Well, while I'm not working on the longer stories in progress, I figured I'd turn my attention to this one again. I started it a long while ago, probably more than a year ago, but got stuck halfway through. Today, though, I couldn't focus on anything but this, and so, here we are! I started the story as sort of a "Mighty Max meets Ferris Bueller" deal, but it evolved without my knowledge and wound up here.
I don't own Mighty Max. I wish I did. Sigh.
Enjoy!
"Who knew that the Furies were so cranky?"
"Mighty One," Virgil sighed to the boy who was still scrubbing a swath of dirt and soot from his t-shirt with a less than clean hand, "with the name 'furies,' what did you expect them to be?"
"Well, I mean, they turned on us like we were the bad guys!"
"We were the bad guys," Norman pointed out solidly. "We were trying to stop them from taking their just revenge."
"Gee, thanks. I know that now! How come you didn't tell me that the guy we saved was the same one who was trying to destroy the world? You know, before we saved him?"
"I…that is…" Virgil squawked for a moment before regaining his composure. "It's complicated. But you did quite well and stopped an evil force from bringing chaos to the earth, as always, Mighty Max."
"Yeah, but you're the one who gets to tell my mom why I need new shoes. Again." The Cap-Bearer gave up trying to restore his poor t-shirt and shrugged. His mother had bought the best washer-dryer set in the country, and that was the only reason any of his clothing was ever wearable after an adventure. His sneakers, on the other hand, were definitely a lost cause this time.
"Are you requesting that I accompany you home to explain to your mother?"
"Sure, may as well face the music with me. You are supposed to protect me, right?" Max joked.
"Indeed. I believe, then, that this will work quite well."
Max turned to the Lemurian and raised an eyebrow. Something was up; he could feel it. Norman had been acting strangely all day, more strangely than usual, anyway. Although no more talkative than he normally was, the Guardian had seemed almost laid back, as though his mind were on other matters even in the face of battle. Norman hadn't even used his trademark line, "I eat furies for breakfast," once during the altercation!
"Mighty One," the Viking said, stopping alongside Virgil, "there is something you must know."
"What? This isn't another one of those secrets of destiny, is it? 'Cause I've had enough for one day." Max felt a slight trickle go through him at the thought. Although his instincts were giving him no ominous warning of bad tidings, experience had taught him that there were plenty of things his mentors could spring on him that still qualified as bad news. Even if they didn't involve death and destruction and other such depressing things.
"No, nothing like that," the Lemurian scholar assured him easily. "Just something you are perhaps not expecting."
"Okay, so spit it out already!"
"Today," Norman began hesitantly, "…is my day off."
Max blinked.
Then he blinked again.
"Did my ears just tune out? Or did you just tell me that today is your day off?" the Mighty One asked incredulously.
"You see," Virgil explained, "per a certain agreement I made with Norman approximately two-hundred years ago, today is the one day of service in which he is free of any and all obligations to you. From now until precisely twenty-four hours from now, he is not, technically, your Guardian."
"I'm still the Guardian," Norman disagreed with great stubbornness, "but I have today to myself."
"O…kay," Max nodded slowly. "So, what does this mean? You're telling me it's Normie's vacation-time finally. Great. And...?"
"Well, you see, this poses two problems. First of all is your safety. Under the terms of our agreement, Norman cannot be called upon to protect you until this time tomorrow, and should anything happen, you could be in more danger than you can handle without his assistance."
"You said nothing would happen today." Norman's eyes narrowed. The glower that stole across his face was a warning – the Guardian, even on vacation, was not prepared to risk danger to his young friend.
"I'll be fine, guys. We already took out the baddie of the day. What else are you expecting?" Max spread his hands dismissively.
"Nothing in particular," the Lemurian admitted, "but it is always wise to be prepared for the worst."
"Believe me," the Mighty One sighed, "the worst is already waiting for me. I still have calculus homework left."
Norman turned his glower into a derisive snort and shrugged when Virgil glared at him. The Viking had long made it clear what he thought of the necessity for their Cap-Bearer to study subjects that had no practical usage in the real world of battle.
"Very well. Then while Norman has his day, I shall assist you with your work. This way I may keep an eye on you directly. In addition to speaking to your mother, of course."
