Masks
By Shahrezad1
Disclaimer: I love The Incredibles (as well as a variety of other movies referred to), but not enough to own it. I'm poor, in school, and all my money goes to art supplies. Please don't sue.
Part 2 Summary: The irony was thick enough to saw through. And it was this irony that broke through the spell of his voice washing over hers, sarcastic and intelligent and full of memory. Like Little Red Riding Hood turning from the Wolf's charismatic approach, in order to return to the safety of her grandmother's side.
Created due to popular demand. :D The following chapters (two and on) can be read as a continuation of chapter one. Or, if you're more partial to Masks as being the one-shot it was meant to be, please disregard the following additions.
In either case, please enjoy. =^__^=
~/~/~
Chapter 2: Pretense
"Well, I'm not paralyzed,
But I seem to be struck by you.
I wanna make you move,
Because you're standing still.
If your body matches,
What your eyes can do,
You'll probably move right through,
Me, on my way to you."
-Paralyzer, Finger Eleven
It was happening again.
Violet clutched the seat beneath her with both clawed hands, as her world rocked at the ferocity of emotion pounding against her skull.
Typically the impressions were harmless. A snatch of color here, a chemical equation she didn't understand appearing there. And then there were the Big Ones. Moments so excruciatingly painful it felt as though her nails were being ripped off one by one, only to be used to scrape out her eyeballs.
The impressions were stronger then, the colors brighter, but the sea of pain jarred so much that she was left with fragmented half-dreams, half-nightmares. Nothing she could cement down, except to say that somewhere out there existed a being in such pain that all else failed in comparison. A pain that begged for release through their silent, always bittersweet, connection.
Today was just another day in the long months she'd become accustomed to. Sitting at the work bench in her private quarters, fighting the urge to collapse to the floor and writhe in excruciating, skin-piercing anguish, in favor of silent, lung-collapsing sobs. Tears streaming down her cheeks until they were chapped and stinging with the raw onslaught of salt water.
Still, the dark haired young woman remained stoically silent, bearing the horrific assault of emotion in the name of an unknown other.
Once some semblance of calm was found, she moved immediately into a position of comfort within the center of the large rug that enveloped her room, ignoring the lingering pain pulsing through her temples as she tried to just breathe.
It was what fought back the lingering pain and allowed her to function. Tucking the feelings into a small compartment in her mind; a cabinet carved of dark, elegant wood in the effort to somehow console the pain it held. Just as many of the others held the pains she'd felt in the past.
Only once everything was in place could she release her sigh of relief. Relief that the emotional wave had hit her in the privacy of her room, rather than publicly. Relief that she had the feelings out of the way, and not just under the surface where they could emerge and disturb the life and career she'd built.
Then, serenity in place, Violet got ready.
All of E's assistants had private quarters within the main grounds, so that they could be on-hand should she need them at a moment's notice. Violet more so, due to her invaluable position as a Super. To Edna Mode, such skills meant two things. First, that she could test various accessories on a ready and semi-willing victim. And secondly, that she could rave about her previous Supersuit designs without fear of being forced to censor information.
This preferential treatment led to an increased ability to sneak out, should an emergency occur, yet created an awkward, distant, and even sometimes resentful relationship with her peers.
It was a lonely existence, really, but one she couldn't help.
In this instance she was thankful for it, however, as it allowed her to have peace as she readied herself mentally and physically.
When she finally left her private room it was as though nothing had happened. No pain, no attack.
Long black slacks and a flowing swoop-necked blouse, complete with a corset-like vest at her midsection, hid the finger-marks on her thighs and waist, from when she'd unthinkingly moved her hands to clutch them. The fluid sleeves masked old bruises from times when the attacks had occurred in a public place, and from 'work'-related damage, with the clever use of shadow.
And if that wasn't enough, she'd put up her own personal version of a mask. A noncommittal smile to hide the fact that her inner cheek was lightly inflamed, having been caught in the fray. Makeup to blend the dark around her eyes, and casual slippers to soften the ensemble.
From there all it took was her grabbing her bag and she was ready for the night ahead.
It was one of those few evenings in which E allowed her and the other assistants time off, and Violet was determined to enjoy it to the fullest. Regardless of hero-work, mysterious pain, and normal work itself, she wouldn't allow her responsibilities to destroy what was left of her actual life and friends.
