Right, here we go then -first a little DISCLAIMER: I don't own the Incredibles (mores the pity), so all the credit goes to Pixar... and the other one...

I wrote this out of the overwhelming desire to have ME in the Incredibles universe. Mr. and Master Worthy both have parts of my character, but I'll leave you to figure out what parts as the story goes on. Anyhoo, I am English, so I don't really know anything much about American schools. An email about this would be helpful. Finally, I have never written a hero fic before... ever. WWI, WWII, Battletech, Modern Warfare, general wars... so, yeah, you can expect some warring in this fic.

Enjoy, chaps and chappettes!

Mayday-mayday! Flight leader, I'm going down!

A burst of flame to one side caused the pilots head to turn. A spread of cannon shells had ripped into the wing, blowing the superstructure apart.

Get him off me! Come on, lads!

He glanced behind him, the German Messerschmit was still glued to his six and continued to fire on his crippled plane.

Flame out! I'm bailing, have to bail!

His own words echoed inside his head ethereally. The world outside slowed down as he forced the cockpit open and leapt from the stricken aircraft.

Behind him the Hurricane tumbled away out of control before exploding violently as it's fuel ignited.

He checked his wrist altimeter.

Falling, still falling… wait for it… PULL!

He wrenched on the ripcord but nothing happened. He tried again and again but the chute wouldn't deploy. He screamed in terror as the ground rushed to meet him. Faster, faster, still faster it came. At the last moment he closed his eyes…

'Oh my!' Christopher Edward Worthy sat up with a start and looked around. His office formed around him and the dream faded, as it had done many times before.

Fernton Field Research Complex,

East Anglia,

England, 26/11/1975

Running his hands through sweat soaked hair, Chris looked at the picture of his father sitting serenely on the desk. The photo was old, sepia, and showed the RAF pilot in his goggles and flying helmet. Sighing, Chris picked up the picture and slipped it into a draw, alongside a pair of ancient goggles and some folded orange cloth. 'I've gotta get rid of that picture.' He surmised, draining the last of his cold coffee.

His intercom buzzed. 'Mr. Worthy?'

'Yes Gladys?'

'Your father on line two. Careful, the signal isn't very good.'

Chris groaned. 'Thanks, I'll talk to him.'

He picked up the phone and coughed. 'Daddy, you rang?'

His father's voice sounded distant on the distorted line. 'Yes, just wondered when you were leaving, to say goodbye.'

'In a couple of hours, I've got a presentation of the plasma engine for the company CEO and then I'll be off.' He waited for a moment, listening. 'Dad, where are you? Is that rushing wind in the background?'

'Yes, yes it is! I thought I'd take lunch on the top of Everest today before I leave for Tokyo.'

Chris frowned. 'Dad, I've told you before. You aren't as young as you used to be, and I don't like all that rarefied air. It's bad for you.'

'Blazing Blenheims, Chris, you don't let me do anything fun anymore!'

'Look,' Chris rubbed his eyes, 'I think this round-the-world trip is a great way for you to get out, but can't you have fun, I don't know, at a lower altitude?'

His dad chuckled. 'I'll see what I can do. Look, I'll give you a buzz when I get to Japan, I'd best get off this hilltop. I have the number of that place in the US so don't worry about me not calling. Love you, son.'

'I love you too dad.' He was about to hang up when he remembered something: 'No more mountains!'

The phone line went dead and Chris replaced the receiver, only to be disturbed by the intercom again.

He stabbed at the button. 'Gladys!?'

'Sir, Miss Mirage is here to view the demonstration.'

Chris let his head drop to the desk with a thunk. 'I'll be right there.' He mumbled.

'Ah, Mr. Worthy. I think it's time I saw what the company's money has been pumped into.'

Chris tried to smile and walked up to the observation window, dumping his blueprints and other documents onto a table.