"Uh, Virg?" Max asked. "You said 'first of all,' a minute ago. That means there's a second part."
"So there is. When Norman and I made this deal originally, we were not yet certain where in the world Norman would wish to spend his day. Thus, I pledged that you and I would escort your Guardian to wherever on earth he chooses, and we shall return for him tomorrow."
"What am I, a shuttle-bus?" But there was a smile on Max's face anyway.
"I don't have exact change." Norman returned his boy's grin with a wink.
"Well, let's be off. Norman, as you have had two-hundred years to think this over, I trust you finally have a location decided?"
"Of course."
-==OOO==-
"Norman, you are being unreasonable!" Virgil had stamped his foot in an uncommon display of Lemurian temper.
"No, I'm not," he'd replied stubbornly, glowering.
"You cannot abandon this fight, no matter how much you might like to," the fowl contradicted. "I realize this situation is stressful, but…"
"I'm not abandoning anything. And it's not stressful. Virgil, I'm just asking for one day when you don't boss me around. We have 200 years before the Mighty One returns. In all that time, you can't give me one day to myself?"
"This is highly inconvenient," Virgil said, curling his beak. "I do not have vacations built into our schedule. As it is, if we do not make haste, we will miss an engagement in Bali which…"
"One day, Virgil. One day and I won't ask for anything else. But I've been following you around for close to five thousand years without question. Haven't I earned this much?"
"You couldn't have picked a worse time for this, Norman! If we do not reach Bali by precisely noon in two weeks, we will be too late to prevent the rise of a demon which will seriously endanger the course of world events prior to the appearance of the Mighty One!" Virgil started to pace.
"Somewhere in your master calendar you must have a day I can take off," Norman said stubbornly, maintaining a neutral exterior. Internally, he felt quite smug. If Virgil was pacing, it meant the Lemurian feared he was going to lose this argument. Norman didn't win many against the pint-sized fowl, and he loved savoring these small victories.
"No, there is not. However…"
"I'm waiting."
"Very well." Virgil stopped and met Norman's eyes, anger and a hint of arrogance flashing in his gaze. He unleashed his final gamble. "There is no opportunity for you to take time for yourself prior to the rise of the Chosen One, but after he has appeared, it is possible there may be a day, with his help, that I may be able to spare you."
"Now, wait a minute. You want me to take my day while serving as Guardian?"
"It is the only way. I cannot spare you until then." Virgil smiled in triumph. He was willing to wager that Norman would not go back on his sacred Oath to protect the Cap-Bearer, even to win this particular argument.
"Can you give me your word the Mighty One will suffer no harm if I agree?"
"Certainly," Virgil's sureness slipping away. Perhaps he had miscalculated. He had not actually expected the Guardian to call his bluff, but…
"Then I agree." Norman uncrossed his arms. It was deeply unsettling to know he would desert his duty at the time it was most needed, but he could not deny the need for the day he intended to take as well. Even one day away from Virgil, and spent on his own terms, would be worth the 200 years more he'd have to wait. Maybe in that time he'd figure out exactly why he needed it anyway.
-==OOO==-
Half an hour later, Norman felt extremely odd. Adrift. It was…distracting. As the Viking bid farewell to his friends, he experienced a sudden and intense impulse to follow, to stay with them, to not be left behind while his boy vanished into a portal. A small scuffle of unfamiliar discontent broke out somewhere above his stomach. Norman closed his eyes.
It was uncommonly strange to be without Virgil, Norman realized in the silence where he was accustomed to hearing his fowl-friend chatter. The two had been essentially inseparable for thousands of years; they shared living quarters and spent their days away from the Mighty One finding new and creative ways to get on each others' nerves. Of course, the Lemurian tried to be respectful of Norman's space and temper, but there came a time where three days of "respectful" silence was a bit much for both of them, even if the only interruption Virgil could think of was the discussion of the Cap-Bearer's destiny. Again.
That was another matter. Norman had been preparing himself to be the Guardian for Mighty Max for more lifetimes than he could count, yet today he wasn't. Of course, if anything happened to the boy when he was away, he would never forgive himself. And, obviously, he would extract painful revenge from whatever had dared threaten the Mighty One. But Virgil had assured him all morning on their way to meet the boy at the correct portal that today should be perfectly safe. Still and all, Guardianship was not a mantle he could simply remove at will; it was an oath he had sworn, a duty that was coiled around his very being, a calling that outweighed his very life. To pretend that such a thing was temporarily gone from him was proving quite difficult. However, that was exactly what he had requested 200 years prior.