Heaven knew why they still stuck by her at this point. There'd been more than enough instances of her 'exiting stage left' in the face of an emergency for them to have tired of her inconsistency. That and the fact that she wasn't the most open individual, despite efforts to get over her previous surliness, made for an awkward relationship between them sometimes. Yet they still stayed around, despite everything.
Maybe they saw something she didn't?
It was possible. She'd been invisible for such a long time she sometimes forgot who she really was. Super. Daughter. Assistant. What she would give to be seen as only herself, no strings attached. There had only been one person that had ever treated her like a real person, an adult woman, but he--
Blushing at the train of thought her mind had led her to, Violet snapped her door shut, ready for a night out on the town. She had a promise to keep, after all, and it didn't do well to dwell on something so inconsequential that she should have forgotten all about it by now.
If it would only stay in the past, like it was supposed to!
But it was hard to push away something like that, when it was so…surprising. Life-altering, even. She could even stretch the truth enough to say that it had been wonderful.
Perfect.
Not that she had much to go by. It had been her first kiss, and presumably her last, if her love life continued down the path it had been following the last several months. Of course, if the man in question wished to prove her wrong then who was she to argue…not that she expected to see, much less kiss or even recognize him again…
It didn't do well to dwell on the past.
Sighing, Violet left. But not before snatching up an apple from the community kitchen they shared. Her increased healing ability demanded it, already hard at work to heal the damage that had been created by the vision. And knowing what kind of adventures she was prone to getting into, she might need the energy before the night was done.
~/~/~
Syndrome collapsed against his console, hands buried in sweaty, tangled hair as he gasped for breath amid shards of his latest invention.
It had happened again. This time it had been a short in his wiring that had been at fault. The single crossed line causing his heart to nearly fail as each of the electrical connections buried deep within his flesh had hiccupped, sending spasms of power through his nerve endings and nearly tearing his skull off from the pain.
You'd have thought he would be accustomed to the pain by now. The past few years had been full of it, as he'd slowly pulled himself together from the wreckage of his last fiasco. It was just another thing he could hold against Mr. Incredible, like a badge of honor. And if anything, it made his old contacts more fearful of him, rather than less.
After all, when he dropped his mask they couldn't help but recoil at the Phantom of the Opera-like disfigurement he'd suffered. Machinery to replace the flesh he'd lost, scarring along his face like the claws of a gargoyle tearing through layers of skin. He hadn't lost any whole limbs, but the individual pieces that had had to be worked together with metal support were a constant reminder of the pains he'd been dealt with. All that he'd suffered because of the nemesis he'd chosen for himself.
And then when something went faulty, or his nerves became overloaded with information, then he knew what it was to experience a living death.
Taking stock of himself piece by piece, however, he had to admit that something was off. Different. And it had been for several months. At first he hadn't even noticed the change, but it was becoming more obvious with time. Even in this, one of his worst episodes in several weeks, hadn't born the intensity he was accustomed to.
Some of his pain was being siphoned off and stored, a healing balm left in its place. The mental view of a calm room in mellow cream his one sanctuary, as his insides were fried by an internal current.
Sometimes it was just a snatch of color, or the dim feeling of exhaustion and relief. It was during his attacks that the 'something' saved him.
He didn't have time for that now, though, he had an appointment to keep.
One of his contacts was to deliver some vitally needed information. Namely, plans from the University regarding some sort of combustion engine they were creating, that could possibly solve his current electrical difficulties. Unfortunately, the meeting place was some sort of artistic event downtown.
It was the perfect ploy, his associate had explained eagerly through false tones of nasal French. No one would be expecting for such information to be passed on through a civilized gathering of artistic minds.
Frankly, Syndrome wanted to shove his 'perfect ploy' somewhere where the sun didn't shine. The last time he'd attended some hoity toity affair he'd nearly lost his leg in the chaotic fray his ploy had created, having tripped on an oh-so-elegant guest. And on top of that, he'd---.
