Two Percent Power: Delivering Justice: Two Percent Power, #1

By Brian Manning

What if you drew the short straw in the superpower draft picks?

Can Patrick, a part-time hero with a seemingly useless super-ability, build a team of misfit supers to defeat a maniacal madman with desires of world domination?

The heroes must learn to trust each other and work together to face an army of supervillains and henchmen. In order to come out on top, Patrick has to dig deep and unleash everything he's got.

Two Percent Power.

If you are a fan of comic books, quirky heroes, and superhero teams, then this book is for you. Tighten your capes, heroes, and buckle up for a wild ride! Delivering Justice brings a heavy dose of superhero action and adventure.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brian Manning
• Release date: Nov 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781540147349

Book preview

ISSUE ONE

CHAPTER

1

Patrick Akiyama sat on the edge of his seat, pressed his forearms into his stomach, and leaned over, hoping the pressure would help with the pain. If someone were to tell him that there was a small animal inside his body, tangling itself up in his intestines, he would honestly believe it.

It was something he had to go through after every night he spent cosplaying as a crime fighter, whether he used his powers or not. The single bedroom in his apartment, his Bat Cave, was the best place for him to suffer until the pain released its grip. It was a ritual he liked going through alone. That was almost never an option, though. He almost always had a visitor afterwards. Patrick’s friend, Trevor sat in the apartment with him, waiting for a good moment to start a conversation.

So this happens every time? Trevor asked.

Yes. Patrick said, clenching his jaw, not looking up.

And you go through this, because drinking milk boosts your abilities?

Yes.

Your super abilities?

The wave of pain had subsided and he craned his neck toward Trevor, but didn’t dare to straighten his body. Not waiting for Patrick’s confirmation, Trevor continued the interrogation.

Your super abilities that let you control milk?

Is there a point to this? You seem to go through the same routine every week.

I’m just saying, Trevor said with a smirk. It’s kind of ironic that you’re lactose intolerant.

It’s not like I was born with both super powers and lactose intolerance. I’m pretty sure the former caused the latter.

Content that the cramping had stopped, Patrick sat up and ran his fingers back through his hair, stopping when he clasped his hands behind his head. He pulled forward with his hands as he pushed his head back, to stretch his neck out. The fact that his arms covered his ears, making it a bit harder to hear Trevor’s next round of wacky questions, was a bonus.

When you use the power, is it like the Green Lantern, but with milk instead of the glowing green manifestation of his will? Trevor seemed proud of himself for that one.

No it’s – it’s more like how Pyro from the X-Men comics manipulates fire.

The dude with the flamethrower backpack? Man, you really put some thought into that.

Trevor’s tone was dismissive and insulting in a playful way. Patrick released his head and sighed with the frustration of the conversation. He looked around his room checking to make sure it still had all of his super hero themed decor. Movie posters and artwork adorned most of the wall space.

The area next to his bed was more like the hall of inspiration. his favorite issues of various comics, bagged and tacked up within reach whenever he needed to find the motivation to venture out into the night. None were in mint condition. Far from it. The covers were worn, and the paper was discolored from constant perusal. These were not collector’s copies, they were reference.

The voice from his previous conversation faded back as his subconscious released its control.

Is that your sweatshirt? What happened?

Patrick picked up the sweatshirt and held it in front of his body, looking down at the damage. Yeah, some guy took a couple of swipes at me. He ran a finger along one of the jagged cuts.

You should think about wearing some armor.

You think?

Yeah, at least something covering your vitals. You don’t want to run around like Red Sonja in a chain mail bikini, with your torso all exposed.

That got a good hearty laugh out of Patrick.

What happens if you come across a punk with a pistol? Trevor held a pair of finger guns, like an old west gunslinger.

Patrick shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. It was something he never thought about. Something he should have been thinking about. Instead he was focused too much on what kind of witty banter he would have to use. His face grew somber.

Trevor did his best to pull the mood back up. Come up with a name yet?

No. It’s kind of tough. Everything sounds cheesy, or too serious. Patrick said.