But back to matters at hand. As Norman reopened his eyes and surveyed the area, he again asked himself why he had chosen this place. He had had the entire world to choose from. The Viking could have decided to return to his ancient stomping-grounds, perhaps to give homage to his departed father. He could have settled on any of the many battle-sites across the earth that held fond memories. He could have asked for a remote and desolate location to spend his day training. He could have been taken anywhere on the globe of his choosing.
Why, then, had he selected New York City?
It had been a gut reaction, a whim, an idea from the previous morning that had sounded better than any other option, so it was what he proclaimed when asked. The enormous man shook his head, already feeling a bit foolish for the whole situation. The endless noise and smog and flashing lights and assailing odors and the constant press of humanity were not really the type of ambiance the Viking generally preferred. But he had had his reasons for wanting this one day, and he had new reasons 200 years later, and he would see this quest through regardless. Norman had undertaken many adventures with less instigation; this would suffice for now.
With surprising grace, the timeless warrior began to wade through the sea of people, easily towering over everyone as he traversed the sidewalks of the Big Apple. The Mighty One's last gibe about a supposed secret love his Guardian held for musicals still ringing in his ears, Norman followed his feet into this day of unknowns, not sure what he would find, but intent upon seeking it.
-==OOO==-
After some amount of time wandering along the busier avenues of the city, the Guardian found himself in some relatively quieter neighborhoods. Not the plucky residences of the up-town crowd, nor the posh offices of those financial magnates, but rather a little out-of-the-way section of town that was humble at best. A dozen neon signs assaulted Norman's eyes with less-than-tempting offers for everything from cheese fries to antiques, but it was the small storefront squished between them all that caught his attention. Graced with a simple, non-electrical sign, the Viking found a small smile hovering at the corners of his mouth as he pushed open the door that said "Jim's Boxing/Karate School – Open."
The space inside was cleverly divided by high panels of mirrors and paper walls, turning one large open space into three: a boxing ring, a weight-lifting area, and a proper dojo. Young men and women in pads and gloves contended in the ring while onlookers cheered, jeered, and stretched. A few muscular individuals hefted weights while spotters encouraged their efforts and counted the reps. And in the surprisingly serene dojo just inches away, in spite of the noise and shouts that leaked from everywhere around them, several students practiced flawless technique in time with their sensei.
Norman felt a satisfied warmth spread through his chest as he moved among these modern warriors and men and women of strength. Yes, this was the place to begin.
"Hey, you!"
Norman turned to where a lean but confident man was moving away from the ring. At a glance, the Guardian knew he was not only looking at the proprietor himself, but also obviously a dedicated practitioner of each of the three arts he so obviously valued.
"You're new. And...you look pretty tough," Jim said, eyeing the enormous Viking. "I'd be willing to lay money you've seen your fair share of bouts. Interested in giving some of these kids a challenge?"
A few hours and many bruises later, the stories were making their way into the streets of the mountainous man who could best any boxer, out-lift any champ, defeat even the sensei with the skill of a master. But more than his success or his strength, the stories told of a man who taught what he knew with such clarity and confidence that everyone within the hearing learned and improved. He had defeated every challenger with grace and humility, and he had corrected every opponent until they could turn his own teachings against him. He shared every secret to his technique, though he spoke of little else, and his quiet approval felt like the highest praise. The man, who gave his name as Norman, did not stay long, however – saying he had other places to go – but his face and his words and his skill would not be forgotten.
-==OOO==-
New York City no longer felt so alien, although it was, in fact, as different from Norman's usual world as possible. Familiar though he was with cities, there was nothing on earth quite like this odd mix of people, this odd culture, this odd configuration of lives all stacked one on top of the next. But the hours spent at Jim's had restored much of Norman's inner serenity, so much so that he no longer questioned his choice in destinations. He could have stayed at Jim's for his entire day, but still the Guardian felt that his day was better spent on the move, drawing in everything. And this was perhaps the best place he could think of to find everything in one single day.