Focus. Focus. Breathing slowly through a reconstructed nose, broken numerous times and in painfully numerous ways, he fought against the impulse to remember. Fighting against the image of his hand buried in fine, dark hair, shining in the echo of moonlight coming from the long balcony. Lips soft and unresisting beneath his own, not knowing about the monster he really was…
Shuddering slightly in the echo of pain and something else he couldn't identify, the villain made his way toward his closet.
He had an art show to attend.
~/~/~
Violet looked at her current partner for the evening, and couldn't help but sigh. Partially in humor, and partly in melancholy.
Sure, Tony was great company. He was funny, vivacious, and could leave you in stitches within a minute's time. But going to an event with your 'Ex' just so that you could stave off stalkers wasn't exactly the best idea in the world.
Especially when he was all the way across the room and currently comforting her best friend. Once things typically reached that point in the evening, his purpose as Stalker Repellent became a moot one.
Not that she was angry about it. Kari needed all the comfort she could get. Especially in light of the scathing critique she'd just received from one of the leading art columnists in the city. And Violet was nothing if not capable of protecting herself from unwanted male attention, be it masked or no.
And, dare she say it, the two of them were just so cute together. Like a Hallmark greeting card, only sappier. Or a Meg Ryan chick flick, where you knew that by the end everything would be resolved and the "best friend" guy would get the girl, no matter the cost.
Even if she, Violet, was no longer "that girl," anymore.
Smiling somewhat ruefully at that ship which had long-since sailed, Vi allowed herself to float away from the oblivious almost-couple. And given the chance to relax for the first time in several weeks, the Super allowed her heart rate to drop and breathing to even out as she began actively seeking out design inspiration.
Room by room the dark-haired ingénue wandered, in search of inspiration in the face of artistic creation.
First there'd been an interpretive statue of the god Ares, bringing to mind an idea for an Amazonian outfit, complete with armor. But that had been quickly discarded as un-sketch-worthy upon the realization of its resemblance to a cheesy opera outfit. This led her on to a painting based upon an old Egyptian papyrus, which inspired a few more semi-decent golden sheath-dress designs, complete with traditional African turban.
Aztec, turquoise-encrusted gold gave her a hint of an idea at a two-part blouse and knee-length skirt combination, the top a brilliant aqua and the bottom a slightly more subdued earthy green, broken up by a beaded corset belt and a royal purple half-jacket. Then, on a roll she worked out a French-inspired high-neck, black tulle gown, cut in a design similar to a ballerina, and complete with high-contrast red-ribboned ballet flats.
This was followed by one last creation, in the form of a long-sleeved, full-bodied over-shift, colorful as the shades of the rainbow and complete with floor-length gypsy skirt and pastel yellow lace Muslim head-cover.
She was just into the preliminary designs for 1920's-based feminized Mafia outfit when abrupt words spoken loudly next to her ear, and a presence directly crossing into her personal space bubble, sent her reeling. Inspiration and imagination startled into fluttering away, like so many butterflies, till all she was left with were memories and dust.
"So, you come here often?" the sly voice made its way across her senses with all the sleeze of a well-oiled car salesman.
The dark-haired woman made a silent vow to never come out into public again until she was at least eighty. Hopefully by then creepy types would let up on following her around, at the very least. It was bad enough dealing with the fanboys when in her Super persona, much less the leaches that followed her in the Industry. Knowing her luck, he was probably one of E's hangers-on; a guy that knew an easy mark by sight, and sought her as a means for an end.
What was it with guys? Honestly, just because a girl's by herself doesn't mean that she's asking to be picked up by every Tom, Dick, and Harry. It was in this fervor of emotion that the design student responded to the new irritant's remark.
"Now's not really the time, okay. I mean, all I want is some peace and quiet, to think to myself, and it's like I've set off a glowing neon sign that says, 'Go ahead, bother me.' It's a bit…harsh of me, true, to be so blunt. And you probably are a nice guy, really really deep down. But, look, if you're trying to pick me up then you should know that I'm not really here looking for a relationship. I'm here for the art," inspiration lit her mind for a time as her eye fell on the sketchbook she'd brought, "you could even say that I'm doing research. And to tell the truth, I really did come with someone tonight."
One side of her, the Super side, was internally wincing at her actions, as mild as they were compared to other rejection speeches. She was honestly using the unfortunate man as her scapegoat 'victim of anger', when he was just trying to help; sympathizing with her predicament. The same way she did when she pulled on the black and lavender spandex, signature 'I' centered in the middle of her chest.
