Disclaimer: I am in no way affiliated with Disney or Pixar- The Incredibles and all of its characters, locations, etc. are trademarks of them. All rights reserved. In short, I'm not getting money for writing this.
Author's note: This story just came to me on a whim; I'm not sure whether I'll be adding new parts to this or not. Whatever- here it is, my first Incredibles fic. Hope you enjoy (because neglected heroes like Gamma Jack just need more attention).
"Flame Test"
It first happened to me when I was as young as the little boy that lives a few houses down from you- you know; the one that spends his mornings indulging in action cartoons and his days wheeling around on his shiny new tricycle. It was that age where one is still small enough for old dumpy friends of your mother to coo over just how adorable you were and to pinch your cheeks mercilessly until you feel like screaming. It is also the age where one is not quite so smart as he would like to be. I had gone to brush my teeth in the bathroom when the door jammed, resulting in the mutual childhood claustrophobia to come kicking to life. Shrieking in panic, squeezing my eyes shut, I very near missed the moment when the bathroom door came smoldering down before me.
Keep in mind my age at this point in my life and you will understand why by the time my mother discovered the charred, solitary doorframe, the whole event had been dismissed from my mind.
Years passed. I grew. My parents became aware of my unnatural abilities; I could hear them murmuring urgently in low voices when I was in bed, could see the wariness on their expressions whenever they stooped to hold me. They did not know what they should do for me. Of course in reality I needed virtually nothing, but they were parents, you see. Worry and the constant feeling of inadequacy are commonplace when caring for a loved one. I am very aware of that feeling now. But at that time- no bother. My life consisted of nothing but schoolwork and the playful scorching of Barbies, much to my baby sister's distaste.
Keeping my- condition, they called it- a secret from the outside world was no simple task. In my youth, I had been constantly supervised and monitored most every place I went to make sure that nothing would come blazing down around me. Now, my parents were not the type to senselessly lock a child up in the house, but they weren't stupid either. My father, a large, stern, broad-rimmed spectacle wearing figure of a man who hailed from southern France, dutifully explored any and all relations to my "deformity". I am still not completely sure how it was done, but one day father brought home the man who is today one of the most important in my career; Richard Dicker; NSA agent.
What I remember most about that occasion is Mr. Dicker's nose. It was, and still is, unusually large, placed precisely onto the centre of his face as though with meticulous care. I wondered what it would be like to pull on it. I still do today.
"So you're John Russell, aren't you?" he said, not seeming to mind the fact that I was smeared with a generous helping of dust, my auburn hair unkempt, having just come inside from a romp with old buddies in the football field. I was grateful to him and therefore decided against pointing out that I preferred the name 'Jack'. "Yessir."
"My name is Mr. Dicker," he told me calmly, as is his way. Simultaneously, his hand drew from his pocket a crumpled pack of Kleenex tissues. Shaking one free, he held it in before my eyes. "Alright then, John. When I throw this tissue in the air, I want you to do to it something that no one else you know can do." I found that command to be fairly simple enough, far simpler that long division or the spelling of 'precariously', or whatever else they made us do in my fifth grade class. I was aware of the familiar burning behind my eyes as I sent the tissue flaming through the air.
I later learned that the 'Kleenex tissue test' was not a rare commodity in Mr. Dicker's line of work. Frozone told me that the hunk of frozen tissue he had created had immediately bounced off of Richard's foot; Blazestone's had disintegrated too quickly for Mr. Dicker to truly catch; and Mr. Incredible had simply plucked the Kleenex from the air and, in one hand, had crumpled it into nothingness.
Back to me. Mr. Dicker nodded, stamped out the smoldering patch on the wine-colored carpet. "Thank you John. That will be all."
I left, baffled, but soon forgot about the entire ordeal.
However, it was just as well that I was introduced to Richard Dicker, for when I was nearing twelve years of age, my father died of an unexpected heart attack. My mother, a slim, cultured woman, pretty but nervous, was devastated beyond all hope. She followed not long after. The NSA, National Superhero Agency, immediately took custody of what remained of my family.
