Two Percent Power (Book 2): Spilled Milk

by Brian Manning

Manny “suited up” as the Mighty Manerpillar and hooked one arm under Recurve’s, wrapping behind his back. “Hold tight.” He pointed his other hand at the rooftop and unleashed a stream of his ectoplasmic silk. The smaller appendages running down his body all latched onto the line and began pulling them both up.

  “Whoa, ok. This is only a little unnerving.” Recurve wrapped both arms around Manerpillar’s neck, holding on without strangling his lifeline. “Let’s not tell the others about this, yeah?”

  “Your secret is safe with me,” Weed said, reaching out to help them up and over the ledge.

  Nathan Bell walked the floor of the old printing house, arms folded, shooting scowls at the fanatics scrambling around inside. This was where all of the BoA logo gear was produced to hand out to all the new recruits. But Armageddon also used it as one of three hubs to start pushing the next phase of their plan.

  Ground Zero called Nathan to manage each of the locations and make sure everything was moving ahead, according to their plan. The annoying vigilantes started targeting smaller Brotherhood meetings, sending a ripple through their ranks. The people they reached out to were now afraid to show up at gatherings, fearing punishment by the city’s capes and badges.

  Once he heard from Armageddon, Nathan knew his second chance had come. A body so brutalized and damaged from the sport he gave everything to, had left him high and dry. It was the XGH that let him get through the day pain-free, without having to use a cane or wheelchair to get around. Battlelord felt like he was back in the ring, and it was time to show the WWO they had made a grave mistake.

  One of the newer members carried a stack of boxes, blocking his view. The recruit tripped over an extension cord running along the ground, crushing the bottom box under his chest, as the other two bounced forward, spilling their contents onto the concrete floor.

  Nathan scowled and stormed over to the scene. The young man couldn’t have been more than 20, with the fear of death in his eyes. He backed away as the infamous Battlelord approached. He held his hands up, hiding behind them as best he could.

  Nathan paused looking down at him and knelt next to him. His knees protested and crackled like a plastic bottle being crushed. He picked up some of the boxed plastic devices that fell free of their cardboard prison in the spill. “Somebody help clean this mess up.” He stood and placed a hand on a nearby Brotherhood member, shoving him toward the boxes on the floor.

  When the young man realized warlord wasn’t going execute him, he scrambled to pick up the smaller containers, stuffing them back into the large cardboard carton. “Sorry, Battlelord. Won’t happen again.”

  “See that it doesn’t.” Nathan didn’t want to bully the young man, but he kept up appearances to make sure the rest would fall in line.

  “Yes, sir,” he said, stacking the boxes and hoisting them up.

  Checking to make sure they were out of earshot to any nearby fanatics, Nathan pulled the top box from the pile so that the man could see ahead. “Maybe only carry one or two at a time.” He kept his voice quieted, the tone a little softer. No need to squander this rediscovered authority.

  He moved back to his position watching over the group, carrying the cardboard box he took from the man’s stack, under his arm. “Let’s pick it up, people.” His voice thundered through the enclosed space. “This stuff has to be stashed before the morning shift starts.”

  Nathan flipped the box open and pulled one of the smaller packages out. He tore the flimsy card stock to retrieve the plastic device inside. Turning it over in his hands, he examined the inhaler, running his thumb over the sunk in BoA logo. He put the mouthpiece to his lips and pressed the button, pulling the coppery mist in with a slow lungful of air. The XGH would take minutes to get into his system, but the knowledge of what he breathed in was enough for the warmth to wash over him.

  Nathan Bell, Battlelord, was too, a professional wrestling star in the WWO. He had crested in popularity in the late 90s and was well on his way down when a young tag team, Armageddon, took the show by storm. Nathan spent the twilight years of his career watching the organization shift, favoring supers, and forcing guys like him out. Even their rising stars and well-established talents, like Warhead and Ground Zero, were being replaced by unproven performers, only because they had super abilities. Still, Nathan stuck it out with the World Wrestling Organization until the end. Until his body was ground up and spent. Not that the corporate headquarters noticed, or appreciated his contribution.

