Just doing my job

Ok, so going up against a guy twice my size, and evidently more powerful, is not the smartest thing I could do. But the guy had spent the last half hour gutting the centre of Brighton, and didn’t show any sign of stopping anytime.

There are always those few who can’t adapt to being superhuman, can’t handle their powers when they first manifest towards the end of puberty. I for one was scared shitless when I first discovered my ability to fly. But I was lucky: I was accepted into a government run school for trans-humans, as we where known back then. I learned to use my powers constructively rather than destructively, and how to control them so I wasn’t a threat to anyone else.

This guys freaking out big time, taking out his anger and confusion on anyone who gets in his way.

I had to stop him, one way or another, before too many people get hurt. The high-ups wanted him taken alive if possible, something I was happy with: I don’t like killing if it can be avoided.

10-minets before I was somewhere over London, keeping an eye out for anything that shouldn’t be happening. Then my radio had crackled, hasty orders to head south to Brighton and contain a newly emerged superhuman. It took me 5-muinets to cover the 50-odd miles between the two cities’s, and another few to deicide how best to deal with the new guy. A direct attack would only result in extensive collateral damage, not to mention could easily kill one, or both, of us. The only real option was to get him away from the city and wear him down till he burned out.

Every living thing needs energy to function, and superhumans are no different: most of us gain energy from the food we eat (my own daily calorie intake is staggering), and our abilities, or powers, use this energy. You can train hard to extent your endurance, but in the end you’ll always run out of steam.

Eventually.

I got my chance when he finished gutting a major shopping centre and tumbled out into the main north/south street. I came in from the north, heading downhill towards the sea at just under the speed of sound, wishing my uniform wouldn’t billow so much.

As I’m technically attached to the army, I tend to wear fatigues when on duty, rather than the spandex body-condoms others go for. Ok, they have their advantages, but they make you look like something out of a 1950’s comic book.

I hit the guy with enough force to knock him the 200 or so meters to the beach, and turned back to face him. He stood in the middle of a large crater blasted in the sand, eyes locked onto me as I heading inshore, and boy did he look pissed off!

My first hint that something was about to go badly wrong was when he stood his ground rather than coming at me or trying to run. He just stood there, feet spread far enough apart to brace him without affecting his centre of gravity.

Hitting him was like hitting a mountain.

I quite literally ricocheted off of him and ended up skimming across the water for a few hundred meters until I finally came to a stop. Shacking my head till the ringing stopped, I let myself float up until I was a few meters above the sea, and looked back at the beach: The argent bastard was actually laughing at me.

One of the things I can’t stand is people who, despite all past evidence, underestimate me.

I brought my hands together at high speed; the shockwave generated by the collision streaked across the sea and up the beach until it hit him, knocking him off his feet and back into the crater.

Leaning forward, I slid through the air until I reached the tide line, and then simply dropped to the ground. A crowed had gathered, keeping a respectful distance, but I could see the near constant flash of cameras recording the event, even the hydraulically raised neck of a TV outside broadcasting unit. I ignored them.
Let others take the glory: I’m just doing my job.

A slight glow from inside the crater gives me enough warning to dodge back in time to lose nothing more than my eyebrows and fringe. Who ever this guy is, he’s got some kind of optic-laser ability; something that can be deadly, even to someone like me. I back away quickly, knowing that I have to play a dangerous game: keep his interest on me and away from everyone else, and live to tell the tail.

He stands on the beach, a white-hot beam of amplified light tracks through the water after me as I dodge from side to side, back and forth, hoping he tires before I do. It may look cowardly, and in a way it is, but I want us to both live through this.
The only problem is I start to feel the fatigue set in: flying, especially at close to 600-miles an hour, can really take it out of you, let alone this little game of tag we’re playing right now. This new guy on the other hand is keeping up the heat.

There is a distinct possibility that he’s one of the more advanced superhumans: they can draw power from nearby sources, like an electrical grid. Some, like my wife, can tap into the natural power flow of the universe on what is believed to be a near-quantum level. If I was up against one of those guys I’d be a small pile of ash on the beach by now, and probably most of Brighton with me.

