Two Percent Power (Book 1): Delivering Justice

by Brian Manning

  Patrick turned the corner as the man scrambled to reach his gun. The everyman brought his pistol up just as Patrick disarmed him with a solid soccer kick. The toe of his shoe struck the man's hand with enough force to send the gun flying toward the front counter. Both men watched it soar in slow motion down the length of the aisle. Patrick took a step forward, heading for the weapon, but was caught right in the stomach by the man’s shoulder. It was a textbook football tackle. The man was strong, and hit like someone that had put in many hours bringing down his opponents on the gridiron. Patrick and the everyman crashed into the cooler with the missing glass, hitting the racks with full force. Patrick brought his arms up to shield his head as he felt several blows raining down. One solid shot got through his defense and caught him on the ear, causing the left half of Patrick’s world to all of a sudden start ringing.

  His vision blurred, but at least the punches stopped. Why did the punches stop? He shook some of the fuzziness away and noticed the man running toward the front counter, where the gun had landed. There was no time for Patrick to reach him. He pulled himself back to his feet, as the assailant, frantic, looked around for his lost trinket. Patrick realized he was leaning against the milk cooler. He acted before he had time to regret his next action. Reaching up, he grabbed one of the jugs, twisted the top and chugged as much as he could. This time the flavor of the milk was quite refreshing, melting the pain, grogginess, and fatigue away. He dropped the jug he was drinking from, grabbed two more, and rolled his shoulders a bit to relieve some of the tension.

  Patrick strode toward the man with confidence, just as his foe found his weapon. The gunman spun back around and brought the pistol up. Patrick's heart raced, and he felt as if they were moving through a viscous, milky time stream. Every muscle in his upper body tensed as he slammed the two bottles together, splitting the plastic jugs at their seams. In one smooth, recoiling motion, Patrick released the handles and pulled his hands outward.

  Four shots rang out in rapid succession, striking the white wall Patrick erected between the two combatants. Each bullet passed through the wall only to drop to the ground, depleted of all energy. The wall melted into puddle on the ground before splitting in two, with each half snaking its way up to each of Patrick's arms.

  Keeping his head low, he stared up from under his brow at the dumbfounded attacker. Panic-stricken, the man searched his jacket pocket for more ammunition. With no more bullets left, he tossed the empty gun, like a villain from an old Superman episode, only to see it snagged from the air by one of the shimmering white mechanical gauntlets Patrick wore over his hands. He looked at the piece of metal as it was pulled into the white mass. Patrick felt the grips snap and the frame bend. Turning his gaze back to the now self-disarmed perp, he dropped the deformed revolver to the floor. Patrick took several steps forward, invading the everyman's personal space.

  Trying to match Patrick's stride, the frightened man had no idea what he was witnessing as he backpedaled. He tripped over his partner in crime and noticed the knife sticking out of the plastic jug, milk draining from the “wound.” The desperate thug pulled the blade free and scrambled to his feet, lunging to strike.

  Patrick used one of the gauntlets as shield, holding it at an angle to allow the blade to glance off. The force of the blow was redirected to one side. The man regained his footing and tried to whip his knife across with a backhand slash. Patrick matched the swing, striking the man's hand squarely with his armored hand. The sickening crackle of the small bones breaking echoed down the canned goods aisle. The man dropped to his knees, as the knife clattered on the dirty linoleum. An armored hand snagged the man by the neck and forced him back and up against the nearest wall. He looked on in horror as the glove on Patrick's other arm pulled itself into a blade shape, forming a sharp point and edge. The tip of the unnatural blade dug itself into the flesh under the man's chin, even through the thick scarf, forcing his head up.

  The disarmed attacker looked into the eyes of the inhuman being that held him pinned. Two clouded orbs, pupils almost invisible under a film of white, stared back. The everyman trembled and held both hands up to surrender, the left hand open to show it was empty and the right curled into a broken mockery of a fist, unable to open any further.

