Two Percent Power: Delivering Justice

by Brian Manning

  They spent the next few minutes eating cheap burritos in awkward silence. Patrick did his best to not seem uncomfortable. Speetah took only small bites, while kicking loose pebbles and drawing small arcs in the dirt with her foot. Boost stared at his burrito, trying to decipher its secrets, before speaking up.

  “Please don’t tell me we’re going to call ourselves Strangers in Paradise.” Boost seemed annoyed, as he asked with a mouthful of half chewed beans, rice, chicken, and tortilla.

  Patrick rubbed his temples as Speetah shook her head, rolling her eyes.

  CHAPTER

  6

  The thirteenth floor. Where all the Visionaries came to unwind and enjoy the spoils of war. Almost every wall had been knocked down, creating one large open space, except for the load bearing pillars. This was the Watch Tower. It was in a central location, and provided a great vantage point to gaze upon the city. The headquarters for the Visionaries. A loud raucous crowd had arrived hours earlier. New blood brought here to join the ranks. Adding sheer numbers necessary to gain power.

  Cassandra Owens watched over the large crowd of young adults and teenagers. Disillusioned youth, recruited to help the Visionaries take over the city. She wore a wrap-around visor with a sliding cover, allowing her to isolate each eye individually. Her left eye, a hazel iris with a stone cold glare, was more than enough to put the scare into any of these punks.

  Half of the enormous space was set up as a recreation area, giving the young recruits an outlet, and keeping their minds distracted. A corner dedicated to gaming was set up with old coin-op arcade cabinets lining one of the walls; sound blasting, lights flashing, and buttons clacking away. Couches were set up around several flatscreen TVs, hooked up to Playstation, Nintendo, and Xbox consoles. A rowdy group of Visionaries were shouting, laughing, and playing, while making a mess with cheap snack foods and beverages. The snacks and drinks were all doled out by the vending machines that separated the gaming area from the work out area.

  The workout area was a gym set up to allow the recruits to show off, boosting their egos, while also building the general strength. There were a number of flat benches, with Olympic style barbells and weight plates. Most of the area was set up for bench pressing, since that was decidedly the most popular exercise amongst the young Visionaries.

  There was also a boxing ring set up, smaller than a regulation size ring, but big enough to move around. It sat empty, with the protective equipment, gloves, headgear, and other padding still unused. That whole corner was the least popular area. Cassandra shook her head in disgust. None of these punks want to get punched in their soft little faces. Not even with gloves and headgear. They would rather waste time building up their pecs or killing digital opponents in first person shooters. This new group was already shaping up to be useless to her out on the streets.

  She snatched an empty can off of the ground and tossed it in the general direction of the rest of the trash. It didn’t matter where it landed. The debris littered in the general vicinity was far more than the large overfilled trash cans could contain anyway.

  She looked over the unruly crowd. This behavior always put her on edge and gave her the urge to just unleash her power on someone, anyone, that dared to test her limits. But this was how the boss wanted to treat them. Give them what they want, and treat them like they know best. Straight out of the classic dystopian futures, keeping the kids too distracted to learn.

  Everyone in here was wearing a blue-trimmed, dark gray military style uniform, in various states of casual dress. Unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up, or jackets removed entirely. Baseball caps, instead of any matching headwear. Barefoot, socks, or sneakers; too few wore the boots issued to them. They dressed the part of an army, but lacked the discipline to act like one.

  She called out to get their attention, but even with her stern voice, only a couple of the soldiers complied. Lacking patience with these kids, she was not one to give too many chances. Thumbing the reflective visor, her right eye was revealed, while the left was covered. A black, shiny orb, tucked into an eye socket surrounded by a roadmap of red and purple veins, radiating out. The faint purple glow pulsing within the orb grew in intensity. This grotesque feature was what earned her the moniker Deadeye.