The hours passed quickly. Striding down a residential street in the late afternoon, Norman found himself rescuing a huge white furball of a cat from an untimely end under a speeding taxi, which he helpfully presented to a sobbing little girl. The girl's father, gratified that his daughter's beloved pet was safe and sound, had forced Norman to accept a gift in return, a gift that left Norman chuckling to himself in irony – a single ticket to a football game that very night between the New York Giants and the Minnesota Vikings.
But with a scenario like that, how could a giant Viking resist?
So the Guardian attended his first-ever NFL game and wound up on the building-sized television screen at halftime as the winner in a "fan of the game" contest. Of course, it helped that Norman looked the part of a Giants/Vikings fan, that he could yell loudly enough to be heard halfway to Staten Island, and that he became so enthused by the game that he simply began cheering for both teams – whichever was deserving of the attention at the time. A giant foam finger found its way onto his sword-hand, and his antics of roaring and waving it earned him a place of note in his section. Food and drink were provided by laughing and cheerful row-mates, and the game became almost a secondary attraction to this odd fan who would reply to a sack by yelling "villainous!" and a touchdown with "I eat footballs for breakfast!" It would be the most memorable game of a lifetime for many who witnessed his displays that day.
Though offered a number of invitations to various after-game parties, Norman turned them all down politely, instead vanishing into the growing night with the rest of the anonymous crowd. The streets were more interesting than any bar could be, for it was there that his path remained. It was there that the change between day and night could be felt. The previous hours had seemed to the Guardian charged with energy, sometimes frantic, sometimes downright rushed, sometimes purposeful, but always in motion, always teeming with more human force than an army.
But as nightfall descended over New York, the streets began to subtly take on other qualities as an undercurrent of danger began to grow over them like ivy on a wall. A pair of punk teenagers stripped a poor woman of her purse not ten yards from Norman as he walked, causing the Guardian to let out a challenging bellow and chase the duo, eventually forcing their surrender, returning the purse, and physically preventing them from causing any further harm until the police had been called. Later, a rag-tag gang busily "redecorating" the side of a building found themselves aided, though the words and language Norman added to their art were entirely unfamiliar. His rough script appeared to impress them, and they eagerly repeated his words several times in their own handiwork, in spite of the translation of the ancient language approximating, "This area requires better surveillance."
But leaving the shadier areas of the city for the boroughs that were stuffed with tightly-packed homes, another sense reigned over the chaos of the city at night. Through open or un-shuttered windows, Norman saw mothers singing to their children lullabies of possibilities and hope while the babes slipped to slumber. Old couples who had obviously made their way into their wrinkles together cuddled gently on ancient couches. Young men walked women to their doorsteps, seeing them safely inside before departing, lit from within more brightly than the streetlamps shone above. Children in upstairs rooms shrieked and played and feigned sleep while parents below smiled indulgently.
And as he had found in a dojo hours before, again Norman found warmth stealing through him. So much of what he spent his time doing, so much of what he saw outside of his home with Virgil and the portals he traveled by, was the worst the world could produce: evil masterminds, terrible inventions and perversions of nature, destruction and horror and chaos brought to the innocent. Here, in these stubbornly not-quiet streets, the Guardian found the best the world could offer: flowers of love and loyalty and hope against hope that even the craziest or most downtrodden life could be beautiful. It was a message he had learned long ago, but had failed to remind himself how powerful it was. How warm it felt to be, once again, a part of humanity.
-==OOO==-
The diner's bell overhead tinkled as Norman pushed the door open. Though city noises were ambient everywhere in the streets, this had been the only storefront still aglow with lights within several blocks. Behind a counter, a young woman smiled as she brewed a pot of tea, waving him to one of the stools nearby. In a corner, several men sat, arguing animatedly over city politics, their rough appearance belying the passion and insight of their conversation. Along the counter, four uniformed police officers sipped at large mugs of coffee, a plate of doughnuts shared between them. Norman smiled as he eased himself onto the tiny counter-stool and tried to look comfortable.
"What can I getchya?" the woman asked in a strong Brooklyn accent.
"Eggs," the Viking replied automatically, "and bacon."
"Toast?"
"No thanks."