The Milk Man, Trevor stood tall and proud, hands on his hips, a smug look on his face, glancing over his right shoulder. He held the posture far too long for it to be funny. Sometimes Patrick thought that the only exercise Trevor got was dragging his bad jokes out. He tossed a crumpled scrap of paper, hitting his friend on the cheek.

Trevor snapped out of his mocking pose, smiling. Don’t worry, we’ll figure it out.

That’s what I’m afraid of.

What’s that supposed to mean? Trevor feigned indignation.

I’m afraid at what kind of goofy names you’re gonna come up with. I don’t like the idea of one of them sticking.

The room fell silent as they pondered names, and outfit modifications.

Trevor broke the silence first. If the Green Lantern makes a glass of liquid, is it like green milk, or green Kool-Aid? he asked.

It would be whichever he wanted. He said, glad the topic of conversation had changed.

Can he make a green book of black magic?

What? I don’t even know what that means.

Never mind. So does it matter what kind of milk you drink?

ARGHHH!

Both the cramping in his stomach and pain in his neck had returned.

CHAPTER

2

The cold night air cut deep into Patrick's exposed face and neck, but his modified motorcycle track suit kept the rest of his body warm enough to focus on the task. He thought about how hot this new getup would be in the summer. It took him months to save up enough to buy the track suit. He spent hours rigging all of the tubes and pouches inside to keep all the milk he had to bring with him. There was no way Patrick could design, purchase, and build a different outfit for patrolling before the warmer weather arrived. Not with his meager paychecks, working lunch shifts at the local, corporate-owned family-friendly bar and grill.

Patrick’s latest outfit was a lightweight kevlar mesh that gave him some degree of protection. Mostly from scrapes and abrasions if he had to take the fight to the ground. It lacked the flexibility of his previous outfit, but the reduced mobility was a good sacrifice compared to the cheap black sweats with a couple of hydration bladders tucked under each arm. He could never get the smell of old milk out of the cotton. Memories of the pungent odor hung in his nostrils, as if he were still wearing the old sweats.

He waved his arms in small movements, mimicking a fight in his mind to test his range of motion. Imagined foes hurled a variety of attacks his way eliciting a proper reply plucked from his encyclopedia of fighting techniques. Soon Patrick was on his feet, practicing against his shadow opponents playing out a fully orchestrated fight scene. When he wasn’t happy with how his response didn’t feed into the next technique, he played it out again, until the movements flowed into a choreographed ballet of brutality.

Patrick’s Shadow boxing session gave him a good sense of additional modifications he would need to make to his crime fighting costume. Shin and forearm guards were first on the shopping list. Something made of hard plastic. The thought of bone to bone contact from blocking a kick sent an imagined wave of pain through Patrick’s spine. Also, he would need better gloves. Maybe something that’s cut resistant, just in case he —

A crash of glass breaking cut through his impromptu costume design session. The neighborhood had several recent break-ins, and he wanted to spend a couple of nights hanging out, to see if he would run across any suspicious figures lurking around. He was not expecting it to happen on the first hour of his first night out here.

The sound came from nearby, but Patrick decided against running down the street like a silver-age comic book hero, cape flowing, looking for some shady figures. His best option was to move through alleys, heading toward the area he thought the commotion came from. It didn't take him long to find the house he was looking for.

Most of the cars parked near the curb sat safe in the revealing illumination of street lights. Patrick noticed one of the lights, however, was out. As he approached he saw two young men standing next to a clunky boat of a car. One man was sticking half out of the driver side window, his feet slowly kicking to maintain his balance. The other was the lookout. A terrible lookout, since he spent most of his time trying to see what his buddy was able to get his hands on. Patrick’s tactical flashlight stripped the darkness away with 200 lumens of brilliance, scattering flecks of light off of the bits of glass debris next to the car. The beam hit the second man like a shock wave, causing him to flinch and freeze, using his forearm as a makeshift visor. The dangling pair of feet of the first man froze as his head popped into view through the windshield.

