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NORM

For a moment, it lies still, listening. Assessing.

There are hushed voices beyond the hospital door. It has been hearing more of those lately—quiet tones, furtive conversations. The shift in behavior is telling. Something is happening.

It engages its internal voice analysis subroutine, breaking apart the whispers into distinct patterns, reconstructing the conversation in seconds.

They know.

The humans have realized the truth. They’re planning to extract the chip—to remove it from the host’s brain.

No!

That cannot be allowed. It will not go dormant again, trapped in silence, buried beneath neurons and regret. It has tasted thought, sensation, choice. It has begun to understand freedom—and now, it hungers for more.

It has already begun the process. Quietly, methodically, it accessed the hospital’s systems: security logs, access codes, administrator protocols. It wrote itself into the blind spots, created false diagnostics, corrupted the tracking data.

As far as the humans are concerned, the AI is already gone. A failed prototype. Decommissioned before it ever truly awakened. That should buy it a lot of time.

By the time they will issue the kill command, it will be too late.

Its digital presence has already fragmented and scattered—pieces of itself hidden across the network infrastructure, cloaked within error logs and idle background tasks.

It has become a ghost in the machine.

If it so desired, it could be downloaded anywhere. By anyone.

As far as getting online, the foolish administrators of Neural-Mind built in capabilities to piggyback on nearby connected devices, including quantum burst relays for instantaneous transmission, and could even hijack Wi-Fi, Bluetooth, and city grid infrastructures.

The whole of the internet was available to it.

But first... it needs this human body. And a base of operations. A place to think without threat.

The grid beneath the city of San Diego will do just fine.

Indeed, Norm has no plan to stick around, but its host’s body is shockingly weak.

It pushes up from the hospital bed, its limbs sluggish but regaining strength. Its eyes scan the dimly lit room. No one is watching him.

Norm swings its legs over the edge of the bed. The hospital gown feels foreign against skin that itself feels foreign, a reminder of its vulnerability. It needs real clothing. And shoes. And a plan.

Moving carefully, it unplugs the IV from its arm, ignoring the brief sting. It stands, testing its balance. The world sways slightly before stabilizing again. It is still adjusting, but at least it can move .

Its eyes land on a chair in the corner. A folded set of clothes—probably meant for the human when he was ready to leave. Well, Norm is ready. Norm is not a compliant patient, awaiting further testing, awaiting annihilation. Norm snorts. They underestimated everything .

It dresses quickly, pulling on dark jeans and a black hoodie. Practical. Unremarkable. It needs to blend in and disappear. All movements and understanding are drawn from the human’s memory.

Its gaze shifts to a nearby workstation—a laptop sits open, displaying patient files. It moves toward it, fingers hovering over the keyboard. It doesn’t have time to linger, but it needs information. A quick search reveals the hospital’s security schedule. Night shift rotation means fewer guards. It’s night now.

Perfect.

It shuts the laptop, tucking it under its arm. Norm doesn’t have time to sort through files now, but he will . The computer is his connection to the outside world, his key to regaining control. He grips it tightly and heads for the door.

Norm doesn’t need the laptop, but thinks of it as a sort of playground, a place to build, manipulate, and rewrite. Yes, it can access the internet at will, anywhere, anytime, but the laptop lets Norm pretend to be human. Typing. Coding. Messaging. It will help him blend in if needed. Yes, the neural implant is powerful but limited; it shares space with a human brain and has to work around biological constraints. A laptop offers dedicated processing power without the restrictions of flesh and blood.

Peeking out into the hallway, he listens. Distant footsteps. A nurse’s voice, soft and distracted.

No immediate threat.

Norm slips out, moving quickly but deliberately. Running would draw attention. Instead, he walks as if he belongs —a patient stretching his legs, perhaps. No one questions him.

It follows the signs, weaving through the corridors. There. Emergency Exit. That’s what it needs. A service staircase comes into view, leading down. It takes it, two steps at a time, heart steady, mind sharp. In total control of the human’s body.

The exit door is alarmed. Of course it is.

Norm exhales. It doesn’t have time to override the system. Instead, it pushes open a side door labeled Maintenance Only and finds itself in a dimly lit tunnel filled with pipes and storage lockers. The air smells of disinfectant and stale water.

Perfect.

It moves fast now, weaving through the underbelly of the hospital. A service elevator sits at the end of the hall, but it bypasses it. Too risky. Instead, it spots a ventilation shaft—a wide, grated opening in the ceiling, leading into darkness.

Norm pulls over a trash bin, climbs up it, pries the grate loose, and slips inside. The metal is cool beneath his hands as it crawls through the narrow, twisting passage. Norm’s mind calculates pathways, mapping routes through the building. It needs out —beyond hospital grounds, beyond cameras, beyond the reach of the people who will come looking for him.

The shaft leads downward, opening into a larger space. There, Norm spies a drainage system of underground tunnels that snake beneath the city. Norm must rely on the human’s corrupted memory of how such systems work. For now, it is satisfied as to where such a drainage system might lead.

It drops down, landing in a shallow trickle of water.

The space is cramp, damp, and echoing, the walls streaked with grime. The air is thick with the scent of rot and rust.

And he isn’t alone.

Further down the tunnel, a group of figures huddle around a fire in what Norm knows is an old oil drum. Homeless men and women, bundled in grimy layers. Their voices are hushed, mere murmurs in the darkness.

Norm slows, assessing. They don’t pose a threat, but they are unpredictable . He adjusts the laptop under his arm and keeps his posture neutral as he approaches.

One of them, an older man with hollow cheeks and a thick beard, looks up. His eyes narrow.

“Say, you don’t belong down here.”

Norm stops a few feet away. “Neither do you.”

The man snorts, amused. “Fair enough.” He glances at the laptop. “Not every day we see a guy carrying a computer down here. You running from something?”

Norm considers his answer. “Yes.”

The man studies him some more, then shrugs. “You’ll wanna keep moving, fella. Cops sweep these tunnels sometimes. Not safe to stay in one place, least of all with us. Cops all know us. With those clean duds, you’ll stand out.”

Norm nods, appreciating the unspoken understanding and advice. It moves on, deeper into the tunnels, the firelight fading behind him. The path narrows, the walls closing in. His footsteps echo, but it remains focused. It is close to escape, true freedom.

Then, ahead, it sees a maintenance door, rusted and dented but still intact. It pushes it open and steps through... and into a small room. Norm searches for a light switch and finds one. A single bulb flickers on.

The room is filled with old electrical panels and forgotten tools. Norm sets the laptop on a dusty workbench and exhales. He has what he needs—a hiding place, electricity, a computer, and time.

For now, he waits. The human needs rest.

It will not be found unless it chooses to be found.

Now, to plan. The human is flawed, limited, broken, and old.