Sidekick by Carl Stubblefield (10 best novels of all time .txt) 📗

suspicion, as it would be counted as a weak attempt to get out of the battle. Could it be that I’m actually that unpopular, and I’m looking for an excuse to all this animosity directed towards me? No, it couldn’t be. The only way out was to win and ruin his son’s future.

They made their ways to the opposite sides of the arena, a massive dome in the center of the Purple Faction complex. Once the battle started, referee supers would create a shield around the perimeter and the battle would continue until one super relented or was rendered unconscious. Support supers stood on standby to heal any mortal injuries.

Requiring healing also was considered a forfeit, and the super had only a five-count to refuse healing and battle on, else they could do what they needed to save a life. No one had ever died in a duel, but there had been some close calls. As he thought of it, there hadn’t been a battle in quite some time. And everyone liked a good fight.

“I’m getting too old for this,” Tempest muttered to himself as he charged up his skills. He knew his son’s attacks and skills intimately, having trained him throughout his time at the academy. How does he think he could possibly win?

The referee dropped the shield that separated both halves of the dome, adding his strength to the outer dome shield. Cyclone raised in the air, supported by a swirling mini twister. Tempest shook his head, knowing the effect was just for show and did nothing to actually support Cyclone. He refused to give it up, wasting precious MP that would eventually be needed in a battle and not be available.

Tempest applied pressure fronts counter to the rotation of the tiny tornado and ripped it away. As expected, Cyclone settled to earth, unwilling to cede that it was necessary. Tempest extracted energy out of one area in front of him, transferring it to another area rapidly, cycling and alternating the effect to create his own twister, directing it to where Cyclone would land. The force of the blast threw his son to the ground but did not have enough time to develop enough momentum to do any damage.

Just submit, we’ll find a way out of this later.

Cyclone jumped to his feet, hair wild from the blast. He reached his arms out in front of him and exerted his ability to create an increase in pressure right above Tempest.

I taught you this, and you try to use it against me? Tempest reached a single hand upward and easily resisted, countering the force and pushing against it. He affected a yawn to further rattle the boy and get him to see the futility of his attacks. He also had to maintain his persona. These battles were a waste of time and he didn’t want to be fighting a new upstart every week.

Sweat beaded on Cyclone’s forehead as he strained to push against the increasing counter pressure. In frustration, he dropped his attack and charged at his father.

Tempest easily sidestepped and pushed him in the back as he passed, causing him to stumble with the additional momentum and nearly fall.

Cyclone turned, face red and nostrils flaring as he charged again. This time he tackled Tempest and began punching. While it was obvious he was giving it his all, the blows barely registered, only occasionally dropping a single point of HP here and there. Taking advantage of their proximity, he decided to get to the bottom of this fiasco.

“What did they say to you, Cyclone?”

“You wouldn’t understand,” the boy growled as he continued to punch, getting angrier as he noticed that his father’s red bar was not diminishing.

“Try me,” Tempest said.

“You say that they want to make me a puppet, but you’re the one always keeping me on a leash, limiting my potential.”

“I’m trying to keep you safe. The only time I’ve kept you back was from missions you obviously weren’t prepared for, just like you aren’t prepared for this fight.”

Taking this as another insult, Cyclone fired his Wind Whip ability right in Tempest’s face.

It caused minimal damage, but it did hurt like hell and Tempest’s anger flared as he easily slid out from the unstable pin and leaned in, forcing the bone of his muscular forearm down on his son’s throat. “You’ve forced my hand. I never wanted to do this. I really wish you had talked to me about what you were feeling. This was the worst choice you could have made, and I’m sure you won’t like the consequences.”

Tempest looked into his son’s fearful eyes. They seemed to scream without words. The crowd began booing him, disgusted with the turnabout. Tempest looked up at the crowd. Faces contorted in anger comprised the majority of the crowd. Yelling and shouting obscenities.

What did I do to warrant this hatred? These were people he had served at great personal sacrifice. No doubt a great majority didn’t know the hours he had put in to make their lives easier. Doing all the unpleasant tasks it took to run an organization this large. To enforce order on a chaotic world.

Slightly nodding, Tempest twisted, making it look like Cyclone had broken free of the pin, and allowed his son to get the upper hand.

Cyclone’s eyes went savage as he grasped his father’s neck and started to squeeze.

Out of reflex, Tempest applied outward pressure around his neck, not allowing Cyclone’s hands to do any permanent damage, but he could see his son struggling. He really was trying to hurt him. The thought hurt him more than any of the attacks he had ever experienced from friend or foe.

The crowd roared at the apparent turn of the tide. Cords stood out on Cyclone’s neck as he strained, and tears squeezed out from crazed eyes. So this is what Purple Faction has become? This is what I’ve been sacrificing for all this time? Flashes of all the hours he had spent, solving some problem or other, being a