'I think you'll be pleasantly surprised, Miss Mirage.' Chris picked up a sheet and passed it to the slender, white haired woman. 'As you know, we've been working on an operating, practical Variable Specific Impulse Magnetoplasma Rocket, or VASIMR.' He indicated to what appeared to be an aeroplane in the hangar below, but it looked like nothing Mirage had ever seen before. The plane faced an open hangar door leading out onto a stretch of runway; technicians busied themselves with helping a pilot into the tiny cockpit

'Now, uh, VASIMR is actually a precursor to true fusion propulsion, but we really have learnt an awful lot from this type of rocket. It works by creates plasma under exceedingly hot conditions and expels it as exhaust, providing thrust. Quite a bally lot of it, actually.'

Mirage smirked and took a seat in one of the swivel chairs mounted in front of the window. Her bodyguard, a man known to Chris as "Mr. Incredible" – or something like that – stayed put, eyes fixed on the nervous engineer.

'So, the VASIMR is actually formed by three basic cells. The forward cell contains the propellant hydrogen gas. In here it is ionised and turned into plasma. The middle cell uses electromagnetic energy to further agitate the plasma – like a potato in microwave.' Incredible licked his lips. 'Finally, the aft cell uses a powerful magnetic field to shape the expelled plasma into something like jet exhaust.' Chris paused for effect then ploughed on. 'The plasma is just over one hundred thousand degrees Celsius when it leaves the magnetic nozzle, and would most likely destroy anything it touches. Well, everything except for the blast shield we will be using.'

'Enough science,' Mirage said, 'will it work?'

'Will it work? Will it work, she says… of course it will work…' Chris turned to face the window. 'It's whether or not we'll be alive when the test finishes that I'm concerned about.' He muttered.

Chris spoke into his mike and the amplified voice bounced around the control room and hangar floor. 'Henson, are you ready to fly this beast?'

The pilot raised his hand with the "OK" gesture and a tinny voice played on the tannoy. 'Ready when you are, sir.'

'Alright.' Chris crossed himself. 'Control room – engage hydrogen injectors, begin charging plasma reactor…'

Wisbech Grammar School,

Wisbech, Cambridge,

England, 26/11/1975

The lunchtime bell rang through the old school buildings and students began moving from their classes and onto the school fields.

Nicholas Worthy opened his bag and tipped his entire locker's contents into it, clearing the small cubicle for the last time. He closed it slowly and jangled the keys before pocketing them; he didn't feel like returning them anymore. 'Ah well, I've had a good run.'

He started walking down the corridor when his friend called from behind him. 'Hi, Nick! Fancy one last game of rugger for 'ole times sake?'

Nick smiled and turned. 'Sure, Ali, I'll be on the pitch in a minute, just gonna grab some lunch.'

SLAM!

The corridor went silent as a head connected sharply with a locker door.

'Please, Ben, I didn't mean to… my mum didn't give me any money today!'

'Shut up, screw-ball, this'll learn you to ALWAYS ask her for cash!'

Nick tossed his bag to one side and cracked his knuckles, but before he could charge in Ali stopped him. 'Leave it, mate, just don't get involved. They say Ben's gonna be excluded soon anyway…'

Earlier in the year, if Ali had this suggestion, Nick would have turned away, but ever since his sixteenth birthday things had been different. He started getting this irresistible urge to stick up for the little guy, and this little guy was getting the living daylights knocked out of him.

He punched his palm with aplomb. 'Sorry, Ali, it's just something I've got to do.'

'Fine! I'll mail your corpse home!'

Nick strode passed the crowds of gawking students and when a few metres away, he spotted Ben's new gold watch. 'H'm… let me see…' He clicked his fingers and immediately Ben stopped his beating, clutching his wrist in pain.

'YOUCH! IT BURNS!'

Nick walked up to him and leant on a locker. 'You know, Ben, gold is a very conductive metal.'

Ben rounded on Nick. 'What's it to you, glove-boy?' He said, referring to the insulated gloves Nick was forced to wear. 'Want me to take you down a notch, lad?'

