Mirage sat numbly on the plush chair across from Robert Parr, either incapable of or unwilling to enjoy its comfort. The dusky skinned woman looked much as she did two years ago on Nomanisan Island: beautiful and elegant, but the allure was gone.
As the herald of Syndrome, Mirage had gone about her job with grace and passion, drawing a then-retired Mr. Incredible back to the nostalgic world he longed for. The woman whom sat here in the Parr's lounge was cold and closed-off. What was once a lush, dew-kissed rose had withered in a long winter, now more thorn than petal. Bob wondered how much of the women he met then, compared to now, was the real Mirage? How much was an illusion erected to further some hidden goal?
A rustle of fabric, the creak of floorboards. Helen Parr stood to the side, a stern and mute figure of authority, her face in patterned shadows cast by an artful lampshade. It was the sort of good cop/bad cop routine they often employed on their children.
Bob knew what thoughts were on his wife's mind. Though he had been caught in Mirage's web at the time, there was never any consideration of infidelity. He loved Helen as much as he did when he first met her as a fellow Super, Elastigirl. Bob had made his case and was excused of any perceived infraction on their marital vows. Nevertheless, the same instincts that alerted Mr. Incredible to impending danger now told Bob it would be a fine line to tread.
"Thank you for allowing me into your home," Mirage began, relieving Bob of the need to fumble for a tactful segue from the tense and formal introductions. "I have no right to call on you this way, so please believe me when I say that I would not bring my troubles to you if there was any other option available to me."
"We're just happy to see you well," Bob replied. He could feel the daggers of Helen's gaze on him as clearly as if her arms had stretched across the room. "That is to say-we expected the rest of Syndrome's operation were picked up by the Feds," he charged ahead clumsily, "but we're grateful for your help in stopping his scheme."
The woman gave a tiny smile, avoiding eye contact. "You're very kind, Robert-Mr. Parr," she added hastily, as if noticing the specter of his wife for the first time. "I know I deserve to be behind bars for my part in that scheme."
"Don't be too hard on yourself about it. You wouldn't be the first person manipulated by a super-villain."
"I hope you don't think of me as an innocent dupe," Mirage countered. "I escorted many Supers to their deaths, without remorse. They were talented and capable warriors in a dangerous line of work. That was all the justification I needed-though, the paycheck didn't hurt."
"It was a job you performed well," Helen interjected. "The NSA still hasn't recovered the remains of all the murdered Supers."
Bob could not disagree, although he had long since taken the burden of blame onto himself for driving a misguided young Buddy Pine to become the monstrous Syndrome.
Mirage, to her credit, did not wilt under Helen's scorn.
"You would be entirely within your rights to turn me over to your government," she said evenly. "I understand that. However, the situation that brings me to you is dire, so I hope you understand why I cut the communications line that would have conveyed your warning signal to the NSA upon my arrival."
Helen's body stiffened, if that were possible. Like his wife, Bob's first thought was to their three children-who had been told to go to bed and were instead likely hiding out of sight so as to listen in on the adults. But the seasoned hero suspected no threat in Mirage's statement, felt no 'impending danger', and raised a thick hand to forestall Helen's outburst.
"You said you had a problem and needed help. Maybe you should start with that."
Mirage sighed and the steel went out of her voice. "No, I should start at the beginning. I owe you that much.
"I go by the name 'Mirage' and have used others in the past because I have none of my own. I don't know where I was born exactly, but I grew up in Eastern Europe as an orphan among a people of mixed blood. We were nomads that no nation wished to harbor for long. My only relation was an equally anonymous older brother. None of our fellow gypsies ever addressed us with compassion or respect, our presence tolerated only out of the indifferent acceptance of another human rat in the same desperate circumstances. So he was 'Brother' and I was 'Sister'. All we had was each other, but it was more than most, so I was happy for it.
"And then came war, the ethnic cleansings. Human history is a story of strife that isn't uncommon for people like us to suffer through. My brother wanted to fight, to make a home for us, a place we couldn't be driven out of. But not with a little sister hanging on his coattails, so he sent me away."
At this, Mirage's voice cracked and her tale ground to a halt. She inhaled sharply as the bitter memories stung like an old wound.
Bob shared a glance with Helen, seeing that a pang of sympathy had softened his wife's expression. They were both experienced professionals and knew enough to guard against the possibility of deception. It was maddening to think that the woman bearing her soul before them might be setting up a whole new trap.