The secondary, more dominant side (she was in civilian clothes, after all) rallied for the opposite. Cheering the young Assistant on with streamers and gigantic foam football finger, as Violet allowed herself to get angry one of the few times in her life.
Just as she was about to break into the tirade of the century, however, she made the mistake of looking up past a goateed chin and smooth olive skin, into the deepest eyes she'd ever seen.
Clear, piercing eyes. That seemed far more knowing than they should be, even with her sudden explosion of emotion. Blue eyes. Familiar blue eyes, placed in the face of a Latin-American man, roughly placed in his mid-twenties.
Bearing a very smug smile, currently aimed in her direction.
"Hi."
"James," the word was torn from lips that suddenly seemed hot, affected by the heat rushing to her cheeks.
Holographic features settled into an expression of bemused irony, hands on hips as he just looked at her. All the while smiling devilishly through the mask disguising his features.
"Butterfly. It's good to see you again, too."
"I…um. Likewise. But...you're here to steal something, aren't you?"
The delightfully boyish blue eyes shot up, glittering mischievously, "…how'd you guess?"
Pointing at her neck only succeeded in earning her a lecherous smile. Which subtly altered as he kept looking at her, brow furrowed as he tilted his head in question, "You seem…different."
"Not trapped in a multi-layer torture device, you mean?"
"That, too," he smiled in memory, "but what a device…"
"Glad you enjoyed it," the irony was thick enough to saw through. And it was this irony that broke through the spell of his voice washing over hers, sarcastic and intelligent and full of memory.
Like Little Red Riding Hood turning from the Wolf's charismatic approach, in order to return to the safety of her grandmother's side.
"I've got to go. Just…don't steal anything important, okay? I know most of the artists whose work is displayed, and I don't think I could take it if something went missing."
Weak, weak response! The Super within roared. He was a thief, a villain, and she was supposed to pound him into the cement; cuff him and leave the Cad for the police to find.
But, somehow, faced with the man that had haunted her dreams for so long, she collapsed under the pressure of the situation. Not able to do more than warn him, and weakly at that.
But what could she do? She wasn't the hero right now, but the civilian. To do anything meant revealing both sides of her identity, a dilemma Violet had never had to deal with before.
So what better way to deal with the situation than run?
A toss of her head and she had left him in the dust, long legs giving her a clear head-start over his stockier ones, the Super moving away with the deftness of a gazelle. Over one shoulder Violet could make out a strong look of shock, as though out of all the things he'd expected her to do, walking away wasn't one of them.
Vi called upon memory to return back to the original hallway, beside the first statue of the Roman god of war. Only to literally jump as a hand fell upon her shoulder, thumb resting against the pulse at her neck.
"Look, just give me a chance. I mean, just because I committed petty thievery doesn't mean that I'm a villain or anything."
Interesting choice of words.
Vi frowned, brushing away both hand and his words in a single move.
"Did you really come here with someone, by the way?"
"Yes," deadpan, she answered, scowling. Frantically ignoring the buzz running through the topmost layer of her skin, as though merely being in his presence set her form into a state of hypersensitivity. And she still had no idea what he even looked like.
…his mouth fell upon hers fiercely, taking everything she had to give and more as he alternately caressed and lightly traced each lip; moving insistently until her own mouth was filled with heat, his rough three o'clock shadow leaving only the faintest scratch against her cheeks...
Her skin bleached of color, then abruptly became red as a tomato.
"You're not lying for the sake of getting rid of me?" an inquisitive brow rose archly, echoed by the slightest glitch in the electronic shield, not noticing her change one whit.
"No, I'm not lying," a deep blush colored pale features, "I did come with someone. My height," a hand came up to gesture, "brown hair, black button-up."
"Is it that guy, 'cause it seems like he's somewhat…distracted right now," the droll, dry humor broke through the assistant's line of excuses, and she couldn't help but follow her antagonist's pointing finger.
"What are you…ah, dangit."
Tony had Kari in his arms. She knew logically that he was probably comforting her in the face of disappointment. And to be truthful, it was something she mentally cheered over, having tried to set them up for months. But Violet knew without having to look at her admirer that the image would probably come off as something entirely different.