'By all means, feel free to try…' Ben raised a fist into the air, but Nick was smaller and faster and swiftly drove his fist into Ben's face.

'Master Worthy!' The voice stopped Nick dead. 'Come here this instant young man!'

'Oh bugger…' Mouthed Nick soundlessly, staring up into the face of the deputy head. 'Willy Wallace…'

Mr. Incredible bent down to study the hole burnt right through the reinforced blast shield, and the rear of the hangar, and whistled. He then twisted his head slowly, tracing the rut of blasted tarmac out along the runway. 'Holy moley… that was some take-off.'

'Brilliant, eh?' Shouted Chris as the experimental fighter made it's third fly-by of the complex, each time a faint shrieking followed by a deafening rumble as the sound waves dragging behind the plane converged.

'Most impressive, Mr. Worthy!' Yelled Mirage from the other side of the hangar. 'I'm beginning to remember why I asked you to come to the States now!'

Chris waited in anticipation of the next sonic boom, but it never came. His face fell as the tannoy squeaked. 'Sir, please come to the control room, we have a problem.'

He jumped up the steps from the hangar and burst into the control room. Taking the receiver from the radio technician, he placed it against his ear.

'… Plasma reaction out of control… plane accelerating beyond its limits… she's falling apart around me!'

Chris spoke back to the pilot, Henson. 'Can you activate the emergency overrides? Are the shut-offs responding?'

The room was silent while they waited for a reply; eventually Henson's depressed voice came back. 'Negative. I repeat, shut-offs not responding.'

'Where are you now?'

'I'm heading directly for London! Cripes a'mighty, my speed is nearing mach-ruddy-eight, and increasing! Controls aren't responding!'

Chris' face blanched and he looked at Mirage. 'When that plane hits London, the damage will be akin to a multi-megaton nuclear bomb going off…'

Mr. Incredible stepped up. 'Can I do anything?'

'Can you fly?' Mirage checked him. 'Worthy, what can we do?'

Chris' mind was exploding with thought. If he did, he'd risk being discovered. If he didn't, countless innocents would perish. It was no contest. 'I've got an idea, I need to make a call.'

He dashed from the control centre and pounded his way back to his office. Pulling the drawers out of his desk in a panic, he gathered up the orange suit and the old goggles, then headed to the topside exit.

'Where has he gone?' Asked Mirage, looking around the room.

'Ma'am!' Yelled the radar operator. 'I've got a new object on my scope, heading for the plane. Too fast to be – anything…'

Incredible scanned the sky and pointed to a fiery contrail splashed across the heavens. 'What's that? Are you shooting it down?'

'That's no missile!' Cheered an engineer. 'That's Stuntman!'

Stuntman roared through the air at hypersonic speed, the friction of his passing igniting the atmosphere behind him. Squinting into the mist, he saw the glowing engine of the experimental plane and climbed to come down on it without burning himself in the plasma-exhaust.

He hit the wing like a sledgehammer, wincing as his knee clicked with the impact, and clambered towards the cockpit. Henson was unconscious, but Stuntman saw he had his altitude-suit on which made his job easier. Fighting the tremendous g-force, about the only thing holding the ship together, he ripped the canopy off and tore Henson from the restraints. The added drag nearly knocked him flying, but he steadied himself and crept back down the wing to the aerilon. With a downward kick, he bent the flight-plane and the aircraft started to bank out to sea.

Stuntman, his job done, let himself fall from the plane and started to dive towards the ground. It was the scene from his dream, where he was his father. Faster and faster the ground approached, filling his vision like a green muddy monster. Climbing at the last moment, Stuntman adjusted his grip on Henson and sped off at tree-top height back to Fernton Field.

Behind him, the thunderclap and flash of light told him that the fighter had hit the ocean, overloading its engines in a huge pyrotechnics display.

He smiled and remembered his father's words from 1941: 'Bally good show, if I say so myself!'