Now, the following story piece shows his darker side, his angry side. But he really is just a tough guy doing what he has to in order to survive in the future. He makes sure never to kill people unless it's the only option they give him. He'll stun them, tazer them, temporarily paralyze people, but never kill them. I named him with the initials E.M.P. because one of his powers is the ability to create an electro-magnetic pulse.
Here is the taste of the story:
"The Man With an Electro-Magnetic Pulse"
By Tristan Arts
The keys rattled in time to the music of the night wind as Kevin Randall fumbled with the lock on the back door. It was midnight, and it was his job to close the restaurant where he worked, but the back door always gave him troubles.
He was so focused on his job that he didn't hear the man in the shadows of the nearby trees skulking about. Normally such a thing would concern him, but he of course could not hear it. Not that the man was a threat to Kevin's life anyway; he wasn't. For once in who knows how long, the stranger was not some drug addict or petty criminal. He did intend on comitting a crime, but there would be no way he could ever be pinned for what he was about to do.
The man waited and watched as Kevin finally got the door locked, and got in his car. He struggled to get it running several times. The man in the shadows was beginning to get worried. Four times... five times. This was serious. If Kevin couldn't leave, the man couldn't do what he wanted to do. So he pointed at the car and thought to himself, *Start, car.*
Kevin cheered himself as the sixth try got the car running, and left in a blaze of white headlights. Now was the time.
A storm began to brew overhead. An electrical storm, by the look of it, but the stranger didn't seem to notice or to care. He stepped out of the shadows and walked into the middle of the parking lot.
He wore a long black trenchcoat and simple hiking boots for style more than for walking. The rest of his clothes were black as well. His face was handsome in a dark, brooding, and tortured-soul way, but despite that he didn't really stand out of a crowd; and he liked it that way. His name was Emmett Marshal Petersen. He always thought it was a funny set of initials, especially considering his secret, so he often called himself E.M.P.
As he stood there in the dark parking lot, illuminated only in the far right and left corners by dim streetlamps, he glared angrily at the restaurant. He had once worked there. There had been what he'd thought had been a minor misunderstanding, and got fired over it. It normally wouldn't have bothered him, but this had been the latest in a string of short-lived employment periods where he'd been fired for really stupid reasons. So now he was pissed off. Now he wanted his revenge.
The lightning was illuminating his angry visage now. Slowly, as if just noticing it for the first time, he looked up at the lightning-torn sky. A wide and evil grin spread over his face at the sight of it, and he chuckled softly to himself. There was no rain, but people would be able to hear the thunder already.
His left hand and his gaze shot out toward the restaurant, and his right hand he faced palm-up at the sky. He said nothing, but white chaos escaped from its heavenly prison and came streaking down at light speed, where it blasted the restaurant with a girder-wide streak of destruction. Just the thunder alone was so extraordinarily powerful that all the windows of nearby buildings shattered, and Emmett himself was knocked to the ground, temporarily deafened.
Nothing remained to burn, so no fire stayed in its wake. All that was left was a smoking pile of black rubble. The restaurant, barely open a month, lay in ruins, and the man responsible for it could never be accused; not even though he lay at the foot of the mess, laughing at what he'd done.
And yes, I was angry when I wrote this. :-)