What else can be said? The following years passed with sufficient normalcy. Grief was eventually suppressed and some semblance of happiness returned to the household. A worker would come from the Agency at roughly 5:30 pm every day and stay with us until we were asleep, always bringing with them dinner, plus lunch for the following day. Eventually I taught myself how to cook and the latter was no longer needed. In school, I joined the football team to keep my mind off of things. Although I was visibly slighter that one would expect a football player to be, I had speed which was found beneficial. It would serve me later on during hero work, but we aren't quite at that point in my life just yet. I remember after one unfair loss, I had been as surprised as anyone when the opposing team's goalpost burst into flame. I had worked on my self-control since that occasion. Unbeknownst to me, I had unconsciously started a little something called training.
All of the preceding is and was background. Does it have anything to do with what I am today? Perhaps. Nothing in life is for certain, as I have always been told. I am well into nineteen years old now, have graduated with flying colors, and am planning on attending a university sometime soon when I am sure that my younger sister can fend for herself. I began my hero career slowly, subtly at first. Even I wasn't sure where I was going with the whole thing. But it made me happy and the people seemed appreciative as well. Initially I heard myself being fondly discussed in the streets as "Handsome Jack" after I had accidentally let my first name slip. I've absolutely no clue where and why the name arose. Apogee said it was due to the ladies "liking what they saw". I'm not completely sure if she was joking or not. I honestly see nothing exceptional about my appearance- except my teeth? I guess I do have nice teeth. Whatever; I won't be untruthful and say that I don't secretly bask in the attention. When it all boils down to it, I guess I'm just a little man-whore.
My sister, Janie Russell, is blissfully unaware of the life I lead. She was very young when our parents died and was never fully aware of my powers. As a child, when her Barbies were burnt, she had assumed that I had used the stove. Even when the NSA was caring for us, her understanding was that the agents had been old friends of our father. Making an outfit for myself was torture, as it were. I was constantly stashing the work in progress away in a panic whenever I heard her footsteps outside my door, knowing that she could burst unabashedly into my room, as she was in the habit of doing. As a result, the completed costume came out looking like a dying animal. I won't lie and say that it had nothing to do with my sewing either. Friends tell me that they would risk arm and leg for a bite of my cooking, but I can't sew for my life.
Mr. Dicker received word of my predicament and informed me of a professional costume designer by the name of Edna Mode. I was elated to find that almost every other super got their outfit custom-made by her. Relieved to find that she did not charge a penny for her work. A tad bit freaked out by her strange, to say the least, manner (upon meeting me, the little lady asked which arm I would like surgically removed and replaced with a custom-made laser gun), but hang all of that. Edna Mode proved to be a godsend.
The resulting costume was almost perfect, almost everything I could have every asked for. The only problem I found with it is somewhat uncomfortable to discuss. You'll probably laugh at me, but here it is- my crotch region. Keep in mind that the whole thing is fairly tight on my body- thank the heavens it is made of a thick, sturdy material. Still, the lower area of my body did appear rather unseemly. It was here that I recalled old pictures of certain superheroes wearing what seemed to be underwear for what I determined to be an answer to my very problem. Of course, I'd die before asking Edna to fashion a pair of special "hero undies", so I settled for simply purchasing a pair of black briefs from the local department store. Thankfully, the whole get-up appears very normal, and thus far I have found little to no evidence that anyone particularly notices or cares about the overall strangeness.
Author's notes: Okay, there it is. Wheee. Sorry if anyone disagrees with any of this, but this is my interpretation of Gamma Jack- the tone is meant to be confident, but loosely detached. I had fun writing this. Feel free to drop a comment- I absolutely love getting feedback from readers. Oh yeah, and the part about nice teeth… in case you were wondering, it is indeed a nod toward The Princess Bride. I love that book, ha-ha.