"Comin' right up." Her blonde ponytail swishing, she pushed open a small door to what was obviously the kitchen and repeated his order to someone named "Sally." Then she refilled the coffee mugs of the cops, all of whom seemed to sigh with relief at the beverage, traded some barbs with the crew in the corner, and headed back to catch the kettle before the tea boiled over.
"So, Mojo, why'd you get into this?" she asked the youngest of the four officers, apparently their newest recruit.
"Serve and protect, you know," he shrugged. "All that jazz."
"Not to mention the nice pension," his partner joked.
Norman released a breath he'd been holding. Yes, he understood these people well. The debate in the corner – those secret scholars and rounded people so often forgotten in the lower walks of life. The hardworking waitress – a strong spirit using whatever work came to hand to survive in life. And the officers – those souls called to a battle not their own for the faceless masses who could not defend themselves. He'd seen them for thousands of years, and somehow he hadn't forgotten them, any of them, even if their faces and surroundings and topics changed. Humanity was humanity.
"Hey old soldier," one of the cops said, pushing the plate of doughnuts across to the Viking, "Have the rest. On us."
"What for?"
"You're off duty, right?" the lead officer asked knowingly. At Norman's curt nod, he smiled. "We know the look. Been a long beat?"
"Very long." Norman didn't bother to ask how they knew him as a "soldier" nor how they could tell he had a "beat," he knew these things were written into every fiber of himself. To those trained to look and watch and protect, to these modern guardians in their own right, the signs must be clear as day.
"Well, enjoy the downtime!" one of the other cops shouted as all four got to their feet, paid the waitress, and moved towards the exit before he could even thank them.
"Downtime, huh?" the Viking thought to himself. His eggs and bacon arrived and he tore into them with gusto, but his mind was completely elsewhere.
-==OOO==-
"May I ask exactly why you are so insistent on having a day away from us tomorrow?" Virgil had asked. "You've never really given me a reason."
"Not away from you. Just away." At the Lemurian's raised eyebrow, the Viking continued, "We've been running around for so long, we haven't really taken the time to see the effects of our battles. If we are going to fight for the survival of humanity, if we are to wage war against evil, we need to know who we are fighting for."
"Norman, I…" the fowl was struck by the sincerity in his companion's voice.
"I know we've done good, protecting the Mighty One. But when I asked you for a day 200 years ago, I needed more than that. I wanted to see what kind of world we've made, what's become of the people we protected. I need to know that everything we've done has been right."
"And if you find you do not agree with the world we have helped create?"
"Well, I'll still be the Guardian. But I've been alive a long time, Virgil. Ten-thousand years is a lot of lifetimes to make a difference. I don't know if we did nor not, but we haven't really lived in the last five-thousand, either. For one day, I'm going to be a person, a part of the people we fight for, and see what life looks like. And if I don't like it, then we'll have to see what we can do about it. Because I'm not going to waste the next ten-thousand years making a worse world for people. I promise you that."
-==OOO==-
The following noon found Norman sitting on the island that was home to the Statue of Liberty, dangling his still-wet feet above the water. He'd spent his night walking, even daring a few clubs and movie-houses, which mostly left him either confused or struggling to bottle his mirth. An all-you-can-eat breakfast at a sushi house (and Norman nearly emptied their fridge at what he considered to be a challenge to eat as much as he could), he had found himself in front of the Museum of Natural History. There, he had been even less able to contain himself at certain "exhibits" that were set up so incorrectly they bore no relation at all to actual past events. One poor curator had been asked to escort him out after his uproarious laughter had disturbed a class group studying primitive cultures, and Norman had fired off ten or fifteen points of clarity about the exhibit in question. The curator, an awkward young man probably finishing a PhD program, had alternately shaken his head at the crazy visitor and surreptitiously taken notes.
And so, having enjoyed the city sufficiently, the Viking had taken it upon himself to take a morning swim from Manhattan to Liberty Island, an invigorating albeit not-quite-challenging task, since this was the agreed-upon destination where Mighty Max and Virgil would appear to reclaim him. The lines for the Statue of Liberty were ridiculously long, but Norman had actually been present when the enormous gift had been assembled in the harbor generations prior, so he felt he had not missed much in failing to ascend it today.
"Michael, come back here!"