Finally, just as I’m contemplating a tactical withdrawal, the laser starts to sputter and dies: he’s finally started to reach the limit of his energy reserves.

I move in, slower than before, and size him up from a dozen meters away: he can’t be more than 16 years old, yet he’s done untold millions in damage, and most likely killed several people in the process. I only hope he can learn to live with the guilt once he realises what he’s done.

But the psychotherapy can wait: I need to take him down before he regains his strength.

I summon what reserves I myself have, and charge up my fists. They glow a worryingly pale colour, nothing like they do when I’m fully charged. I ran at the guy as he try’s to catch his breath, catching him a right-hook to the jaw. He rolls with the punch, absorbing most of the force with his body.

His own return punch snaps my head back almost fast enough to break my neck. I stagger backwards, clasping my fists together and spinning them round with enough force to level a building, and all it does is make him sway.

This guy is going to be a real powerhouse once he learns to control his powers.
We continue to trade blows, and my training begins to bear fruit: I’m able to dodge most of his attacks, while my own do damage that it takes him longer and longer to recover from. He sinks to his knees, head spinning as I bring my fist round one last time to finally knock him out. The crowd of onlookers goes wild as his head hits the ground, and my ears just pick up a round of applause above the sound of descending helicopters.

Serious looking men in army uniforms soured the two of us: sonic rifles and neural disrupters at the ready. The weapons are only really effective against regular humans, but it makes the recovery teams feel better, so let them have their toys.

“Corporal Nathan Drake, Special Intervention Unit.” I flashed my I.D. as they administered a considerable amount of Thorazine to the prisoner to make sure he won’t wakeup before he reaches the secure holding facility under Salisbury Plain. It takes six members of the recovery team to lift him; his body is so distorted by the emergence of his abilities.

The local police move in and erect barrier to hold back the spectators as a paramedic starts to check me out. I may be invulnerable to any conventional weapon, but it is a widely known fact that if two fighting superhumans are sufficiently ill matched in power, one can easily be hurt, or even killed.

People start to disperse once it becomes clear that the shows over: they can get the rest of their daily fix of superhero action from those clowns who sold out and went to work in TV and Film. I know that I’ll be required to make a press statement later on, but for now I can relax a little and try and recover from the fight.

A familiar figure moves through the police lines: Simon Neo.

Known as ‘Synthetic Man 1’ to the press and public, Simon is the result of ten years of work by a team of superhuman scientists working in seclusion up in Armstrong City on Luna: a fully functional, independent and sentient A.I. able to pass as human 99% of the time.

“Nathan.” He nods as he reaches me, “You did well: he out classed you by a significant degree, but you where able to out think and out fight him without causing significant harm to either of you.”

“Yeah: I earned my pay check this week.” I pull myself to my feet, “What brings you down here?” I ask, knowing that he doesn’t like to leave Luna without good reason.
“I have been sent to deliver a communication from Doctor Lang.” Simon opened a small compartment in his arm and removed a high-compression data-chip, “He said it was most important, and should only be handed to you personally.”

“What the hell could be that important?” I wondered aloud as I examined the chip: Doctor Philip Lang is considered to be the smartest man alive, a superhuman genius of unparalleled intellect. We had met a few years before when I’d been passing though Armstrong City while escorting a prisoner to the Dark Side Penitentiary. He had been Charlotte’s instructor at the Canadian Institute for Superhuman Studies, and she had introduced me to him just after I proposed to her.

“I do not know: Doctor Lang only said it was of the up most importance.” Simon looked kind of intrigued; by I knew he’d never betray the confidence of the man he calls his Father and look at the ship while it was in his care. “I must go now: It was good to see you again Nathan.”

“You too Simon.” I nod almost absentmindedly, wondering what the revered Doctor Lang could possibly need to say to me that he couldn’t say over even an encrypted view-channel.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand up: something big is about to start…

To Be Continued…