  “Please...please, don't kill me. Just call the cops.” His voice was strained from the pressure of the vise-like robotic grip around his neck.

  Patrick snapped out of his haze, the color returning to his eyes as he released the man. The blade and gauntlet poured down his arms and splashed onto the ground. He took a step back and pinched the bridge of his nose. A dull ache throbbed behind his eyes. The once-intimidating armed robber slumped to the floor, holding his damaged hand.

  The faint sounds of sirens filled the awkward silence in the room. Patrick looked up to see the store clerk sneaking back into the front of the store, eyes wide, like he had just seen a ghost. Patrick wondered if the guy would be able to keep this whole situation quiet, but then glancing upward noticed the security camera that watched the whole battle play out.

  Out of reflex more than anything, he reached up to run his fingers through his hair, remembering that he was wearing his street clothes, and not his special suit. His head and face had not been covered at all. He took a deep breath as his stomach started churning.

  Patrick’s life just took an interesting turn.

  CHAPTER

  5

  The weather was warming, but there was still a bite to the air. It was warm enough to break a light sweat, but the chill in the air still caused shivers when the breeze hit. Patrick’s jacket was a woven Kevlar, allowing air to pass through, which helped keep him awake during the long nights patrolling. The constant shift between warm and cool was a nice feeling. Like warm summer nights in his apartment. The air conditioner would cool the room when it got a little too toasty, and shut off once the preset temperature was reached.

  It had been almost a month since his encounter with the armed robbers at the convenience store. The video made the rounds on local news stations and a few websites, but the quality was pretty grainy, as security cameras tended to be. If he were to stand next to a still frame from the footage, he may have been recognized, but so far only his friend, Trevor, knew it was Patrick in the video. And of course the clerk, who was pretty stoked to witness it all first hand.

  The biggest story from the video was the confirmation of a super in the city. There were always rumors of people with powers and abilities beyond mortal men, but it was always second and third hand accounts of the heroes and villains in action. The corner store battle was big news for the city, even though the nation had already seen its fair share of supers in action.

  Patrick’s identity remained unknown, but his abilities sparked the most interest, along with all of the other superhero gossip. So far no known super could fly or throw buses, but the list of powers circulating through the rumor mill was still pretty impressive. Like the super that could run fast enough to keep up with traffic on the freeway, or the guy that could shoot some type of webbing, like Spider-Man, to ensnare the bad guys.

  It did make Patrick wonder how many could be using these abilities for criminal activities, rather than running around like costumed vigilantes. Not fans of comic books and superhero movies rooting for the good guys. The villains had their fair share of fans too. He couldn’t help but think about how tough it would be to take down someone using super abilities for the wrong reasons. But that was something he tried to push to the back of his mind. Right now, Patrick had to focus on where he was at the moment.

  This time out, he was wearing the third iteration of his “costume.” The jacket and boots were the same as before, but he added some hard shell tactical gloves, which interfered with his manual dexterity. The protection for his knuckles made up for the difficulty in picking up keys and coins. His hands were still susceptible to breaking if he hit something wrong, but the thought of wrapping his fists like a boxer seemed excessive.

  Hi
s pants were a different type, with hard shelled knee protection built into the reinforced fabric. Far more comfortable than the typical strap-on knee guards that had a tendency to twist and slide. They were a dark navy blue, like something you would see law enforcement wear. The pants didn’t really match his dark gray jacket, but they were affordable enough. If he liked them, he could order some that matched.

  Face protection was always an issue for Patrick. Tonight, he opted for a lightweight, pullover hoodie underneath his jacket. Not an option for warmer months, but for now, having the hood to hide under felt safe. Maybe next time he could go with a balaclava and ski goggle combo. Go for that Snake-Eyes look. After the corner store incident, he probably didn’t need to worry about his secret identity, but he still felt very exposed. It would take some time to get used to. Tonight, his unobstructed field of view, ease of breathing, and the feel of the cool air on his face was something he was enjoying, though.