Mirage folded and smoothed the scarf on her lap, composing herself. When her vulpine eyes finally met Bob's, he saw they were slightly bloodshot, evidence of many late nights-or much time spent crying. As she resumed her account, he reminded himself to stay impartial.
"There was an institution in France that welcomed orphaned refugees. I won't describe to you what it was like in that place, but suffice it to say, I didn't stay long. I tried to go back, but it was impossible for a single young girl to penetrate the war zone. So I went the other way. I stole my way across the continent, learning languages and trades, eventually coming to America. Along the way, I found people who valued information and expertise over the purity of blood-whatever that means."
"You found Syndrome," Bob said.
"He found me," Mirage corrected. "Syndrome was already a successful inventor and arms dealer. What he needed was someone reliable, skilled in espionage. And I needed a job. But I never gave up on finding my brother. As Syndrome's attaché, I was able to gather the sort of contacts that a lone woman in a man's business couldn't get herself."
Helen crossed the room and sat on the arm of Bob's chair, a gesture of peace if he ever saw one. "The help you need isn't for yourself. It's for your brother," she reasoned.
"That's right," answered Mirage, her relief visible and-seemingly-genuine. "Over the years, the war ebbed and flowed, never really settling. There was no news of my brother. I feared he was just another fallen pawn of some loudmouthed revolutionary. Then I heard about Project Pantheon."
"That sounds vaguely ominous," Bob quipped.
"We're now getting into a world you're more accustomed to," Mirage agreed. "The people behind Project Pantheon may not be Super, but they are no less villainous then any criminal you've apprehended. And they share an appreciation for the theatrical.
"As you know, Syndrome was just one player on the world stage of businessmen, politicians, and mercenaries. He had many buyers and many competitors as well. I wish I could be more specific, but after you toppled Syndrome's empire-let's say the value of my stock plummeted. I had to twist a few arms to find out even this little: someone is trying to manufacture Supers."
"Isn't that what Syndrome intended to do?" Bob blurted out. "Sell his inventions so anyone with enough money could fly around, wrecking havoc?"
Mirage shook her head. "The idea tickled him, yes, but that's not what I mean. Those were tools which can fail, can break. Pantheon is about manipulating people on the genetic level," she finished, clipping the final words short, her disgust apparent.
"You can't just make a normal person Super," denied Helen. "The government invested millions researching the cause of our powers."
"I've read the reports. Certain genetic markers were found to be common among those Supers who participated in the study, but there was no discernible pattern, so the results were deemed inconclusive."
"Whoa! Now you've lost me," interrupted Bob. "I was part of that study and Rick Dicker told me they couldn't find anything. If not for kids like ours, we wouldn't even know it could be passed on."
"It is true that there's no singular cause for the manifestation of super-powers," Mirage explained. "It seems to be genetic, but it's not the same as inheriting blue eyes or blond hair. Rather, it seems that key combinations of genes unlock different powers. Imagine playing roulette with two wheels, but each wheel has a thousand different numbers and colors. You can bet a color on one and a number on the other, but the odds of hitting it just right are astronomical. In the case of your children, both their parents are Super. To extend the metaphor, they are playing with significantly smaller wheels."
"That doesn't explain why your brother would be involved in this Project Pantheon," Helen pointed out. "He doesn't sound like he would have been a scientist or technician..." She trailed off, coming to a horrified conclusion.
"No," Mirage affirmed with a scowl. "He's a test subject."
"It's because of his blood," said Bob, catching on.
"People like us-genetic mongrels-draw from a wider sampling than the average person from any particular region. From here, I can only assume the people behind Project Pantheon tested my brother and found a higher tolerance for the gene therapy, a higher probability of success."
"And you have proof?"
"Photos taken at various stages of his 'development'. You'd know him too, there's a family resemblance." Mirage passed a slender hand over her brow; it shook. "He is one of four individuals that I can confirm as part of Pantheon. They will all be turned into human weapons. Now that Supers are making a comeback, a programmable enforcer that can go toe-to-toe with the likes of The Incredibles would fetch a fine price. I cannot abandon my brother to such a fate."
"There's just one problem," Helen cut in again. "We're registered with the NSA. There are allowances for acting on behalf of innocents in case of emergency, but we don't have any crime-fighting jurisdiction outside of America. Infiltrating a clandestine operation in a foreign country would be out of the question. And I have a feeling you don't want federal involvement."
"You're right," Mirage admitted. "But in any case, it won't be necessary. The first generation of Pantheon Supers are active. They're already here."