Her bluff had been called.
The taller man remarked, almost pityingly, something that made Vi's blood freeze in her veins, the burly, olive-toned arms crossing over a barrel of a chest.
"Hmph. No wonder you aren't keen for new admirers. It looks like you've already got more than enough 'Jerk' on your plate already. Do you date single-digit IQ's often?"
"For your information, he's got a Masters in Engineering, and the only jerk I'm stuck dealing with is you. Good day, Sir," Making as though to storm away, she was stopped by a calloused hand on her wrist.
What followed was an apology she didn't care to know about, much less hear, "look, I…I apologize, alright," he said the word hesitantly, as though it was foreign to his vocabulary, even going so far as to grimace while speaking, "I was just spouting my mouth off. I didn't mean to--."
"Sound like a jealous ex-boyfriend?" she intoned without inflection, expression flat.
"What?!" round blue eyes widened, his head jerking back in surprise, and she had a vague mental image of thick hair ruffling slightly from the movement. An image that Vi blinked away with a concentrated effort.
It was disconcerting to face a man she'd kissed, but whose appearance changed on a whim.
"I don't know what you're tal--."
"Can I have my wrist back, please?"
"..."
The act of reaching out to her had been almost automatic, he hadn't even noticed himself doing it. So when his eyes fell to the grip that still remained on her tiny hand, it was with surprise. And in that same instant she looked as well.
Freckled, pale hands, with a slight pink undertone, unlike the deep olive tone of his face and neck, surrounded her bony wrist, a light dusting of pale hair contrasting the bushy black brows and dark complexion.
This, she wasn't surprised to find, was the same as she remembered.
They were the hands of a man who had stolen from her once before, and would likely do so again.
As his hand once again gripped hers, she couldn't help but continue trying for freedom. In the process, Violet's eyes focused more firmly on his offending limb.
The thief was bruised all along his forearm. And in the same unsteady track as the ones she bore, the flowering bruises nearly the same color and shape as hers.
Without conscious thought, training flipped the offending limb off of her with an easy twist, but her defense did nothing to alter the look on his face. He hadn't noticed Violet's horrified recognition. Instead, the masked thief was preoccupied with something else, on his side.
"Did someone do this to you?" blue eyes darkened dangerously, their light color suddenly deadly as ice in the face of her potential hurt. And behind them, came the unspoken promise: If they did, I'll kill them for you. Just say the word.
Despite all self-restraint, the assistant couldn't help the shiver that shook her form as the situation suddenly took a one hundred and eighty-degree turn, "what are you talking about?"
"Did he do this to you?"
This time the eyes flickered across the room to Tony, where he was standing with Kari, remarking on a painting she'd created of a cherubic-looking ball of flame. While her high school friend had been wiped of any memory of the traumatic events from years' past, there were still impressions that couldn't help but rise to the surface and express themselves in the blonde's paintings. One of those was Jackson's first transformation. Kari called it, 'Devils on Mozart.'
Her navy eyes fell once more to her wrist, and abrupt realization froze Violet in her place.
Her bruises. From her 'attacks,' as well as due to her work as a Super. Just as she had seen his, he had seen the ones she wore like faded medals. And what was worse, 'James' thought Tony was responsible for the marks that littered her arm like scattered dominoes.
"No! No. He didn't do anything. No one did anything. I…well, it just comes with the job territory." Drat, she immediately tried to bite the words back, to no avail. That was a little too close to home. She was trying to hide both her identities, not hand them to him on a platter.
He didn't notice her slip, still lost in his own protective fervor, "being a fashion designer's assistant somehow translating into bruises--Somehow I don't believe you."
"You don't have to believe me. It doesn't change the fact that it's any less true," again the wall shot up, irritation sparking behind her eyes as defensiveness switched on. The surprise in his own features dimmed it slightly, but not overmuch. And while she couldn't help mentally cringing at her systematic destruction of another possible relationship, it was as inevitable as springtime. She always reacted like this when her cover was blown. Defensive. Aggressive. Like a Super dealing with a Villain, instead of a woman dealing with another person.
He was just being protective, the civilian cried.
But I don't need to be protected, was the hero's retort.