  The name was given to her because of the appearance, but it stuck for a different reason. She shifted her gaze to the center TV, with the largest crowd of teens watching a heated game of Madden NFL. A crackling purple beam whipped over everyone’s head. The writhing snake-like beam had a life of its own, writhing along the wall as it slammed into the 70-inch OLED display. The television cracked in half, sending a shower of sparks over the recruits. All eyes shifted their focus to the origin of the blast.

  Deadeye slammed the cover of her visor and scanned the room with her left eye, so she could enjoy the frightened faces. She gazed upon the room full of startled kittens, her eye left eye sending out an invisible beam of its own. Everyone her gaze raked across had flinched, expecting to be destroyed, like the flat screen display.

  “I said, shut it all down and fall in line!”

  The young men stood in loose ranks, fidgeting and tugging at their uniforms. All hints of casual dress gone, everyone had their jackets buttoned up, boots on, and all hats removed. Most of the uniforms looked fine, but a few were ill fitting, hanging loose on lanky figures, or stretched taut across thicker builds. Stone-faced, they watched as two figures strode into the room.

  The first was a pure brute of a man. A walking, bearded refrigerator. The man they called Tension. Even through his uniform, it was easy to see that his body composition was skewed in favor of muscle mass, though he lacked the “V” shape of the typical body builder. The lines of his build were decidedly rectangular, cutting a very broad and thick figure. Even his cheekbones and jaw looked as if it were made up of only right angles. If this were a game of chess, he was the rook, moving only in deliberate straight lines, not deviating from his intended course, no matter who or what stood in his way.

  The lean figure behind Tension was the antithesis. In stark contrast to the wall that slid in before him, Darren Welk was dressed in dark flowing robes. Shiny black plastic plating was attached to key points of his shoulders and arms. A padded plate, tucked underneath the lapels of his robe, gave him an exaggerated defined barrel chest. The embossed eye logo was painted a metallic blue. The swirling pupil almost seemed to animate as he walked in with great confidence.

  Many thought this was some kind of joke. Was this their great leader? The man called Sight? A few exchanged jokes through the corners of their mouths. Some elbowed each other, giggling and pointing. Deadeye sharpened her posture and bore a hole into some of the jokers with her gaze. Everyone got the message and straightened up.

  The silver chains draped along parts of Darren’s uniform rattled and swayed with each step. His elevated platform boot heels clicked beneath the flowing fabric of his robe. His face was radiant, and the Van Dyke beard was kept trimmed and shaped like a house, framed around his lips. The dot-com era pony tail swayed back and forth as he wiped his gaze across the mass of new recruits in the room, fixated in silence on their new leader. The silence was broken as he brought his hands in front, rubbing his palms together. The rattle and clacking of his rings and bracelets echoed.

  “Recruits. Men and women of the Visionaries, welcome to The Watchtower.” There were no women in this particular group, but his speech was written long ago, and delivered with practiced perfection. “You are now the loyal Visionaries, trusted to keep an eye on our turf. To report anything that may stand in the way of our conquest.”

  As he spoke, his voice almost deepened. Every pair of eyes, or left eye in Deadeye’s case, was fixed to him. In their eyes, he now cut a much more impressive figure. His outfit appeared more regal, rather than gaudy and garish. It wasn’t an unnatural super ability, this was his natural charisma. He knew all the right words to say. He knew all the right notes to hit. A character crafted with care, developed to capture young impre
ssionable minds.

  He grew up a con man. Always playing a dangerous game, getting by on other people’s money. Although his charisma was something he developed without aid of any super ability, he did have an unusual power. Super abilities started appearing all over the world in the late 60s. It was slow at first, but by the 80s, when Darren developed his powers, it was almost an annual occurrence of new supers. Most recipients were granted minor abilities, and many people had serious drawbacks to their new found gifts. Some unfortunate souls developed superior physical attributes, but an inability to control or cope with the strain. Heart attacks, strokes, kidney, and liver failure claimed the lives of dozens of “superheroes” early on.

