic-looking technology, cables snaking across the floor toward a raised platform at the centre.

Panel 2:Sue Archer stands beside the hulking, motionless form of P.O.R.T on the platform, cigarette between her fingers, addressing Sharpe as he enters.

“Sue Archer: Right on time. Come to see what your five years bought you?”

Panel 3:Tac Tick, perched at a bank of control terminals, fingers flying across the keys, doesn't look up as he chimes in.

“Tac Tick: Power core's stable, Boss Lady. Whenever you're ready.”

Panel 4:Sue lowers a sleek, wired helmet onto her head, her expression shifting into intense concentration as her eyes close.

“Sue Archer: Watch closely, Sharpe. This is the part that'll change your mind about everything.”

Panel 5:P.O.R.T's eyes flare to life with a dull red glow as the massive mechanoid rises to its full height, servos hissing, before driving a fist clean through a reinforced steel test wall.

Panel 6:Sharpe watches, a rare flicker of genuine admiration crossing his face as he takes a slow drag on his cigarette.

“Sharpe: Psionic control, no lag, no hesitation. Archer, I might just have underestimated you.”

Panel 1:A sterile, high-tech laboratory. At its centre, a glass containment pod houses a young man in civilian clothes, wires trailing from his temples to banks of humming equipment. Surrounding him, a wall of television screens plays a constant mix of news broadcasts, historical footage, and educational programs. Nameless scientists in lab coats move between monitoring stations.

Panel 2:Close on the young man's face within the pod - unmasked, ordinary, almost boyish - eyes fixed on the screens as they flicker past images of history and current events.

Panel 3:Sharpe strides into the lab, coat still on, addressing one of the scientists at a monitoring station without breaking stride.

“Sharpe: Progress report. Where are we?”

Panel 4:The scientist glances at a readout, adjusting her glasses before answering.

“Scientist: Neural acclimation's holding steady. By every metric we have, he's ready for active deployment.”

Panel 5:Close on Sharpe's face, unreadable to anyone watching, as he studies the boy in the pod through the glass.

Narrator:“He's the biggest risk I've ever taken. If the world ever learned the truth of where he came from - what he really is - it wouldn't just be his life that ended. It would be mine.”

Panel 1:A modest, isolated cottage sits deep within a dense forest, smoke curling gently from its chimney under a darkening sky.

Narrator:“Four years ago.”

Panel 2:Inside, Minute Man - bearded, wearing a grey t-shirt and blue trousers - sits beside Light Star, in a white V-neck top and blue trousers, who cradles a swaddled infant, with white skin and black hair, close to her chest. The room is warm, lit by a low fire.

“Minute Man: No one knows we're here. Not this far out. We're safe.”

Panel 3:Light Star, in a white V-neck top and blue trousers, looks down at the baby, with white skin and black hair, in her arms, a rare moment of peace on her face despite the wary edge in her eyes.

“Light Star: He's the first of his kind, Richard. There are people who will never let that go unanswered.”

Panel 4:Outside, unseen in the treeline, black-clad soldiers move into position around the cottage, night-vision optics glinting, weapons raised in total silence.

Panel 5:The cottage door is blown inward in a shower of splinters as soldiers storm through the entrance. Light Star, in a white V-neck top and blue trousers, spins, thrusting the baby, with white skin and black hair, into Minute Man's arms, her free hand already crackling with energy. Minute Man is wearing a grey t-shirt and blue trousers.

“Light Star: Richard, RUN!”

Panel 1:Light Star, in a white V-neck top and blue trousers consistent with page 9, unleashes twin blasts of searing energy from her palms, throwing two soldiers backwards through the cottage wall in a burst of light and debris.

Panel 2:A third soldier, unseen in the smoke, levels his rifle and fires. Light Star, in a white V-neck top and blue trousers consistent with page 9, staggers, struck, her glow flickering and dimming as she falls to her knees.

Panel 3:Minute Man, bearded and wearing a grey t-shirt and blue trousers consistent with page 9, bursts from the cottage's back door into the treeline, the baby, with white skin and black hair, clutched desperately to his chest, sprinting into the dark woods.

Panel 4:A shot rings out. Minute Man's back arches as the shot finds him, and he collapses face-first into the undergrowth, bearded and wearing a grey t-shirt and blue trousers consistent with page 9, the baby, with white skin and black hair, torn from his failing grip and left crying in the dirt nearby.

Panel 5:Full-width panel: soldiers converge on the crying infant, with white skin and black hair, and carry him into the dark, away from Minute Man's motionless body. Minute Man is bearded and wearing a grey t-shirt and blue trousers, consistent with page 9.

Panel 1:Full-page splash, shot from directly overhead: Minute Man lies face down in the undergrowth, motionless, bearded and wearing a grey t-shirt and blue jeans consistent with page 9. Above him, an alien spacecraft hovers into view in near-total silence, its cold light spilling down over his still body and the surrounding ferns. We see the top of the spacecraft's front end as it casts a spotlight onto Minute Man's motionless body.

Panel 1:Another wing of the research facility, cavernous and dimly lit. At its centre stands a towering, featureless white monolith, humming faintly with an unknown energy. Sharpe approaches alongside a nameless scientist, dwarfed by its scale.