An internal debate wasn't what she needed right now, though, as the man readied himself to pummel her ex-boyfriend. She needed a distraction, and quickly.
"He didn't do it, okay? I just brought him as my Stalker Repellent."
"What?"`
~/~/~
Buddy hadn't meant to get so distracted.
He'd reached the art show well before their meeting time, prepared with both an electronic chit to transfer funds from his account to the man's, as well as a new disguise to hide his features. The last one had gotten plastered across the Police Department's walls, a reward on his head, and he had been quick to switch it out for a new identity.
Still, the holographic projection couldn't completely disguise the pain he was feeling. From the moment of walking in, he'd had three people stop and check if he was doing okay, an attendant included. Waving off the last one, he'd finally decided that taking a break was a good idea, when he saw her.
Or at least, what he thought was her.
Butterfly. The girl from the Fundraiser Jewel Heist.
That gem had been converted into a laser, part of the inner workings of his mechanical heart, but despite the cause he couldn't help but feel guilty as he had worked the piece into his inner workings.
Which was wrong. Syndrome never felt guilty. Not anymore.
Leading him right back to his current problem. Her. The girl that kept popping into his mind more often than he would have liked.
Still, he couldn't be sure. The hair was shorter, and the pose more upright instead of shying away. But then again, what if she was her. He had to check, at the very least. And if nothing, it would make the time pass by more quickly.
Following discreetly behind, he watched as she passed by statues, then paintings and photography.
And suddenly, without warning, Buddy knew this was his chance. Before someone else came along. He hated to blow his cover, but…
He just had to know.
…something had snapped within him, the moment Buddy had seen her back, and familiar dark hair.
Still, the bitter, twisted side of him sneered at the likelihood of it really being her, much less the chance of the girl giving him the time of day. There he was, chasing after some broad when he should be meeting up with his contact.
But shoving that mental voice away, he'd moved silently to her side, masking the limp with forced smooth movement. Only to receive a face-full of the most beautiful anger he'd ever seen. It was her. Butterfly. But she was…different. Less hesitant. And then when he'd stopped her, apologized, he'd seen the marks on her arms, and…
He'd been angry.
Why? Buddy had killed more Supers an he could count on both hands and feet, had nearly let his traitorous girlfriend's life hang in the balance, and it was bruises that infuriated him?!
What was freaking wrong with him? He shouldn't be thinking this way, or acting this way. But when he'd seen the marks on her it had been like someone had attacked himself, or ripped a part out of his circuitry heart. And then, when he'd been more angry than could be siphoned away, energy and adrenaline starting to overload his conduits, Butterfly had faced him dead on and…
Navy blue eyes stared up into his own, and beneath a thin layer of foundation he could see circles under her eyes, whether placed there by nature or lack of sleep. He was so focused on them, that he almost didn't hear her continue, soothingly.
"He didn't do it, okay? I just brought him as my Stalker Repellent."
Stalker Repellent?
"What?"
"I didn't mean to be harsh with you off like I was. It's just that lately…" trailing off, the maiden smiled abruptly, "Anyway. It is good seeing you again, James. Even if I've come to connect your presence with mischief."
"…what?" Still reeling, the words he wished to say halted mid-lane, suddenly stuck in verbal traffic, mouth dropping open even as his brows furrowed.
"I really do have to go, though. I promised E that I would be back to go over some…work with her."
The shy, discreet gaze dropped to the floor, her hands, anything but the face he bore like a visor against the world.
And then his mouth opened, dropping words like pebbles into a raging river.
"Go out with me."
"What?!"
Dark eyes flew open in surprise, a delicate mouth dropping. Unconsciously, his view followed, and without thought his heart continued speaking for him.
"Go out with me. Just once. I know that you don't know me, and I don't know you. All I'm asking for is…once."
"I…I can't."
Somehow, the manner rather than the words she said brought his ire up, just slightly. As though some force was tearing her in two; taking away her ability to chose. He was so tired of women, and their double-natures, "Why not? I mean, it's not like it's a marriage proposal, or anything. A little music, maybe some candlelight, a little bit of Italian--."
"It'd be a conflict of interest. I'd like to, really, but I can't."
