A Normil Day

Rick Normil

Yeah, okay, cheap narrative trick, whatever. The point is, there was a plan. Despite appearances.

Step one: transfer own mind into Adam Stitch. That had worked. I hadn't counted on how extremely broken his brain was, nor the fact that his hatred of Guardian seemed to be programmed into him so deeply that I had trouble fighting it. There were times during that fight when I almost forgot that the point wasn't to pound Guardian into jelly. But I managed.

Step two: get Guardian over by the centrone projector. Easy enough, since he would naturally be trying to angle me toward the power lines. If you're going to bring down Stitch, you want electricity.

Step three: make sure that neither Extraordinary was in any shape to fight.

Step four: hook us both up to Damon Robb's strangetech. I ripped the helmet a little getting it off Guardian, but there was still enough of it to hide his face. He'd need a new helmet after this anyway. Guardian struggled feebly as I attached the wires to his head, but I didn't think he was more than semiconscious.

Step five: throw the switch for the mind projector and the centrone radiation generator, at the same time. That would put me in Guardian's body, and—this was why I needed to get Stitch pummeled—pop Stitch right back into his own body, inches away from his archenemy.

I took a deep breath, threw the switch on the projector, and poked the button on the centrone generator with my mace-fist. There was a feeling like being punched all over.

When the world stabilized, I groaned slightly, and opened my eyes, and blinked to unfuzzy it. It didn't unfuzzy.

I was in Guardian's body. I was wearing his things, for starters. And for another thing, Stitch was wobbling to his knees in front of me. He looked at me vaguely, swaying, and I hoped like hell he didn't have enough left to take a swing at me. I felt pureed.

"Not—G-guardian," Adam Stitch rasped, managing somehow to push himself upright. "Has f-f-face . . . Guardian d-d-doesn't h-have face . . ."

I wasn't wearing the helmet. To Stitch, Guardian wears the helmet, and if he doesn't have it, he isn't Guardian.

Poor bastard. Whoever did this to him needs pounding but good.

Stitch turned away from me to roar at the sky. "F-FAKE GUARDIAN?!? FAKE S-STITCH AND F-F-FAKE G-GUARDIAN?! C-C-COWARD! CHEATER! COME D-DOWN AND FIGH—"

Which was when I hit him on the back of the head and laid him out for good. He stayed semiconscious long enough to mutter, "Stupid cheater Normil," and then was out like a light.

From there, it was just a matter of sorting through the loose ends.

I straightened out the helmet and put it on—not that hard, when you can bend steel, although all the finger-marks made it look like someone had been at it with a shotgun. The police had already been called; it wasn't as if we had been fighting quietly. They hauled Stitch away. They also bought my Guardian impersonation, which had been worrying me. Deep voice, flat accent like a news anchor, quiet and solemn. One policeman did ask me if I was all right, but I assured him I was heading to the hospital next. Which I did.

Flying was thrilling, as it always was. (I'd briefly possessed flying powers before; long story.) It was a little harder than usual because Guardian was, apparently, extremely nearsighted. To my surprise, Michael's glasses weren't for show.

I couldn't get the molecular perception to work either. There was a sort of oceanic sound in my head, and it seemed to change pitch and texture when I was away from solid objects, but I couldn't begin to use it as vision. Possibly it was the sort of thing that you had to grow up with. Blind people who get eye surgery as adults—they don't generally adjust all that well to vision—

I wonder what would happen to a person who grew up never really needing to see. Would their eyes become weak because they didn't bother with them much, because they under-used the muscles and accidentally let them atrophy? Possibly. It was as good an explanation for the nearsightedness as any.

Maybe I should ask Michael some time.

My body had been taken, predictably, to St. Mary's. It was about two a.m. when I finally got there. There was a guard on me—I had broken into the police station, after all—but Guardian's identity can get you past all sorts of barriers. I explained that Rick had been possessed and I could restore him to his proper self, and the doctor in charge didn't even argue with me. She just said, "And you're sure this will put him back to normal?"

Guardian wouldn't make the pun, so I didn't. "Completely," I said.

"How about him?"

Him was Damon Robb, one bed over, so that the police could keep an eye on both of us. "His situation . . . is more complicated," I temporized. "He's used a lot of strangetech on himself . . . I'd prefer to talk to an expert before trying anything."

Translation: I had no freakin' clue. People normally snap back to their body at the first opportunity. I'd never seen a silver cord tied to my foot, or any New Age thing like that, but I'd certainly zipped back into my own brain like I was pulled by psychic elastic. Robb should be back. He should be awake. Why was he still comatose?

Unless he actually had hurt his own psyche somehow, with all the jumping around . . .

I was very, very glad this would be my last transfer. "Doctor—would you mind if I draw the curtain for the rest of this? I'll have to take my helmet off."

People do stuff like that for Guardian. "Not at all," the doctor said. "I'll be on the other side of the room, so if you have any difficulty . . ." She was already moving as she said it.

I thanked her, drew the curtain, and hooked both myselves up to the strangetech. And threw the switch.

Darkness, rushing, and then slam, back to being me. And God, it felt right, despite the Armageddon-level headache. I opened my eyes, did my best not to wince at the light, and focused slowly on Guardian. Michael Wells, rather, without helmet. He was staring at me.

"'Sup," I said. My voice cracked; my mouth was very dry.

Michael turned wordlessly, slid the window open in a single sharp motion, and hurled himself out. Fleeing.

I said, "Huh," to myself, and relaxed into the not-very-fluffy pillow. "Doc? You there? It's Rick Normil. I'm back . . ."

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Author's note: Pretty close to the end, now.  It's mostly emotional stuff to be tied up, and of course the question of why Damon Robb is still comatose.  For that, stay tuned . . .