Panel 2:Sharpe studies the monolith, arms folded, his expression harder to read than usual.

“Sharpe: Is it ready?”

Panel 3:The scientist checks a tablet, hesitating before answering, clearly unsettled.

“Scientist: Ready, yes. Understood? No. We still don't know what we're looking at, sir.”

Panel 4:Standing before the monolith, a featureless white humanoid figure - The Number - waits in total silence, expressionless, without a single distinguishing feature.

Panel 5:Flashback flash-cut: The Number charges through gunfire on some unseen battlefield, bullets tearing into him without slowing his advance.

Panel 6:Flashback flash-cut: The Number is engulfed in an explosion, his body thrown apart mid-blast.

Panel 7:Flashback flash-cut: The Number's broken body lies motionless on unfamiliar ground, before dissolving into white light and vanishing entirely.

Panel 8:Close on Sharpe's face, unreadable, as he watches the fresh replacement step from the monolith.

Narrator:“Well, it's all very well saying the team is ready. But we have to put the theory to the test. And I guess there's no time like the present.”

Panel 1:Back in the studio, Eleanor Hayes leans forward, a look of grave intensity on her face, as though building toward a revelation she's waited a decade to share.

“Eleanor Hayes: And that's precisely why I believe what really happened to the Bulldogs that day was -”

Panel 2:Nicholas Roberts suddenly presses two fingers to his earpiece, cutting her off mid-sentence, his composed expression giving way to urgency.

“Roberts: Sorry, but we have to interrupt this broadcast. We're getting reports of a disruption in the centre of London...”

Panel 1:A busy London street near a landmark square descends into chaos as The Subjugator, clad in a black mechanical exoskeleton, strides through, arm-mounted laser cannons scorching parked cars and storefronts.

Panel 2:A handful of masked terrorists fan out behind their armoured leader, spraying machine gun fire as civilians scatter and dive for cover.

Panel 3:Close on The Subjugator's face, half-hidden behind his exoskeleton's helm, as he surveys the destruction with cold satisfaction.

Panel 4:Wide shot: overturned vehicles, shattered shopfronts, and fleeing crowds fill the square as sirens wail in the distance, utterly unable to keep pace with the chaos.

Panel 1:Inside the research facility, Sharpe stands before St George, Sue Archer, and The Number, a wall monitor behind him showing live news footage of the London attack.

“Sharpe: This is it. Live hostile engagement, central London. Your first deployment.”

Panel 2:St George grins beneath his mask, practically vibrating with excitement, fists clenched eagerly.

“St George: Finally! Thought you'd never let me off the leash.”

Panel 3:Sue Archer taps the side of her psionic helmet, a confident smirk on her face as she gestures to P.O.R.T standing silently behind her.

“Sue Archer: P.O.R.T's primed and ready. Try to keep up, farm boy.”

Panel 4:The Number stands motionless, expressionless, giving no reaction at all - utterly unreadable amid the tension in the room.

Panel 1:The new Bulldogs team touches down amid the chaos - St George descending from the sky, Sue Archer, wearing a metallic control helmet, striding forward with P.O.R.T looming at her side, The Number moving low and silent at the flank.

Panel 2:St George moves between two of The Subjugator's men, a punch sending one stumbling back, while a bolt of golden energy from his other hand knocks a second off his feet.

Panel 3:The Number weaves past his opponents with unnatural agility, disarming one of The Subjugator's men with a swift strike before dropping him with a second blow, his expression never changing.

Panel 4:P.O.R.T advances undeterred through the fray, sweeping one of The Subjugator's men aside with a single powerful swing of his arm.

Panel 5:The remaining henchmen scatter in disarray, weapons abandoned, as the three heroes stand amid the wreckage, barely winded.

Panel 1:The Subjugator strides through the wreckage of his fallen men, unbothered, towards the Bulldogs, his exoskeleton's arm cannons charging with a menacing whine as he aims them at the team. Sue Archer is wearing a control helmet. The Bulldogs are poised, ready to defend themselves.

Panel 2:A devastating blast from the exoskeleton's cannons sends St George crashing into a burnt-out car and P.O.R.T staggering back a step, the team suddenly on the back foot.

Panel 3:Full-width shock panel: out of nowhere, a green-scaled, fish-faced figure drives a single punch into the side of The Subjugator's head - Swordfish, alive, standing amid the smoke as the exoskeleton crumples and The Subjugator drops like a stone.

Panel 4:St George, P.O.R.T, Sue (wearing a metallic control helmet) and The Number stare in stunned disbelief at the newcomer, none of them able to process what they're looking at.

“St George: ...Who the hell is that? Sue Archer: That's not possible. He's been gone ten years.”

Panel 1:Full-page splash: Sharpe stands at a podium bristling with microphones, national press cameras flashing, as St George, Sue Archer, P.O.R.T, The Number, and Swordfish stand in a proud line-up behind him.

“Sharpe: Ladies and gentlemen of the press - after ten long years, Britain's last line of defence stands ready once more. I give you the new Bulldogs.”