"I'd like to, really, but I can't." Familiar words that echoed from the memory of his childhood; a different tone, a different time, but hauntingly familiar.
That shot his eyebrows up, underneath the holographic mask. Still, the facial echo moved a half second later, a glitch he reminded himself to remedy later, "'Conflict of interest'? What are you talking about?"
"It's just that…" she fiddled with her fingers, wringing them just out of his line of sight, "you're a thief. A criminal. And I…never mind."
An inkling of thought glittered on the horizon of Syndrome's mind, but it remained formless, still, as confusion overset it, "What? What were you about to say? Don't leave me hanging here. If you're going to turn me down, it might as well be for a good reason."
Something that would be worth the mess he was going to make of his laboratory later, in a fit of inevitable rage. He hadn't been rejected in years. Then again, he hadn't gotten up the courage to date in years. Not since his last relationship had ended on such a traitorous note.
"I…"
"I'm an adult, I can take it."
"…"
Her openmouthed silence brought on both irritation and a hint of humor, as the genius was reminded of their last conversation, a bumbling chaos of awkward conversation and newfound feeling. The way she'd reacted, it had probably been her first kiss, even. It was this memory that brought a smile to his face as he next spoke, teasing tones filling his words in ways they hadn't for a long time. Not since Mirage…"You do this a lot in conversations, don't you? Get a guy brimming with curiosity, then leaving him dry."
Frustration finally burst the bubble of worry surrounding her, and the girl-Butterfly-growled before bursting out, "what if we've fought before!"
A pause, then…
No.
Shock cut his words off. And staring down at the miniscule, rebellious figure proudly glaring up into his features, hands on hips, the villain felt his heart stop.
No, no, no…Karma couldn't be that cruel.
He took in her stance, the wiry muscle her semi-casual dress hinted at, and the shadowing under her eyes, as though a heavy weight rested there on a fairly frequent basis. The pose she took seemed relaxed, but behind it ran years of professional training, ready to spring at him in a moments notice.
And then there were the mysterious bruises. In the course of their argument part of her sleeve had fallen away, revealing a longer span of bruises than he had first seen and what seemed to be a whitened scar that ran up her forearm before disappearing. What he had thought were the signs of abuse were really the result of something more dire.
"…it just comes with the job territory."
Yes, yes Karma could be, apparently.
He swore. A single, toneless word that conveyed more in its singularity than anything else he could have said.
And the girl's face dropped like a stone. Cold and emotionless in the face of his horror.
"I guess customary battle strategies suggest an 'obligatory fight scene,' if your reaction is any indication," bitter irony colored her words as she cocked her hip and folded her arms across her chest. It was a move so characteristic of traditional female Supers that he could have cursed himself for not seeing it sooner. In fact, it was the same pose Butterfly had pulled at the fundraiser, sarcasm seeping through her words. Only at the time it had had the exact opposite effect on him.
Instead of being irritated, he'd been instantly attracted. It was as it had always been, the hint of power underneath being the first to unconsciously call out to him. Buddy's single curse and blessing was his attraction to power. One which, without fail, always led him right back to where everything began: with the Supers.
"There's a vacant warehouse a street over. Let's not get anyone else involved in this if we have to."
'Butterfly' was shut off from him in that instant, and something else took over without pause. That alter-ego personality which always seemed to be waiting in the wings, he rightly assumed. Ready to do things the normal self wouldn't dare to take on. Wouldn't dare to stoop to, for morality's sake. Ready to shut away all emotions and feelings, so that one could face the fight with balance, then mourn later.
For a lost friend, a lost love, a lost opportunity.
Well, two could play that game. And he wouldn't allow another Super to get in the way of his happiness again. He wouldn't allow the Super to shut Butterfly out.
If there was anything he was good at, it was manipulation.
~/~/~
AN: This is dedicated to a few friends. Hatterlet, namely, followed by OldeTownCoffee, and WarriorOji. And then my friend of the many names, Daniisreallywierd/PegasusCrystal. For keeping the spirit of Synlet alive and kicking. ^__^ And HannahKraft for putting up with my silly obsessions, when I should really be finishing other things.
Just an fyi, I rewrote this about three times before I was satisfied. And the chapter is actually being posted as two installments. XD It got too looooong! Also, this is unbetaed.