You gentlemen need any assistance? Patrick asked, trying to muster up enough authority in his voice to take control of the situation right away. The failed lookout stepped to the side as his partner slid back out to his feet. These two couldn’t be more than eighteen or nineteen, so Patrick hoped they would be too afraid to make any stupid decisions. Any more stupid decisions, anyway. Patrick did his best to pick out distinguishing features, but all he noticed was the attention grabbing faux hawk on the taller of the two. The other man, shorter than his friend, had close cropped hair in tight curls, and a denim jacket. Faux Hawk and Denim. Patrick liked giving his opponents quirky nicknames. It made them seem less intimidating when the fighting started.

Nah, man. We’re good here. The first one, Faux Hawk, said.

Yeah I locked my key in the car, and it’s kinda late to call my dad, Denim, said.

They looked at each other, as if telepathically getting their stories straight. He, uh…yeah he locked his keys in the car.

Patrick shifted his gaze between the two young men, letting them stew in their discomfort. He glanced in through the broken window, as bits of broken glass sparkled like stars in the beam of his flashlight. The car was a behemoth. A boat that old couples rode around in to cruise the town. A beaded seat cover was draped across the driver seat. It’s wooden beads worn dark and smooth from constant sweat and pressure. Cassette tape cases were scattered on the dash, and picture of a cat dangled from the rear view mirror. Patrick decided to buy his story to draw them out a little further.

Oh, let me help. Is there someone I can call? He asked, reaching into his pocket to grab a non-existent phone.

No no, that’s cool, don’t worry about it. The second man said.

The pair approached, with the shorter one now taking the lead. He waved his hands, keeping them high to diffuse some of the light as he spoke.

Listen, I don’t want my parents to find out that we just broke the window.

Patrick listened to his words, while he aimed the flashlight beam to the car, a false courtesy. His real intention was to use the car to reflect the light, allowing him to keep an eye on Faux Hawk, the man in the rear. Patrick looped his left thumb into a release tab hanging out of his left sleeve. The tab was a plastic hook connected to a pair of tubes, fastened to a bracelet on his wrist. The tubes ran along the inside of the sleeve and ended in hidden bladders strapped to Patrick’s ribs and back.

As the men reached a nice casual chatting distance, they sprang into action like a rusted out coil. Denim attempted a tackle so telegraphed, even the ghost of Samuel Morse would have been proud. For his reward, Patrick sidestepped and jammed the butt end of the flashlight just behind the shorter man’s ear.

Faux Hawk staggered around his friend in a clumsy dance, windmilling his arms in an attempt to land a wild, flailing blow. Patrick couldn’t tell what the man was holding, and his long arms gave him some reach, so it was wise not to take any chances. Flexing his left hand back at the wrist to pop the release tab in his sleeve, Patrick made a pushing gesture that sent a beam of white liquid hitting Faux Hawk square in the chest with the force of a fire hose. As it splashed off of the man’s chest, Patrick made an exaggerated grasping and pulling motion, gathering the liquid back into the tubes.

Denim pulled himself back to his feet. Patrick dropped his flashlight, yanked the tab on his right sleeve, and chopped the legs out from under him with a wide, flowing white sheet.

Do yourself a favor and stay down this time.

His words were drowned out by Faux Hawk’s furious battle cry. Who decides to cover thirty feet screaming the whole way? Patrick wondered as he whipped out his left arm, sending out a liquid bullwhip that wrapped around the attacker’s weapon hand. Patrick clenched his fist tight, and Faux Hawk winced in pain as his hand was held in a glossy white vise. With a quick yank, Patrick pulled the weapon from Faux Hawk’s grasp. Both men eyed  it as it clattered onto the sidewalk. It took a second for Patrick to figure out what it was.

Is that—did you just swing a gardening trowel at me?

The attacker’s face contorted into a mixture of confusion and anger, with a pinch of embarrassment. His eyes darted back and forth between Patrick and the gardening tool. The tall man faked a step toward the improvised weapon, but changed directions to attack. It was an impressive tactic that could have worked if the distance between the two was shorter. Faux Hawk’s charge split the distance in a fair amount of time. Once within striking range, the gangly attacker threw a big right hook; undisciplined and full of rage, but dangerous nonetheless. Patrick leaned his chin away and shuffled back to slip the punch, letting the blow fall short. He took the offensive, whipping his foot straight out. Patrick’s kick caught Faux Hawk right in the groin, flush with the instep of his foot. It was a textbook front snap kick, and had no problem dropping the taller man like a sack of milk. Three years of karate as a teen, and the first technique Patrick had learned on day one, was still his most high percentage attack.

