Chapter One

PineCorp was a generic looking building. Square, regular shapes of three story buildings dotted the flat horizon, and there was a large black parking lot in front. Several decorative shrubs, neatly trimmed of course, were arranged in front of the largest building. I knew this couldn't be the whole operation – there were warehouses, factories, shipping garages where the equipment was stored. This was the busywork center; here, all the paperwork filtered from office to office until it was approved by some vague, shadowy Boss. I had seen my father's work setting enough to know how mind-crushingly dull it was. This was the core of PineCorp, where the ideas were drawn onto graphing paper and scattered around large tables, showing off the sleek, economical designs. In this building somewhere, was Buddy Pine. Syndrome.

Getting him out was too easy.

It would be blasphemous to have Invisigirl destroy a public building for no known reason – after all, superheroes were supposed to defend, not provoke. So in lieu of my usual black and purple spandex, I wore one of my first supersuit castoffs, a design E had discarded as being 'too gaudy'. I had liked it from the start, although I saw where she was coming from. The suit was brilliant blue, with ice white zigzags cutting down the sides. The mask, however, was white and obscured more of my face than usual. I couldn't have anyone putting Invisigirl together with this masked offender, this sudden villain springing forth. If I had my way, I would be gone before anyone could call the authorities.

A decent sized energy ball would do the trick. I had learned last year that my shields worked just as well around other objects, and that I could throw them with fairly good accuracy. So long as I kept the shields fully in place, the effect was like a cannonball and quite spectacular. I felt the familiar zing of static crackle down my spine, trickle across my shoulder, and I pulled the power into my fist to form a soccer ball sized sphere of energy.

I hurled it hard against the smooth gray brick of the main building.

An explosive fwoom! shattered three lower story windows, and I dimly heard screams. A faint alarm blared, as I'm sure an evacuation plan began to commence. I was sickened with myself – destroying public property in a wanton act of malice, simply to get a man to come outside? But deep within my core, a flicker of black iron was cruelly pleased, and a bizarre euphoria began to pound against my temples. I threw another ball, this time through a window, and watched as a steady stream of people began filtering out of the building. Before anyone could get a good look, I vanished into the soft summer breeze, melting into the fabric of the air. Invisibility was not a shield today, it was a tool. It wasn't a sign of cowardice.

I saw him.

God help me, I saw him.

Not quite tall, of average height, but with a stocky build and a deep barrel chest. He still wore his hair in that ridiculous fashion, teased orange spikes, although today his auburn hair looked tousled and unstylishly mussed. I wasn't close enough to see his expression or his features, but I could imagine those big round blue eyes, sweetly innocent, while an inner streak of sadism danced behind the cruel mask. He was good at pretending.

That much, at least, we had in common.

I coasted over to him on a strip of static, and sent a pinprick of energy his way. The effect was enough to raise the hair on his arms, and he looked around for the source of the shock. His flinch empowered me, filled me like the strongest drug, and I glared at his face to catch the look of fear. I wanted to taste his fear, to see the momentary startle turn into genuine fright, before I killed him. Before I shut those big baby blues forever, so they would stop tormenting me in my dreams and nightmares.

But instead of looking frightened, he looked bored. And very tired; the lines seemed to be deeper around his mouth and eyes, and he was wearing an expensive blue pinstriped shirt that inadvertently showed off the beginning of a white scar on his collarbones. I felt anger hit me hard – once, twice, three times, my anger swelled with my heartbeat.

I let my invisibility shield flicker out, and I sent a circle of energy towards the neat line. They went flying like bowling pins, Syndrome included, and this time I did see the fear on his face. Yesss. So sweet.

"Buddy Pine!" I rapped out, my voice hard and unyielding. "Stand up! Now!" All eyes turned to him, and my voice gentled momentarily, becoming sleeker and dropping to a dangerous purr. "I'd advise you all to stay out of this, ladies and gentlemen," I told the crowd which had gathered. "Mr. Pine and I have some business to discuss."

They backed away, of course, already dialing the numbers of the local authorities. I didn't care.

He stood up with only a mild shiver, shaking off the static I had embedded into his skin. Syndrome looked at me, those round eyes still indifferent, narrowed in suspicion. After a moment of studying my face, he relaxed. I felt a flicker of unease course through my belly.

"You supers," He said disgustedly. "Such showoffs. You could have called me up like a decent human being, you know, and we could have discussed this like civil adults." He stressed the last word, making it perfectly clear that he thought I wasn't one.

He knew who I was.

Good.

"I don't give decency to animals like you," I snapped. "Do you have anything to say to me?" Any last words?

"Yes, actually, I do," He said, and brushed imaginary wrinkles from his shirt. Syndrome looked me straight in the eye, and said softly, "I'm sorry. Your mother's death wasn't my fault, and I'm sorry you blame me for it. I'm sorry I ruined your family. It's my fault, and you have every right to kill me right now."

The words were convincing, perfectly combed with sincerity, but those eyes never wavered from mine.