Norman turned in time to see a boy of about eight chasing a kite that had gone flying from his little grasp. Unaware of the sudden drop from the bank of the island to the bay, he stumbled forward, eyes on the little red kite. With one move, Norman was on his feet, the kite-string held firmly in his hands, the boy caught up before he dunked himself in the water below.
"Oh, thank you," an elderly woman with a slight British accent sighed, joining them shortly thereafter, breathing hard from chasing him. At her side, a girl of nine or ten stood, frowning at her brother. "I ain't as fast as I used to be."
"No problem," Norman replied, setting the boy down and handing him his kite. The delight in little Michael's face struck a chord in his heart – there was something so innocent and bright in that expression, so like an older boy he knew so well.
"Come on, Jane! Let's go!" he cried, tugging his sister with one hand as he began to run, the kite trailing behind him.
"Don't go too far!" the woman called, then turned to smile at the Viking. "And here I was hoping to feed the birds, but they're way too worked-up for that. Kids and their energy, what can you do?"
Unexpectedly, Norman felt himself grinning.
"Oh, I have a few ideas…"
-==OOO==-
Mighty Max burst out of the portal eagerly, landing nicely on his feet on the grass. Beside him, Virgil rapidly scanned the crowd on Liberty Island for their quarry.
"By my calculations, we shall find him…there!" the fowl pointed.
Max looked and felt his jaw go slack in surprise. He'd figured his Guardian would be doing one of two things. Either, he would be heavily engaged in some kind of battle, maybe saving the Statue of Liberty from terrorists, or he would be doing "the tourist thing" in full-force, complete with the funny hat and "I 3 NY" buttons.
Instead, his Guardian, the indomitable force of war-making, the best warrior on earth, was sitting beside an old woman and two absolutely exhausted-looking kids. Feeding the birds. And grinning.
"Hey big guy!" Max recovered, striding up. The Viking rose at his approach, handing the half-full sack of birdseed to the woman.
"Take care of them," he said, looking at the children.
"I will! Thanks for playing with us today," she replied happily; the boy and girl grinned tiredly at Norman, but they were obviously spent, and their kite looked like it had survived a war. Then she looked towards the Cap-Bearer. "That your boy?"
A charmed smile slid over Norman's face and he nodded. Max felt something in his stomach grow warm at being so claimed. The woman's face resolved into something knowing and she hustled the children under her care to their feet to head home. The trio stood quietly, each lost in their own thoughts.
"Well, your day is over, Norman," Virgil finally commented from the boy's elbow. "Are you ready to return to your duties?"
For one moment, the Guardian looked beyond those gathered near and instead turned his gaze back to the city before him. The sight was spectacular – the rising spires of humanity's ingenuity and technology and wealth. And yet he knew that, hidden within those streets, were older memories, warriors and families and scholars and innocents, living within the hum of this new age of man. The world, to an outsider, may have seemed meaner or more materialistic or impersonal than it had been a millennia prior, but it was also safer, wider, fuller somehow, stretched across distances and cultures and ideas until there was a corner for everything somewhere.
Norman turned to Virgil, his eyes seeking his friend's. In one moment, he somehow knew that the Lemurian understood exactly what he had been looking for, and what he had found. He nodded.
"Then we'd best be on our way. There is a portal this way that will lead us to Bali where…" Virgil said, turning and striding off. Norman waved once more to his new friends and fell into step beside Max, who looked up at him curiously, obviously not listening to the ancient fowl either.
"So, what'd you do?"
"Not much."
"What'd you see?"
"Whatever was there."
"Oh, come on, Normie! Didn't you do anything good?"
"Sure."
"Well, what, then?"
"Found out that not everything has changed. That the same things that made me fight ten-thousand years ago are still worth protecting." He looked down at his boy, seeing for the millionth time all those same reasons sitting square in Max's blue eyes. What he had found in New York was also right in front of him – here was something truly worth fighting for, worth protecting. Here was the result of his lifetime of battle, here and across countless lives in countless ways. His work had been worthwhile, and so it continued. The Cap-Bearer nodded in understanding, a warmth crowding its way into his smile. "I also had some fun."
"Are you sorry the day's up, then? When's your next vacation, in another ten-thousand years?"
"Something like that. And no. Not sorry at all. We've got work to do."
"Glad to have you back, big guy."