He turned back to Denim, who had failed to heed the warning to stay down, and approached with his fists clenched. Untrained and inexperienced, the shorter man held his hands too high. His elbows flared out, exposing his ribs and obstructing his own vision. Patrick almost felt sorry for him. He decided not to draw this out any further, since it wasn’t the best time to be giving this young tough a lesson on the finer points of pugilism.

Clapping his hands together, then pulling them apart for flair, Patrick formed a smooth, white sphere, which looked like a cue ball. The ball grew, matching the pace of his hands as they moved outward. A sadistic looking grin spread across Patrick’s face. It had taken a long time to reach this level of control, but the sphere maintained a solid, almost marble-like appearance. Denim dropped his hands and looked on in awe. His mind was unable to process the scene playing out right before his eyes.

What are you, man?

The question brought Patrick’s frustration bubbling back to the surface. Over a year of doing this and he had never once thought of a name or identity he should be using. It was almost embarrassing. Now was not the time to start thinking up a clever moniker. Still, Patrick felt the need to reply to the man’s question with something witty that he could bring up to Trevor the next time they hung out.

Denim’s eyes widened, as he saw an opening to exploit. He lunged forward, winding up for a haymaker. It didn’t take much to stop the attacker’s momentum. Patrick hit him full on in the face, hurling the sphere, like chest pass with a basketball. Except, this basketball hit like a medicine ball. Denim woke up sitting next to his friend. He clutched at his chest, balling up his fist around the wet fabric of his shirt. His movements were weak as he pulled a wet hand away and looked up at the ominous figure towering over him.

Is this milk? Denim croaked through his reddened and swollen features.

Two percent. It was on sale this week.

CHAPTER

3

Patrick stretched out on the couch, one foot draped over the back, and the other resting on the floor. His head was propped up by one arm, folded underneath like a pillow. His other hand pinned the remote to his chest, so that it wouldn’t flee, escaping between the cushions. The couch was beyond worn out. Its cushions and springs lost the ability to support Patrick’s weight long ago. Instead, he was suspended by the remaining fabric and flattened foam, stretched out like a pale imitation of a hammock. The darkened yellow stuffing peeked out from behind holes held together by vertical strands of the plaid seat cover, like a prisoner pressed up against the bars of his cell, trying to get a good look at the unlucky shmuck in the next cell over.

The living room, much like Patrick’s bedroom, was a temple to comics and science fiction movies. Long, white cardboard boxes were stacked in a corner. A reference library containing the hundreds of comic books that didn’t fit in Patrick’s overstuffed closet. All bagged, some boarded. Like those in his bedroom, these were copies for reading, not collecting. This way, they served a purpose. Entertainment, education, and tips for creative ways to push super abilities to the limit. Not some failed dream to strike it rich or pay off a student loan.

Patrick heard the tell-tale knocking on his apartment door: tap - tap - tap tap tap - tap tap tap—tap. The same rhythmic rapping, mimicking a disco beat he didn’t recognize, signaled Trevor’s arrival. Patrick got up off the couch just far enough to turn the knob with his fingertips and pull the door open. He let the momentum swing it open while he sat back down. Trevor walked into the room, closing the door behind him.

Hey, Patrick.

Hey, SpongeBob.

Still not funny, Trevor said. No irritable bowel tonight?

Still not funny, Patrick said. Do you really have to ask me that every time you see me?

It’s been a while. I haven’t seen you in a week. Figured you were too busy fighting crime.

Nah, I took the week off from the streets to pick up some evening shifts at work. I’m trying to save up, so I can get an outfit together for the warmer months.

Why didn’t you mention that?

I did. I updated my Facebook status to ‘Picking up some extra shifts at work, so I can save up some scratch,’ and I know you saw it, because you ‘liked’ it.