They taunted me. Mocked me. Do it, those eyes sneered. Doya have the guts? Huh? Well? Do yah?

"Yes," I hissed, catlike, and I unclasped the gun from my belt. It wasn't a regular gun, this was one of Yusef's designs; he described it like an electric cattle prod inbred with a taser. The effect was supposed to be excruciating – and also lethal. "Yes, I do."

He spread his arms. "Go ahead then."

We stared at each other. Superhero to supervillain. Villain to villain. Did he know how many masks I had to peel off at the end of the day to see if Violet Parr was still buried beneath them? Did he know how many scars had burrowed their way into my heart and soul and skin? Did he know?

No. No, he didn't.

Those blue eyes were tormenting me with their jauntiness. He dared to smile, lips flicking sideways in a slight grin. "You know," He said quietly, almost conversationally, "Your father wouldn't want you to kill me."

My father!

I sent a blast of my energy before I was even conscious of doing it; the gun clattered to the pavement, forgotten, as I hurled another static ball at his grinning, foxish features. The force knocked him back, jarred the wind out of him, and I was on top of him like a panther. My teeth were clenched as I seized a handful of his shirt, ripping it as I dragged him forcibly into the sitting position.

"Don't you dare," I seethed at him, "don't you dare mention my father. Ever!" I let him drop, and he rolled on his side, still gasping for breath. I curled my lip contemptuously. "You're right. He wouldn't want me to kill you." The blare of approaching sirens intruded on my ears, and Syndrome met my gaze. There was crimson on his mouth, blood trickling down his chin, and his eyes were hazy.

"He would want me to destroy you."

I left him there, on the ground, surrounded by his anxious coworkers and employees. Beneath my mask, my cheeks were wet and my eyes were puffy; my hands shook erratically.

Then I did what I did best.

I disappeared.

I tied the apron around my narrow waist a little tighter, cinching the black fabric around my straight hips. In front of me, the dim babble of patrons lulled my senses and the familiar white noise washed over me. Behind me was the kitchen, and I heard the dishes clattering, the cooks swearing, the waitresses shouting, and the oil frying. It was familiar; after three years of working at The Egg and I, there wasn't much I didn't know already. I had been working here since I was sixteen, ever since I became a super as a part time job. My boss, Tom, had an inkling that I was unusual, since I often had to leave at awkward hours due to an alarming piece on the news. The other waitresses ignored me, which was fine by me. The past month or more, however, the most awkward condolences were filling my head, since the rest of the crew didn't know how to act around a girl who had lost her mother recently.

I hated it. I kept to myself more than ever, and when Tom sent me over to the corner to wash dishes, I didn't protest at all. It would give me time to think. The Egg and I had a natural rhythm, like most restaurants; once I tapped into the deeply set rhythm, I could lose myself in the stacking and programming, filling the dishwasher up and emptying it endlessly.

Dash had sent me an email yesterday, and with every word it brought back bitter memories of the family I had willingly chosen to leave behind. Dad was doing great, my younger brother reported dutifully. Apparently, my father was enrolled in some sort of grief counseling, and I felt a little seed of bitterness worm its way into my heart. Grief counseling would help him for a bit, or so I hoped, but there was no way I could do something like that. Spilling my guts to people wasn't something I liked to indulge in, but I have no doubt it would help. Venting wasn't something I did.

Jack-Jack didn't say hello as usual. Of all the boys who had left, he was the one who hurt the most. I knew Dash could comfort Dad, and Dad could comfort Dash, but poor Jack-Jack was a child and still learning how to cope with anything, never mind the monstrous grief which was crushing us all. I always wrote the boys back, always said I was doing fine – that Retroville was safe in my capable hands, that I was thinking of settling down and finding a roommate to help with the rent, lies, lies, lies. I was too young for a husband and felt too old and tired for a boyfriend; besides, having never been in a proper relationship before, I wouldn't know how it worked. My energies needed to be put elsewhere, not into maintaining a relationship as though it were an old car.

I washed dishes all evening, until the last people had left and the rest of the gang was closing up shop. My hands were white and wrinkled from the hot soapy water, and I tingled all over from yesterday's fight with Syndrome. That bizarre euphoria was still thrumming in me, but the nausea was worse. My revenge was both sweet and harsh, taking its toll on my morals.

I meant it when I said I would destroy him. I would, from the ground up. I would take out every single thing he cared for, I would grind it to powder and fling it in his face, and then I would rub salt in the wound.

And then I would kill him.

I couldn't think of anyone Syndrome would care for, not really; his life was his work. I had other plans for his business and his side schemes, that would come in time. As a superhero, I had military access, and I knew that he had a few skeletons in his closet. Legal loopholes be damned, if I found any whiffs of villainy on him, I could extract my own superhero justice.

There was one person I remember him caring for. A certain coffee-skinned, silver-haired woman who had fallen in love with my father, at least a little bit.

Mirage.

A/N: Hi everyone! Thanks for the reviews, you guys, could you keep 'em coming? :3 Is Violet too vastly OOC in this? I'm getting a little nervous...