  He rubbed his knee, now more metal and plastic than bone and cartilage, remembering the difficulty he had getting around before he met Warhead and Ground Zero. Only they offered a helping hand to get him back to his feet. It was their friendship and loyalty that gave him purpose, and he intended on repaying that loyalty by the end.

  “That’s a big guy,” Recurve said, looking at the tall, muscle-bound man watching over the fanatics.

  The three heroes perched next to a filthy skylight, peering through a slit from the raised glass.

  “Yeah he’s big, but Warhead and Ground Zero don’t exactly stand in his shadow,” Manerpillar said.

  “One problem at a time.”

  Weed moved to the side, getting a better look at inside. “There are a lot of people in there. Are we sure they’re all loyal to Armageddon?”

  “What are you saying, that they filled out applications and got through the job interviews?” Recurved asked. “Why else would they be in there?”

  “Maybe they’re afraid of what will happen if they don’t cooperate.”

  “She’s right,” Manerpillar said. “We have to make sure we’re careful in there.”

  Recurve didn’t hide his dismay. “Careful? They’ll be trying to take our heads off in there.”

  A commotion inside drew all of their attention. The trio looked in and saw one of the Brotherhood members scrambling to pick up the contents from some boxes he dropped. The larger man made his way over, barking orders to a nearby fanatic, and bent to examine the mess.

  “That’s a big guy,” Weed said.

  Recurve nodded his head in silent assent.

  “I don’t think that’s money they’re bringing in,” Manerpillar said.

  “Looks like a bunch of small boxes,” Recurve said, looking at the spilled contents.

  “We can’t just sit here all night,” Manerpillar said.

  “You’re right, let’s get into position.” Before either one could voice their concern, Recurve slipped his fingers into the skylight’s gap, and pulled it open, just enough to slip underneath. He dropped down to one of the support beams and moved along its length, closer to the center of the warehouse.

  “After you,” Weed said.

  Manerpillar, no longer in his bulky battle build slid in, following Recurve. He turned back to see if Weed had enough room when she dropped all the way to the ground, using the hemp fibers from one of her arm wraps to control her descent. She crouched in a dark corner, looking up and giving Manny the all clear signal before disappearing into the darkness.

  “I don’t think she knows the plan,” Recurve said, watching her slip behind a stack of boxes.

  “Was there a plan?” Manerpillar asked.

  “No, that’s why I’m pretty confident she doesn’t know it.”

  “I guess we’re following her lead then.”

  Weed thrust both arms forward, snagging the closest man, with her bindings around his eyes and mouth and pinning his arms to his body. He let out a muffled scream as she dragged him into the shadows. The commotion caught the attention of another man, who approached to find out where his friend went.

  “Was that the signal?” Recurve asked.

  Manny bulked up As the guard passed underneath them. Manerpillar fired two streams of his silk, each snagging one of the man’s shoulders. The hero dropped back, using his target as a counter-weight, sinking to the van below. He secured the line and climbed down to the floor. The hanging man’s shouts alerted the rest of the warehouse to their presence.
/>
  Three fanatics ran up to help their buddy, coming face to face with the seven-foot tall Manerpillar.

  “It’s the Faterpillar!” The lead man shouted.

  The cape’s ectoplasimcally padded shoulders sagged. “Is that what you guys call me?”

  Recurve fired an arrow, watching it bend around the spacious room before striking the collection of cleaning chemicals near a group of Brotherhood members. The broad head nicked a pressurized can, before embedding into a plastic gallon-sized jug. The metal canister popped, sending a puff of chemicals that blinded the two closest men. Two more slipped on the puddle of floor cleaner oozing out of the punctured bottle.

  Moving further down the beam, Recurve stood over a stack of boxes and dropped down to join the action. He absorbed the impact with his knees, and did his best to roll, but the stack collapsed. He rode the cardboard wave down to the ground, sliding to a stop as blank t-shirts fell out of the crushed boxes.

