Disclaimer: The Incredibles, owned by Pixar. Aberrant, owned by White Wolf/Onyx publishing.

Author's Notes: Okay, not sure where this idea came from. Originally was going to redo "The Dicker Files" (which I still might), but I was watching "The Flash" again and I got this weird idea of doing a collection of drabbles that kind of delve into the background of various characters in my twisted 'verse and maybe give you some hints or clues about them. This will be updated sporadically when I get a weird idea about some of the characters.

Okay, you know the whole thing where some protagonist does the whole first person thing and introduces himself and what he does when he's telling his own story? I guess this would be it...my name is Jean-Paul Renard, also known as the nova Elite mercenary called "Bomber". Then again, you probably know me from my "Bomber's Bay" videos I put online all the time. I'm kind of famous, or infamous, depending on who you ask.

My father was Philippe Sebastian Renard, formerly known as Bomb Voyage.

Yes, that Bomb Voyage...nemesis to Mr. Incredible, freelance criminal, and, from what people have told me, a loving father and one hell of a poker player. At least that's what they tell me since I don't have much recollection of him since he and my mom died when I was three years old. According to the police reports, they say it was a gas explosion and I was the only survivor due to my powers kicking in. Personally, I think it's a bunch of bullshit because I don't think gas explosions come in the form of glowing electric blue arcs of energy dancing about before exploding...at least that's what I remember.

But we're getting off track here. You people want to know a little bit more about me, so here goes. Lets go back to my early years, shall we?

Sinclaire Military Academy

(Proudly training your children to become killers before they enlist)

Ten years ago…

Fifteen year old Jean-Paul Renard laughed maniacally as he drove Commandant Sinclaire's Humvee through the academy's front gates. "Fifteen points!"

Meanwhile, Nicholas DeYorke, Jean's classmate, best friend, and partner in crime, stood on top of the vehicle like a surfboard, flipping off the guards at the gate who dove for cover as he shouted, "FREEDOM!"

In his office, Commadant Martin Sinclaire frantically dialed a number on the phone sitting on his desk. A couple seconds later, his expression became more fearful when someone answered.

"Talk to me."

"Dicker, it's Martin. We have a problem."

There was a sigh on the other end of the line. "Okay, what did they do this time?"

"Aside from cripple a few of their upper classmen, blow up the swimming pool, trigger a bio-hazard alert in the chemistry class room, played frisbee golf with land mines on the gun-range, and stole my Humvee...not much," Sinclaire replied, not bothering to hide the irritation in his voice. "Dammit, Richard, I know I agreed to act as their keeper, but they're becoming a nightmare. One of them was bad enough, but the two of them together..."

Sinclaire shuddered as he remembered that fateful day when two six year old boys happened to meet each other outside his office. If he had only known…

There was an odd noise on the other end of the line. For a moment, Sinclaire could have sworn Dicker was stifling a chuckle. "I'm glad you find this amusing, Dicker," he snapped. "And you didn't tell me that Renard knew how to make complex explosives on his own."

There was a pause on the other end. "Damn," the NSA Director finally said, "I guess it runs in the family."

"Your agency owes my academy a new swimming pool, Dicker. And don't get me started on DeYorke, what he did to Senator McGrady's son was inexcusable."

"Is this the McGrady boy that leads a group of his fellow classmen in hazing the other cadets that usually ends up with some of the victims getting injured?"

"It's tradition Dicker, and I keep it under control," Sinclaire said. "I know Malcom McGrady is an obnoxious bastard, but he didn't deserve to be stripped down, duct-taped, and dropped in a patch of nettles overnight."

"And what about the other boys in McGrady's group?" Dicker asked.

"They were lucky this time," Sinclaire replied. "Mostly just a few scrapes and a couple broken bones. I still can't believe that a half dozen seventeen and eighteen year olds were beaten to a pulp and dropped in a dumpster." He paused again when another man in a military uniform knocked on the frame of his office door.

"Sorry to intrude, Colonel," the newcomer said. "But something's come up."

"What is it, Sergeant?"

"You might want to turn on the television and see for yourself, sir."

Panic resurfaced on Sinclaire's face as he grabbed the remote off his desk and turned on the television set that sat in a corner of his office. His face paled even further as he watched the scene unfold.

"My Humvee..." he whimpered softly.

"Martin, what's going on?" Dicker asked.

"Tune in to WFXT," Sinclaire answered weakly. "How the hell did they even manage to do that?" he asked as he turned up the volume to the television.

"As you can see from our aerial footage coming from our chopper, that really is a Humvee driving across the rooftop of Copley Place. We do not know how they managed that, but...oops...it has now fallen through the glass enclosure and is now driving through the shopping center's upper level. Unbelievable..."

Whoa, okay...before you get the wrong idea about me and Nick...well...about me at least, I just want to clarify that we were teenagers and that we were in our rebellious phase at that time.

Yeah...that's it...we were being rebellious...yep...definitely rebels. Trust me when I say that we were innocent little kids when we first started out.

Sinclaire Military Academy

(proudly turning your grade-school kids into sociopaths for the right price since the end of the Vietnam War)

Nineteen Years Ago

Two six year old boys, one with black hair and one with brown, sat outside the commandant's office. The black haired boy calmly leaned back in his chair and counted the ceiling tiles. He really didn't understand why he was in trouble. After all, it was that McGrady kid's fault for picking on what he thought was lowly first grader. The boy grinned as he remembered beating the fourth grader with his own lacrosse stick after taking it from him.

The brown haired boy drummed his fingers on the armrests of his own chair before looking over at the black haired kid. "Hey," he said in greeting.

The black haired kid looked in his direction and nodded. "Hey," he said back.

"I'm Nick," the brown haired boy said. "My full name is Nicholas DeYork, but Nick works."

"Jean-Paul Renard," the black haired boy said.

"Cool name," Nick said. "Sounds like a pirate name. So...Jean, you new here?"

"Yeah."

"So what did ya' do?"

"I beat up a fourth grader named McGrady."

Nick's eyes widened. "Oh, you're THAT kid!" He then got up out of his chair and sat down in the one next to Jean. "A newbie and you beat the shit out of McGrady. I was going to do something else, but you beat me to it."

"And what were you gonna' do?" Jean asked.

"Not much," Nick replied. "I was just going to wait until a few hours after lights out, grab a baseball bat, and then sneak into his room and go to work on his legs."

Jean smiled at that. "Awesome." Then he looked around for a moment before speaking in a much softer tone so they couldn't be overheard. "So, Nick, wanna' go blow something up later?"

Okay, okay, maybe weren't innocent kids back then either. But c'mon, what did you expect? I mean, I was the son of a deceased super-villain who was taken in by some of Dad's former French Legionnaire buddies and they taught me a few things before they dropped me off at the academy.

As for Nick...well...Nick was just crazy, but hey...those are best kind of friends to have, right?