A Normil Day

Armand Cole

Damon Robb had been temporarily delayed.

In his spirit form, he actually wore an ill-fitting, frayed Guardian costume. Of course, it might just look ill-fitting because I had him by the collar. We were hanging over an abyss of pure darkness, in the Beneath, and he was struggling. Which was stupid. Just because I can survive the Beneath doesn't mean everyone can.

His extremities were unraveling like bad knitting. "Let go," he gasped, tugging at my arm. "Let go, you're hurting me!"

"No, I'm not. Not yet." Ah, bluff. When all you have is a hammer, everything starts to look like a nail. "I just wanted to talk to you about some things you discovered during your adventures."

Robb bared his teeth. "You mean that Guardian is that loser Michael Wells?" He sounded contemptuous. "No wonder he doesn't get it right. It should have been me—I was so much better—and by the time I'm through with him, he'll wish—"

"He'll wish nothing," I said. "As you pointed out earlier, there are—consequences—for revealing a hero's secret identity. You will say nothing about Michael Wells. You will turn yourself in to the police and confess to hijacking Rick Normil's body."

"You don't know what you're talking about. Wells is too much of a coward to do anything to me."

"You will also tell the police about anyone else you might have controlled, manipulated, or otherwise influenced."

"And you," Robb sneered. "You're just—I don't even know who you are, but there's no way you can—"

If you want to really terrify someone, do it with one sentence. I pulled him closer. "Do we have," I murmured, "a meeting of minds?"

Robb stared at me, dread dawning. I looked back. I didn't bother to make my eyes glow blue. He'd gotten the point.

He swallowed. "Yessir," he said, in a voice that was much too small for him.

"Good." I opened my hand, and he trailed into the distance as a muddled cloud of color. Back to his body. Back to life.

I teleported out of the Beneath, away from Marina City, to a lonely spot in New Mexico where I like to sit and think when I'm not struggling to save the world. White sand, stars in uncounted multitudes, a constant whisper of wind—beautiful place. I collect beautiful places. They put my mind right.

Considering some of the things I've done, I need that.

Perhaps I should have tried to pass a message back to Rick Normil. An apology. He was only a chaos attractor because of me.

It was an idle thought; I couldn't have really done it. I needed Robb to dread me, and people like him see apologies as a sign of weakness. Better not to disturb the myth of Sigil, inhuman being of ultimate power and cold wrath.

I wasn't sure how much Rick would remember of his three minutes as Sigil. Most people don't remember at all, but he's been through so many things; he might be better at coping with that sort of input. But whatever he remembered, however much he knew, I hoped that he would forgive me for not telling him. That he didn't despise me. That he didn't fear me.

I rather liked him, after all. And it's been a long time since I had a friend.

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Author's note: One of the things that bugs me a little bit about this book is that the Armand Cole sections are significantly less lighthearted than the Rick Normil sections.  It helps to distinguish their voices, but it may also make the book feel inconsistent and lurch-y.

But, you know, what can you do.  I think both parts are necessary.  Anyway, next week is the emotional aftermath of everything that happened—and one last shoe dropping.