  Two attackers approached. Both had mohawks, one short, broad, and orange, just like his hair. The other man sported a taller set of bright blue liberty spikes. Unable to ready an arrow in time, Recurve opted for a less conventional approach, flinging a loose shirt at the face of the short man in front. As the cotton garment wrapped around the first man’s face, Recurve rushed by, executing a slide tackle to take out the second.

  He rose to his feet, pulling an arrow, and firing at the man he knocked down. The field point pierced the flesh of his hand, slipping between the small bones and sinking almost to the fletching, before hitting a wooden pallet resting on its side. The man’s hand was pinned as a stream of blood poured down to the concrete.

  Before he could register the fanatic’s screams of pain, An unseen opponent struck Recurve between the shoulder blades, throwing him forward into the waiting arms of the shorter orange-skinned man.

  Weed released her choke hold, letting her foe’s limp body slide to the floor. She heard shouting and saw the source of the noise, as one of the BoA fanatics was pulled skyward by the shoulders of his t-shirt. He struggled to hang onto the eerie glowing strands with both hands so he wouldn’t slip out of his shirt and fall.

  She moved with quiet steps, though it was no longer necessary to conceal her presence. Three men moved to take on Manerpillar, and four were taken out by one of Recurve’s trick shots. A woman wearing a freshly printed shirt, pledging her allegiance to Armageddon, ran at Weed. Athletically built, moving with grace and agility, Weed knew that this woman would be troublesome. The fanatic struck hard with a shoulder into her midsection before she could react, dragging the hero to the ground. Weed was on her back, covering her head and face to avoid the first two blows her attacker threw.

  Not giving her a chance to keep the punishment raining down, Weed pulled her opponent in close, and rolled her over, switching positions. The woman was just as strong as she looked, which Weed used to her advantage. Letting her opponent compensate for sloppy technique with strength, Weed held onto one of the woman’s arms as she muscled into a roll to escape, once again switching positions. This time, she draped a leg across the head and neck of her foe, trapping the fanatic’s head and one arm between her legs in a triangle choke.

  Weed could feel the fight draining from the powerful woman, but it wasn’t fast enough. Another man came at them to free his fellow Brotherhood recruit. Using one arm to deflect the desperate punches of the trapped woman, Weed used the other to uncoil her hemp wraps, snagging one of the boxes stacked next to the van. She whipped it into the path of the oncoming fanatic, tripping him up. The young man’s face smacked the concrete, sending the crowbar in his hand scraping toward her.

  In the distance, she could see Recurve caught in a bearhug, with more men approaching to take him out. Weed released the now unconscious woman and ran toward the brawl, using her bandage to retrieve the crowbar as the fabric wound up onto her arm.

  Manerpillar squared up with his three adversaries. His appearance was enough to halt their advance, but he knew it wouldn’t take long before he was trading blows with the crew. Every strategy book and 80s TV show said to take out the leader first. For Manny, that was a bonus, because it was the same guy that called him Faterpillar.

  He unleashed a stream of sticky silk, hurling it at the man’s chest. The attack snapped the others out of their haze, as they moved in. Manerpillar tugged the leader hard to the right, clipping the second man before he could close the distance. They went down, rolling and further tangling themselves up in the extra webbing.

  The third man planted a forceful hook between two of the smaller appendages on the hero’s elongated torso. He didn’t feel the punch, but the force staggered him to the side, opening him up for more blows. By the time Manerpillar was able to turn and face his attacker, the other two were back on their feet. The leader pulled off his shirt, still attached to the sticky silk.

  Manerpillar wrapped one of his arms around the closest man’s neck, pulling him into a schoolyard headlock. He spun, yanking the trapped man with him, and delivered a backfist to the next closest man.

  He used one of the smaller appendages to blind the man he still held, shoving a wad of ectoplasm onto his face like a circus clown with a pie. Using the force of his clown attack, he pushed the fanatic away to deal with the last two.

  The glint of steel caught Manerpillar’s eye. He put his arm up to block the attack, as a blade sliced through the protective layer, thinner on his hands and wrists, drawing blood. It wasn’t deep, but it was enough to require first aid when this was all over. The stinging pain in his left hand distracted him, as the leader followed his backhand slash with a thrust, plunging the knife into Manerpillar’s gut. That was where his ectoplasmic form was the thickest and the toughest, but the point of the blade still poked his rib.