  Darren was fortunate. Although he was granted an ability that seemed minor, he had avoided the other major complications that sometimes tagged along. He found that his eyes now had telescopic and macroscopic vision. This allowed him to see the world in great detail. The headaches were unbearable at first, but soon they were only a mild annoyance. With each subsequent wave of new supers, Darren found his powers strengthening and improving. He had developed the ability to see through the eyes of any animal that he been in close contact with for an extended period of time.

  It was during the most recent wave of new supers two years ago that he discovered his most prized ability. He was now able to tap into the vision of his closest and most loyal subjects. It let him see what they were seeing, without their knowledge. He used this ability to keep tabs on his most trusted guards. To them it seemed as if he had eyes everywhere, instilling a fear and paranoia that ensured their loyalty.

  It didn’t take much more than that to develop his omnipotent reputation. The rumors took on a life of their own, fed by his charismatic speeches and confident presence. He led by fear, but it was an underlying fear. He never had to show his anger, only hint that he knew more than any normal man in his position should know. That was enough to keep everyone in check. No one knew who to trust, so they didn’t form any secret alliances or plot against Sight and his vision for the future.

  His speech continued to captivate the crowd, as he laid out his master plan. First they would overrun the city, then the state. They would secede from the nation and expand their empire. Nothing could stop their push for global domination. Of course, that was what Sight wanted. Darren was happy to stop at becoming a city-wide terror, living a comfortable life while keeping the police at bay. The rest was just to give his army a goal to strive for, no matter how ridiculous it seemed. Shoot for the stars, settle for the moon.

  The disciplined ranks broke early on in the speech. But they only did so in order to get closer to their leader. Like enthralled teens at a music concert, wanting only to stand next to the stage. They were caught up in the excitement of his words. They cheered and yelled and pumped their fists into the air with every hyperbolic statement he made about the future. Their future. He closed the same way he ended every new recruit speech.

  “No one saw this coming, no one believed this could happen, but this is our vision! Can you see it?”

  The crowd roared in approval.

  “CAN YOU SEE IT!?”

  The same slogan he used for every gathering, and it never failed to whip the crowd into a great frenzy. The cacophony filled every space of the thirteenth floor. The soldiers, the Visionaries, could no longer contain their discipline. Their unorganized shouts coalesced into a controlled chant. “SIGHT! SIGHT! SIGHT!”

  Darren’s smile, as usual, was genuine. This was his destiny. He looked to his left and right. Tension’s expression was still cast in stone, showing the same unimpressed expression he always wore. But this time, he noticed a small smirk in Deadeye’s face. Was she starting to see his vision as well? He left the room with his hands raised, like a politician waving to his loyal constituents, while leaving to catch a plane. The excitement shook the walls as he made his way to the elevator. Tension followed, in lockstep with his employer. Deadeye trailed close behind, as she wiped one final gaze over the crowd. Even she had to admit Darren had a real gift with these kids.

  CHAPTER

  7

  “Here we are again. The treacherous trio, stalking the criminals that darken the playground, during the evening hours,” Speetah said, as she greeted Patrick and Boost.

  The three met again, the next night, in the same park they hung out in after their first official superhero team-up. Only, unlike team-ups in the pages of comic books, they didn’t have to slug it out, before finding out that they were all on the same side.

  The heroes spent a couple of hours walking the perimeter of the park, to get a feel for the area. Trouble prone areas, tucked deep into the foliage, were scouted. Areas where the park lighting either didn’t reach, or were not functioning, were also scrutinized.

  They covered ground at a leisure pace, joking and laughing. More like hanging out than fighting crime. It helped pass the time, and made the task at hand far more enjoyable.

  Confident that nothing was happening at the moment, they found themselves in the playground, sitting at one of the rubber coated picnic tables bolted to the concrete base nearby. Patrick felt that he could get used to this. Just hanging out with new friends. Not out in the streets taking lumps. Maybe they could spend one or two nights, without the intent of busting heads and taking names.

