A Normil Day

Rick Normil

The bodyjacker led me back to the Torch. Of course.

I knew what he was after. I knew what he had to be after. And all I could do was tag along and watch and hope that I lucked into some way to help. I had told the truth, I hadn't planned to rely on Armand, but that was because I didn't have a plan. And now I couldn't even hope that Armand would pull something out and save the day.

I followed the bodyjacker into the elevator. He'd turned the colander back down again, but there was still a cold and unpleasant breeze from it.

I wished, I wished, that I could tell somebody. Anybody. The bag lady on the corner. If I could just get a message to Jenna, and through her to Guardian—

And while I was wishing for things, I wish I had a mecha. A mecha that transforms into an even bigger mecha that farts lightning. Get a grip, Normil.

The bodysnatcher went up to the roof. Of course. I scanned the skyline. Any minute now, he was going to pull out the thing, and use it, and then—

Only he didn't have to. There was a speck in the air, coming in from the marina, and it wasn't a bird. Or a plane.

That was when Armand popped in, startling the hell out of me; I hadn't expected to see him again, possibly ever. "That policeman," I began.

"Ambulance. I'm going right back; I came to tell you what I learned about him—" He nodded toward the bodyjacker. "Just in case. His name is Damon Robb, and he's—"

His eyes widened as he looked past me and saw Guardian.

Everyone knows what Guardian looks like, right? Colors: white, black and gold, with the cape all gold. A metal helmet, also gold-looking (although he says it's actually bronze-plated), the sort that looks like a straight cylinder with a dome on top, but somehow manages to seem imposing when an actual superhero is wearing it. The helmet has no eyeholes because Guardian doesn't need them. He sees through molecular perception. Tall, muscular, majestic. Paragon, world-famous hero, and—this is the bit you forget, after you've known him for a while—special guest star in many criminals' worst nightmares.

The bodysnatcher shot him with the possession ray as he slowed to land.

I heard Armand whisper, "Oh, no," which was pretty much what I wanted to say—only I'd been yanked backwards as if there were a rubber band attached to my navel. Shredding pain, icicles all through me, I was being forced through a cold metal mesh and it was slicing me apart—

Then, as my body collapsed, the colander fell off my head. Rolled away. And without that interfering, I was pulled back into my body as sure as water goes down a drain.

There was a moment of pure disorientation, and then I was back.

It was—Jesus. It didn't feel good at all. It felt like a hangover. Not just your average hangover, but a tequila hangover. A tequila hangover that only happens after you've gotten completely, absolutely, dance-on-tables-and-hit-on-poodles wasted. I said, "Uuuurggh . . ." and it was about as profound as I felt like I could be. I wanted to throw up.

And then I heard a familiar voice—Guardian's voice, albeit pitched higher than usual. "What . . . what's all this noise?"

The bodyjacker had Guardian.

Well, shit.

I pushed myself up. I could be hung over later. The colander had rolled away, but the possession ray was closer at hand.

Guardian, or Guardian's body, had plowed a long divot into the roof where he'd missed his landing. There was dust in the air. "I'm supposed to have molecular perception!" the bodyjacker ranted. "I'm supposed to be able to see everything! Why isn't it working?"

Good thing for me it wasn't; you can't ambush Guardian, but I might be able to get him. I picked up the possession ray just as not-Guardian took off his helmet.

And then I hesitated for just a split second too long. Which was stupid, I admit, but I don't get blindsided like that every day.

Michael. Michael freakin' Wells. Guardian.

Even as my brain tried to say, no, of course not, that's just ridiculous, a small bit was saying, yes, of course. I've never thought of Michael as built, nor broad-shouldered, but maybe that's more how he carries himself. He is tall. And Jenna keeps complaining that he goes missing at the least convenient times—

And then, in a blink, Guardian was right in front of me, grabbing the possession ray out of my hand and crushing it like foil. "Oh, no. No, I'm Guardian now."

My mouth was dry. You know someone, you eat lunch with them, you spend enough time with them that they even start to loosen up around you, and you tend to forget that as far as they're concerned, your bones are dried straws. I was remembering it now. Really, really remembering it, deep in the pit of my stomach.

The bodyjacker poked me in the shoulder, a light, casual-looking jab. It knocked me backwards. I'd have a bruise, assuming I lived through this. "Poor Ricky Normil," the bodyjacker crooned. "Poor little wannabe. I bet you've always wanted to know your hero's secret identity, haven't you?"

Actually, no. I didn't need to know his street name to know him. Or I'd thought I didn't. The fact that he was actually a friend in both personae, and that he'd never trusted me enough to tell me—

"But things are about to change around here, Normil. I'm the real Guardian—a stronger hero than the old one ever was. And from now on, there are going to be consequences. Consequences for interfering with me. For prying into my affairs."

"I didn't—" It came out higher and more panicked-sounding than I'd intended.

He dropped the possession ray and crushed the last little bits into powder with a stomp. "And special consequences," he hissed, "for trying to shoot me and steal my body!"

And then—blink—he was at the base of the torch sculpture, ripping the thing off its mountings with a shriek like all the car accidents in the world. A part of my brain said, Yep. Every supervillain ever, but most of me was too busy being terrified for my life. "Armand," I whispered.

Guardian—the bodyjacker—lifted the torch sculpture into the air. Fifty feet from the roof. Then more.

"Armand," I said, more loudly, "if you're there, you can possess me any time." What did I mean, if he was there? He'd told me he was going right back to save Tony. "Enter of your own free will—whatever. In fact, I pretty much need you to, because—"

Because the bodyjacker was about to throw the torch at me.

I was dead. Paste. Even if Armand was still here, and even if he had the right powers to get me out of this, he'd implied it was a choice between saving me and saving the policeman. He didn't know me. He had no reason to choose me.

I saw the torch hurtling towards me. I threw up my hands, uselessly, and barely had time to think, I'm screwed.

And then I put out my hand and stopped the truck-sized sculpture dead, with a thought and a single finger.

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Author's note: Aaand cliffhanger!  Next week, we get to find out part of what's up with Armand.

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