  Manny panicked and grabbed the man’s wrist with both hands. He was able to pull the weapon free from his body, but his blood slicked the man’s hand so much that he was unable to maintain the grip. Once again he found himself on the defensive, trying to avoid the wild slashing and stabbing that followed.

  Manerpillar bulked up the padding on his arm with layer upon layer of silk, using it as a shield to deflect another swipe. He saw out of the corner of his eye, the second man, scrambling to help the fanatic he blindfolded earlier. Even in Manerpillar’s panicked state, his heart dropped, noticing that his silk had covered the man’s entire face, suffocating him.

  When the leader stepped in again, Manerpillar stepped to the side to dodge and slammed his shielded right arm where the base of the man’s skull met his spine. Not worried if he struck the man hard enough to take him out, Manny left his opponent and rushed to the other’s aid. He shouldered the second man out of the way, and pulled the fibers around the man’s nose and mouth apart, creating a small gap. Manny heard the man gasping, now able to suck in a breath, but still clawing at his face for more air.

  He looked up at the second man to make sure the fanatic wasn’t going to attack right away. He noticed the man looking past him, over his shoulder. Out of instinct, Manerpillar turned bringing his makeshift shield up to block while shooting a wide spray of silk, like a claymore mine, from all of his smaller appendages. The armed assailant rushed right into a wall of sticky strands that slowed his movements, but more importantly to the hero, obstructed his opponent’s view. Like an overstuffed sleeping bag, Manerpillar dropped to his stomach and rolled to knock the feet out from under the oncoming attack. The leader’s legs swept out behind him as his chin bounced on the concrete, rendering him unconscious.

  Getting back to his feet, Manerpillar applied pressure to the knife wound on his hand. He locked eyes with the other man still trying to help his friend.

  Manny pointed a blood stained finger at him. “Make sure he’s ok.”

  The Brotherhood member nodded, no longer a threat. Manerpillar headed deeper into the warehouse to join the rest of his team.

  Weed helped Recurve take out the remaining attackers nearby as Manerpillar reached their
position. The muscle-bound enforcer plodded toward the group.

  “The Battlelord is gonna mess you up!” One of the fanatics standing behind the warehouse troll shouted.

  “It’s game over for you chumps,” another said.

  The crowd around them grew, the cheers and taunts reverberated around the building. A dozen now, stood around forming an impromptu arena.

  “Hate to break it to you fanboys, but he’s gotta catch us first,” Recurve said. He turned with a flourish, crouching as he loosed an arrow at the enforcer’s leg.

  The broad head point snapped as the carbon shaft clattered to the ground. Battlelord winced in pain but kept moving forward. His eyes burned with anger.

  “Probably not your best play,” Manerpillar said.

  “Yeah I think you’re right.”

  Weed slipped by the other two and pushed a palm out, uncoiling the full length of the wraps on her left arm. The hemp fibers unraveled further into dozens of individual fibers wrapping around Battlelord’s body, from shoulder to knee, stopping him in his tracks.

  The brute rolled his shoulders forward and then back, expanding his upper body. The hemp strands around his arms tore and shredded, sending a fibrous cloud outward. Weed recoiled the remaining bandage, leaving her left arm half uncovered. She didn’t even hesitate before closing the distance.

  “Wait,” Manerpillar said, following her. He shot a stream of silk webbing high, attempting to blind the big man.

  Battlelord brought his arms up as the ectoplasm bound his wrists together. Weed scaled the brute, climbing to his back and hooking the shaft of the crowbar underneath his chin. Recurve fired another arrow, aiming for his softer stomach, hoping for a better effect with no bones in the way.

  Again the arrow bounced away, leaving only a small incision where the bladed point struck. Battlelord tucked his chin to fight Weed’s choke and pulled his arms apart, tearing the silk binding. He grabbed the strands still stuck to one wrist and pulled Manerpillar forward with a forceful yank.