First Player/Bam Kapow!

The bell rang above the door of the bookshop as I entered and I saw the guy standing in front of the counter spin around. He was definitely the nervous type. Very jumpy. The nicest thing would be not to notice. I bet he'd calm down on his own when he realized I wasn't threatening him—

Well. Maybe not. That looked like a Glock 34 coming out from under his jacket—or maybe it was a 35? It’s kinda’ hard to tell them apart at first glance—the point was that he was swinging it around in my direction. I kicked his wrist and the gun went flying to land somewhere behind the counter.

"Dude! I don't know what you think you're doing, but wavin’ guns around isn't going to make you any—"

I was interrupted as he threw a haymaker at me. The dude was pretty hefty and that wild swing might actually have cracked my jaw if my head had just stayed there waiting for his big fist to arrive. Instead I grabbed his wrist in the middle of its trajectory and flipped him over my shoulder, hoping to knock some sense into him without hurting him too badly.

He rolled over and braced himself, starting to get up. I jumped and landed on him with both boots. He grunted and was flattened against the floor by the impact, and stayed down for a while now that I was stood on him. "Now then dude," I started again, still standing on his back. "Tell me why you thought a gun was the proper way to greet a stranger walking into the store—"

"That would be my fault; I told him to guard the exit while I was cleaning out the safe," said another man's voice from behind me. I turned around and saw a costume I didn't recognize; all black and red with a fancy mask and even a cape. (I really don't know what good he thought the cape would do.)

He sighed. "I'm sorry to have to say this—but I’ve never heard of you! I was hoping my first confrontation with a hero would be someone with a real reputation—like Positron, or Statesman or . . ."

"Count your blessings, man," I advised him. "They’re all busy. Now, I suggest you just put your hands behind your head while I call the police, and that way we can just chill out until—"

I didn't think it was going to be that easy. I mean I know from experience (I don’t have a lot, but I have some) that thugs who put on fancy costumes seem to think they magically become ten times tougher and scarier. Overcompensating for the poor self-images they had before maybe? It’s pretty lame. It didn't even surprise me when his left hand started to glow. (A sort of pale red.) I reached to a nearby shelf and threw the heaviest book I could find at his head, hard and fast. It made him duck and possibly threw off his aim for whatever he was trying to do.

"Hold still!" he yelled as I jumped sideways to put a thick bookcase between the two of us while I pondered my options. "None shall defy the Fainter! It's in your own best interests if we settle this quickly and painlessly!"

The Fainter? I managed not to laugh at the name. I also know that these guys like to speak about themselves in the third person a lot and I couldn’t help but wonder if the Fainter expected me to reply in the third person. We danced around a bit, ducking back and forth from one aisle to the next, while I waited to see what he was going to do with that red energy around his left hand. Not a hell of a lot, apparently. I kept expecting red lightning or something to shoot towards me whenever he spotted me again, but it didn’t happen. So I began to suspect his power—whatever it might be—only operated via direct contact. If so, that would make this a lot simpler. I could move in close to hit him; I just had to prevent him from slapping his left hand against me before I knocked him out. Of course, he could might be able to channel the same power through his right hand, too . . .

I grabbed books with each hand and threw them at him again the next time we had a clear line of sight at each other. He dodged one and blocked the other with a hastily raised arm. The Fainter’s reflexes weren't half bad, but they weren't nearly as quick as mine have been since the accident.

Then I heard a floorboard creak behind me and knew what was up. The guy I had landed on must have gotten his wind back and was trying to sneak up on me from behind. Maybe just planning to wrap me up in a bear hug so his boss could do whatever it was he did with that red glow. I pretended I hadn't noticed a thing and stepped forward to face the Fainter down the length of an aisle framed by bookcases seven feet tall.

He shifted into a boxing stance and I could tell from the flickering of his eyes that his pal must have been getting close. So I didn't linger where I was; I strode forward fast to close the gap, feinted a high strike with my right hand to get the Fainter to raise his glowing left, then went low and did a leg sweep to bring him crashing down. That bought me enough time to spin around and handle his buddy coming down the aisle from the other way. It only took a couple of seconds to block his first strike, then soften him up with a few blows of my own, then throw him again so that he landed on top of the Fainter who was still flailing about with his glowing left hand, hoping to touch me.

If someone had to be the guinea pig here, better the henchman than me.

But actually, nothing really dramatic happened. He didn't scream in agony or disintegrate or anything like that. He just went limp and didn't move at all. I almost laughed. “Seriously man? That’s your power?”

The Fainter cursed and tried to shift about two hundred and thirty pounds of dead weight off himself. He would have made it out from under his buddy, eventually, if I hadn't chopped at exactly the right spot on his neck while his hands were occupied. (But of course I did.)

I used some cord I found in the shop to fasten both the thugs’ and the Fainter’s hands behind his back. That was when I found the proprietor. Stretched out on the floor behind the counter, where I hadn't seen him before. Out like a light, but no blood or other signs of injury. Pulse and respiration were okay. Best guess: the Fainter had touched him. The cops took a while to get there—Before a patrol car actually showed up, the Fainter was awake again and complaining.

"You didn't have to hit me while I was down!" he said indignantly. “No one needed to get hurt! All I needed was a touch!”

“What a weirdo...” I murmured and he decided to change the subject. "okay, I admit you defeated me." (He sounded as if he were making a generous concession.) "But will you just tell me one thing, now that it won't matter anyway? How did you know I was here? I'd only stunned the owner about five minutes before you showed up, and I'd swear he never had any time to hit a silent alarm. Some psychic crime-detecting power of yours?"

I decided to tell the truth. "I didn't know you were here. I just wanted to buy some comics, man.”

The Fainter closed his eyes, as if in pain. "You nerd.”

Then I chopped him in the neck again.