  “What’s that goop you shoot out of your hands? Is that like glue?” Speetah asked, breaking the silence.

  “Yeah, I forgot to bring that up with everything going on last night. What is that stuff?” Boost added.

  “It’s milk,” Patrick said. “I don’t shoot it out of my hands. I just control it.” He was examining the cuff on his right hand, attached to the tubes running up his arm.

  “Milk? Is that by choice? Can you control any fluid, but just happened to have milk on hand?” Speetah scooted forward on the table, resting her hands on her knees.

  “No, not my choice. The only liquid I can control is milk. I’m not sure why, though. I’ve tried other stuff, but this is all I’ve got.” He raised both arms, showing the tubes rigged to his jacket.

  “What do you mean, that’s all you’ve got?” Boost said. “That’s far more than most people even dream of having in the super abilities department.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. I don’t mean to complain. I mean, it’s already saved my life on multiple occasions.”

  “Are you, like, a milk fiend? Do you drink the stuff all day?” Boost sounded a little too interested, like he owned stock in dairy farms.

  “I’m lactose intolerant. Well, I am now. I don’t like drinking it, but I find that it really gives me a nice bump in power when I do.”

  “Ha! What a beautiful irony.” Speetah laughed.

  Patrick laughed as well. It was something he hated about his ability, but he had long accepted it. His control had improved with time, but drinking milk to boost his powers always gave a consistent, reliable result, as well as the consistent unwanted aftermath.

  “Wait, you’re that guy?” Speetah was too excited to translate her thoughts to words. “The one from the corner store fight last month.” She jabbed an accusing finger in his direction.

  “Hey, yeah, you’re him!” Boost joined in. “I thought he was using some kind force field power, but yeah that was milk, right?”

  A sheepish grin pulled Patrick’s cheeks, as he raised his eyebrows. “Yeah, that was me.” His tone was like someone admitting to eating a coworker’s lunch out of the office refrigerator.

  “Man, you’re pretty powerful. Why do you even need those?” Boost was pointing to the collapsible batons hooked behind each of Patrick’s hips.

  “That was an unusual night, I was in the groove, really able to feel it then. Anyway, I haven’t been that focused since. Besides, I paid for it the rest of the evening, with the amount of two percent I chugged.”

  “Two Percent! That’s what you should call yourself,” Boost said.

  “No, that’s lame,” Speetah fired back.

  Patr
ick was glad he didn’t have to shoot the name down yet again. The moniker failed at communicating any kind of fear, or intimidation. It would do more to boost his opponent’s morale once they heard the name.

  “How about your power? How fast can you move?” Patrick switched the focus to Speetah, no longer comfortable talking about himself.

  “I don’t have a way of measuring when I push myself, but for short bursts, I can keep up with most traffic on the freeway. Even then I know I could push harder if I needed to.”

  “Does that thing create drag?” Boost motioned to the tail hanging from the back of her head.

  Patrick shot him a stern and questioning look. Boost’s only reply was to shrug his shoulders.

  Speetah saw the brief exchange and smiled. “It doesn’t bother me anymore. Not that much, anyways,” She pulled the tail across her shoulder, and ran a hand down the smooth fur. “I don’t know if I would be able to run faster without it, but I do know that if I didn’t have it, I wouldn’t be able to turn at all. It’s just like a cheetah’s tail, acting as a rudder, and a counter balance.”

  “Ah, gotcha,” Boost shot a finger gun to punctuate his statement.

  “Not to mention, it packs a pretty mean punch when I hit someone with it.” She turned her head to one side with a soft motion, and tapped Boost on the butt. The blow didn’t hurt him, but it did have enough energy to push him off of the table.

  “You know, I’ve heard a couple of stories that sound a bit like they’re describing you,” Boost said. “Always talking about someone moving like the wind, wearing something like a long scarf, or a long trail of fabric dangling from a mask.”

  “They’re probably talking about me, but even I can’t be sure. The details always change about where they were, or who the person was fighting.”