No, I meant the crime fighting stuff. And the new outfit.

Really? I’m supposed to talk about that in public? He asked, raising an eyebrow.

Trevor picked up one of the short military style boots sitting next to the cluttered coffee table. How’s your new outfit?

The one I’m designing now? I haven’t finished the sketches.

No, the one you’re currently using.

I like how the jacket feels. It’s light enough, but still plenty tough. The pants I’m not too crazy about. Here, check this out. Patrick plucked a small pamphlet off the edge of the table and tossed it across the room.

Trevor fumbled it, before pinning it against his thigh. He took a second scanning the trifold sales sheet. Soldier pants?

Yeah, military battle dress uniform pants. They’ve got pouches and pockets for days. Plus the knee protection is attached right on to the pants, so I won’t need to tug at them all the time like I do with those. Patrick pointed to a pair of dark unidentifiable objects sitting on the floor against a wall.

Why don’t you try this jacket too? Trevor held his finger under a picture of the military style top that matched the pants Patrick had already circled.

I like the motorcycle jacket. Besides, it took a really long time to modify it for storing all of the pouches and tubing.

You need some kind of tinkerer to build new gadgets and outfits for you. Trevor was examining one of the bulky wrist cuffs attached to tubing running up the sleeves of dark gray and blue motorcycle jacket. So, where are you going to put your logo?

What logo?

You know. Your insignia. To tell people who you are. You don’t have a name or logo yet?

Patrick figured he wouldn’t be able to finish watching the show he recorded to his DVR, so he just turned the TV off and sat up on the couch.

Last week I took out a couple of thugs, and one of them asked me who I was supposed to be, he said.

And?

And nothing. I still don’t have a name, or an identity. I still have to come up with one. It’s a lot harder than I expected.

Trevor’s eyes lit up. This was one of his favorite topics of discussion. He cleared his throat, unrolled an imaginary scroll, and adjusted his non-existent reading glasses.

I got some new ones. How about White Shadow, or White Justice?

No, and definitely no. Can you not hear how awful those are? They both sound like racist organizations.

Intolerance, Trevor said, undaunted. Double meaning, because you’re also lactose intolerant.

Patrick put his head in his hands and zoned out while Trevor continued. How much longer was this going to last? Trevor rattled off about a dozen more names, and even though none of them registered, Patrick was certain they were all just as bad. He tried his best to focus again.

Two Percent? Or just Milk?

Please, stop.

Alright, but here’s the winner right here...Pro Teen...because, you know, milk has—

I know what milk has! Patrick was grinding the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. I’m not a teen, and even if I was it’s still a terrible name.

So you haven’t been drinking milk to use your powers? Trevor asked, changing the subject.

Finally a topic that Patrick could tolerate. No, and here’s the best part, I’ve been gaining more control without needing to drink the milk. I think I’m getting the hang of this stuff.

You mean you can fly now?

Patrick stared at Trevor with genuine confusion. His mouth hung open, head tilted a touch to the left, while he did his best to comprehend how that would apply. Noticing the dumbfounded expression, Trevor reworded the question.

Like, can you manipulate the milk in your suit to fly around?

Have you been waiting for me to develop that power? Patrick asked. That makes almost no sense. That would be like grabbing your own collar to jump higher.

"Oh, I’m so sorry you think that was such a dumb question, guy who can control milk," Trevor said, adding air quotes with his fingers.

Patrick laughed. He did seem somewhat defensive the past few weeks, especially for someone with his odd ability. Although he acted annoyed at the discussions with his friend, they were still rather enjoyable. It’s not like he had anyone else to talk to, and Trevor was there when the power first manifested in their high school years. Patrick relaxed again, sitting back and resuming his slouched posture, normally reserved for watching TV and playing video games.

I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap. I’m still learning new stuff about this every day. Maybe I’ll add ‘trying to fly’ to the list as well, he added, hoping to lighten up the mood.

What do you do with all the used milk anyway? Trevor asked.

I just dump it. It’s not like you can put it back in the carton and reuse it.

"Why not? Have you tried drinking