...nothing about this is normal. [ The powers, the living after being shot- because he'd been shot. Fatal wounds that were just patched up like it was nothing and sent on his way with a goal to save the multiverse planted before him. That's where his ambition, what scraps of it he's had left, has gone. Do the job.

Do it well.

Don't fuck up.

Everything else is...icing. And there's so much icing that he's surprised he doesn't have cavities every morning he wakes up to light steaming through his widows, when a potential argument or awkward moment makes the world a comfortably uncomfortable shade of real. It's not perfect. He doesn't need perfect. ]

It's...surreal. Guys that did the shit I did don't get surreal. We don't get second chances. And here I am with mine. I'm content with my miracle.