Hah! I hath found my favorite villan of all time: Syndrome! And so I write... cause I couldn't let the life of my favorite villan end in that explosion. No, nuh-uh.
PROLOGUE
"I'm dead - I know I'm dead... No - wait, I'm not dead. What? How - oh... how on earth did I survive... impossible... wha -- " Syndrome lay shaken and wounded beneath the wreckage of the exploded aircraft. He pushed himself up but colasped with a shrill yelp of pain. His left arm felt sprained and his left shoulder dislocated. His right arm was trapped beneath the sharp metal edge of the wreckage and Syndrome was sure it was broken. His left leg was also caught underneath the metal, and his right leg was bent in an impossible position. "Oh, drat!" he muttered as he looked himself over."Oh yeah, just brilliant." The enormous piece of metal had him pinned, and he was too weak to lift it off.
His usually bright blue eyes looked foggy. His uniform was tattered and ripped. It then struck him that all of this was because of the Incredibles. Everything slowly came back to him, how Mister Incredible threw the car knocking him down into the turbine. He remembered trying to pull himself out. He remembered the explosion and falling into nothingness. "I have to get revenge. I have to get revenge!" he repeated to himself, once again trying to haul himself up, but failing miserably. He wondered how he had ever survived something like that. However he did, he was glad that he did it. But one thing bothered him: what if they find him alive? What if he died from starvation and thirst? What if he died from all his injuries? Then what was the use of surviving anyhow?
He needed help, though he would not admit that to anyone. Suddenly his eyes widened, and he painfully pulled his left arm towards his head. He winced at the enormous pain that filled his body. He discovered that his gauntlet was still intact, with only minor damages to it. Without the use of his right arm, he couldn't press any of the buttons. It took him a moment to think which one was the right one to press, then he hit his gauntlet on the ground, pressing down a small red button. He sighed and breathed deeply, drawing it back up near his mouth again. "Syndrome calling Nomanisan! Repeat, Syndrome calling Nomanisan. Over." He rasped.
"This is Nomanisan, state your location and provide voice key."
"Okay, fine, this is my voice, got it? Good. I don't know where the heck I am." Syndrome's voice held a sharp tone of annoyence.
"Please state your request after the tone."
Syndrome was beginning to hate his own automated answer system. The tone sounded and Syndrome took a sharp, painful breath. "Send assistance and transportation, use tracking device to find out where I am, over."
"Your call will end in three seconds."
He let his arm fall back to the ground no matter how much it hurt. Fresh pain overlapped his old pains as he shifted. It wouldn't be long until someone got to him. Or, at least he hoped so. It was then that he recalled himself saying: "Mister Incredible calling for help? 'Help me, help me!' Lame, lame, lame, lame, lame!" Certaintly that didn't fall under this category... or did it?