  The bulky bracelets used to control the flow of the milk stored in his hidden pouches were still rather ugly. It didn’t do much to pull his whole look together. Patrick wasn’t an engineer, and the thought of trying to build another prototype sapped some of the enthusiasm out of his night. Maybe I can hire someone, he thought. I’m sure someone on Craigslist would be weird enough to slap a new prototype together for me.

  With his thoughts revolving around plans to find a tinkerer, Patrick almost missed the four suspicious figures skulking in his direction. To a casual observer, they appeared normal enough, walking in a loose collective along the sidewalk. Something nagged at him, though. Each one looked to have a designated zone that they scanned, like they were worried about walking into a trap. The group stuck close to the inside edge of the sidewalk, hoping to avoid as much of each streetlight’s harsh glow as possible. Not that they could avoid it, but they did behave like they had some type of allergy to the bright metal-halide light that washed over the street in overlapping circles. But Patrick was not one to judge. He knelt next to a set of concrete steps of an apartment building, soaking in a pool of darkness to avoid detection. The shady group reached their destination. A high-end jewelry store.

  Creeping closer, Patrick hoped to cut the distance without having to stand out in the open. Only a few parked cars afforded him cover. He would have to step out into the open if he hoped to reach the group. They were already in the store by the time Patrick reached the closest car, a small beat up hatchback. He didn’t see how they got the door open, but he heard no crash of breaking glass. There was no debris strewn around to suggest that they smashed their way in. This crew behaved like professionals, which worried Patrick.

  Their flashlight beams swung back and forth through the darkness of the store, used in sparing bursts, like battery power was a commodity. It was difficult to tell which direction they were looking, or if he would be spotted moving up to the store front, but Patrick couldn’t sit around and wait. He kept his posture low, like a grappler, ready to lunge in for a grab. With soft footfalls, he jogged across the street. Almost there, he kept an eye on the glass front door.

  A sharp whistle from somewhere outside the store froze him in his tracks.

  A voice from nearby called out. “We got a visitor.” A female voice.

  She seeped out from a shadow in a nearby alley. The front entrance of the store opened, and three more figures stepped out. Patrick berated himself for not keeping an eye out for the group splitting up.

  He scanned the group preparing for the conflict. They were dressed in similar outfits. Not exactly a uniform, but they all wore military style gear. More of a motif than an actual matching outfit. Each had on blue and black clothing all from different manufacturers. The one matching detail was a patch over their left breast pocket, and on their right shoulders. An eye, almost like you would see on the top of the pyramid on a dollar bill. Less detailed and more stylized. The eye looked menacing, and screamed “cult” to Patrick.

  The four late night shoppers crept up closer, each armed with tools. Makeshift weapons, since they were not expecting to run into anyone. These were not your typical Ace Hardware tools, however. Not a hammer or wrench in the bunch. All of the tools looked pretty high tech and sophisticated. Like something you don’t want to damage by cracking over someone’s skull. The woman covered the flank on the group’s right side. The lead figure, a tall and broad-shouldered gentleman glanced back to make sure his crew was with him. Another man was built more like Patrick, and the fourth was of similar height, but chubby, with a bit more padding packed on. Was he the comic relief?

  Patrick put his hands up, more as a posture to ask them to stop moving, than a sign of surrender.

  “Hey, guys,” he put on his best dad voice. “Looks like you’re getting mixed up in something that your mothers wouldn’t be too pleased about.”

  The leader answered. “Your mom’s not gonna be too pleased with what we’re gonna leave of you in the dumpster.”

  “Heh, tell ’em, Riley,” the chubby guy said.

  The leader cocked his head to one side, perturbed about hearing his real name used out loud. “How about you keep your trap shut, Nick,” he snapped back over his shoulder, emphasizing his friend’s name.

  Nick shrunk back, like a puppy fearing another whack on the nose from a rolled up newspaper. Patrick made note of the reaction, pinning him to the bottom of the mental threat list. The leader, Riley, was the one he watched the closest. The four ROTC rejects formed a semi-circle around him. Not quite close enough to be an immediate threat, but it was a distance that could be eaten up if one of them rushed forward.

  Patrick would have been more comfortable using his collapsible snap-batons at this range, but reaching for them could trigger the attack. His best bet was to maneuver into a better position and hope for the best. Keeping his movements smooth, he lowered his hands, so he had a better angle to wrap his thumbs around the hooks hanging from his bulky wrist cuffs. Keeping the movement slow and even, he raised his hands, thumbs secured in tabs, out to his sides hoping for a less threatening posture.

  “How about we just forget I saw you and we all head home?” He took a half step back, putting himself in a better position to take the two to his left. The woman and the leader.

  “How about we make sure you forgot that you saw us?” It was the man who hadn’t yet spoken. The one closest to Patrick’s stature. His voice was raspy, but still higher pitched. He punctuated his response with a swing of something that looked like a futuristic soldering iron with an extended grip.

  Patrick was able to step forward and duck underneath the blow, putting him right into the middle of the group. The raspy voiced assailant was now in Patrick’s blind spot, and he also found himself within striking distance of Riley and the woman. Patrick was able to roll his body away from Riley’s attack, a big ham fist hook that caught Patrick on the outside of his left shoulder. The blow landed with enough force to stagger him.

  He needed to break away from this group fast. Patrick planted a pushing front kick to Riley’s side, buying him enough time to check his perimeter. As he spun, he pulled the tabs on his sleeves. The raspy one moved for another strike, as Patrick planted two solid beams of milk square into the man’s chest, high enough to rock him back on his heels. The man dropped onto his butt, right as Patrick felt a kick sink into his ribs.

  The woman that he neglected like a fool, planted a solid roundhouse kick to his right side, causing him to lose control of the milk. Patrick’s legs gave out, and he dropped to one knee. A split second before a second kick crashed into him, he was able to pull his forearms up to his head, absorbing the brunt of her attack. He could feel the impact pass through him as it rattled his bones and teeth. Either she was wearing some type of hard shin protector, or she had iron rods for legs. The woman got greedy at that point, firing a third round house kick. He was able to rock his body back and wrap his arms around her leg, one arm over, the other under. The blow still had a bit of heat left, so Patrick used her momentum to spin and pull
her down to the ground with a sloppy trip. He scrambled to his feet and turned back around, hoping to put the rest of the attackers in front of him.

  As Patrick stood, he found himself nose to nose with the Nick, the fluffy one. Both combatants locked their gazes for a split second, unsure of what to expect out of the other. Patrick raised his hands to protect himself from a close up barrage, but the movement caused his opponent to flinch, bend over, and cover up. Loud clomping footfalls from hard rubber boot soles came up from behind. Patrick rolled across Nick’s shoulder blades as he cowered, bent over leap frog style. He looked up in time to see the thick muscle-packed frame of the leader plowing forward and tossing his unfortunate partner-in-crime out of the way.

  With half of his “ammo” spilled on the street, Patrick was wary about relying on his powers, but squaring up with a bigger and stronger foe, he had to hope for the best. With a wide swing of his right arm, he let loose another tendril and whipped it low in a semi-circle. The big man stumbled but maintained his footing. Still, it was enough to capitalize on. Patrick fired a stiff straight left to the oversized jaw. The cracking of the protective gloves and the sound of the big man’s clacking teeth bounced off the nearby store window.

  He felt the impact all the way up to his shoulder. Patrick’s hand was numbed by the blow, and he felt a strain in his elbow and wrist. It was like punching a sack of rocks. He shook his hand, hoping it was still unbroken, as he took note of Riley, on the ground shaken by the punch. Once again, he spent too much time locked on the immediate threat and didn’t see Raspy, armed with the futuristic soldering iron, until it was almost too late. Patrick tucked his chin and most of his ear behind his shoulder, as the blow struck flush with the hard shell on his jacket sleeve. The tool snapped in half, but not before the heavy tip whipped around and struck Patrick on the back of his head.