Synchronous
By Shahrezad1
Summary: "…the kind of strength that automatically caught one's attention, earning respect, but was matched with an impression of fragility. He didn't know if it made him want to protect her, or break her within his arms."
The fourth in a series of Synlet challenges for Synlet month. =^__^=
Disclaimer: Syndrome (alias Buddy Pine) and Violet Parr belong to Brad Bird, the creators at Pixar, and the Disney/Pixar company itself. No infringement is intended, this is created for sheer fun.
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Chapter 4: A Matter of Taste
"And he made her eat the pomegranate seed, knowing in his heart that if she did so she must return to him."
-Mythology, Edith Hamilton
Syndrome scowled furiously at the paper stack sitting in front of him as though the mess he was in was entirely its fault. Which, to a certain extent, it was.
If it wasn't for the blasted report he'd written he would be home by now instead of trapped in the tiny cubicle rewriting the blasted thing on a computer older than he was, the ever-pressing darkness growing merrily in the corner of his peripheral.
Chicken-scratch, ha! It just went to show how little people appreciated his work. But as one hour turned to two and the cubbies all around switched off their lights, till all that remained was him, a hunched being illuminated by the metallic green glow of archaic monitor, Buddy couldn't help but grudgingly conceded that maybe they were right.
Next time he would just have to type it up from the start, and avoid the whole situation, period.
Paperwork was one of the many reasons he despised the NSA. It was a bureaucrat's effort to keep the inspired and talented chained down like chattel, always on-guard for 'please,' and 'thank-you's, without the means to really express themselves without the 'okay-to-go'-brand stamped on their forehead. It was a complicated mess of red tape and wasted trees, the paper-trail large and long enough to create a stairway into heaven.
So what was a guy like him doing in a place like this? Paper-pushing until his fingers were bled by way of paper-cuts, the butt-end of jokes and constantly the odd man out due to his past? It was enough to make the Villain ashamed of himself, and yet the deal the court had afforded him had been surprisingly painless to accept.
Even if it felt like a betrayal of his morals, or lack thereof.
Stretching full-out within his doppelganger of a standard-issue computer chair, an exact replica of the type all the "Techies" were afforded, Syndrome continued to raise his arms high above his head until something popped, the sudden release of tightened muscle and jammed bone bringing about a groan of appreciation before he sat back again, attempting to charge his brain cells.
"I just don't know if I can handle dealing with so much…Ice Cream."
What in the…?
"Oh, Vi. Just give your situation a little time. They'll stop being a pain once they realize they're not it."
What the heck?!
Frowning, Syndrome silently edged his way out of the too-small hamster cage he'd been stashed in, far in the back and furthest from the overhead lamps. Sneaking closer and closer through the labyrinthine set of cubbies, he made it several rows over before finally spotting the lone duo of figures, spot-lit by a single overhead light and haloed by the NSA's overlarge logo behind them, plastered as it was on the blank, painted-white cement wall. It was there he stopped, a hanging potted plant barely hiding the tower of flames that was his hair as he stared at the two Sup--two of his coworkers chatting easily around the water cooler.
One of them was tall and blonde, her sharp features thrown into relief by the single strip of lighting weakly petering down, then transforming into a blade along her cheekbones' edge. She was somewhat attractive, in an angular sort of way that reminded him of new envelopes, ready to unleash a sea of cuts into the world as soon as they were released, but Syndrome found that he didn't like the claw-like bangs and short ponytail she sported, even if the black glasses weren't half bad.
The other girl was thin and lanky; the impossible, almost unhealthy thinness of someone always on the move, never taking the time to let things in. Her back was arched slightly as she presented her dilemma to her friend, and consequently had it directly aimed at him, her hair in a long tail as thin and ragged as her form was. A form carelessly draped in patched sweats and a casual T-shirt, as though she had just come from the gym, never-mind the fact that it was almost one o'clock.
Or maybe it wasn't so much the gym, as another kind of physical exertion.
Like a fight.
Before he could pursue that thought the second one continued.
"But what am I going to do about it now, Dixie? I mean, I kinda like Sherbet but it's oblivious, and Fudge Swirl keeps sending text messages about how much it misses me, when we haven't even spent time together outside of class!"
'Dixie,' frowned and shrugged, "it just goes in phases, I guess. It always did for me, so why not enjoy the situation while you can. I mean, having Ice Cream in your life can be a good thing."
"I know, but…" the unnaturally thin girl swept her hair to one side in its tail and began absently braiding it, for lack of anything better to do. When that task was finally finished she scrubbed her face free from exhaustion, then shoved bony, death-white hands into her pockets, "I'm not used to it. I was the girl that got ignored all through high-school, remember? The sister flavor to every type of Ice Cream in existence, so why now? What's so different about me now that they're all suddenly paying attention?"
The older and taller of the two looked uncertain for a moment before forging uncertainly ahead, "who knows what makes any of them stop and pay attention. But there's one thing I do know, and that's that you're one of the sweetest, most level-headed girls I've known. Especially when it comes to powered females. And…well, people like you. You make them feel happy, even when you feel sad, and you don't give in when it comes to standing up for what you believe in," an eloquent shrug filled in between the lines, explaining without words just how Dixie felt on the subject, "those can be attractive qualities, particularly in your line of work. You really don't give yourself enough credit."
Grudging acceptance was evident in her hunched form as well as masked self-doubt, "Yeah, but…but it had to be Pineapple, of all people? And that's not to mention Superman."
Wait, wait…what? Buddy stared blankly at the two females in question, ignoring the NSA coat of arms that loomed predatorily from above. Ice-cream. Ice-cream. They weren't just talking about a frozen dairy desert. Which meant that…
"Well, Pineapple's…nice, that's for sure. And Superman…well…"
Pineapple. Yellow and orange. 'Nice.' LightningBug, a Super with both the talent for flying and the ability to conduct electricity immediately came to mind. He was a talented and warm-hearted, if dim, Superhero, insistent in his affections and impatient in his need for attention. Syndrome could easily understand the frustration of anyone under the amorous scrutiny of the highly emotional hero.
Fudge Swirl was probably The Leopard, a Nigerian Super currently aiding the United Coalition of European Supers, and Sherbet made him think of Italian ice and strawberry blondes. One of which included himself, if you got down to the roots of it, meaning that the object of her affection had to be The Hatter, the man's previously carroty locks long-since turned snowy.
So who was the elusive Superman? Going by powered versus unpowered status alone, he had a lot to work with, unless the name had been chosen for a reason other than the obvious.
He was about to lean in further to listen to the gossiping friends when the second woman, the hero with an excess of 'Flavors' turned ever so slightly to stare into space, arms crossed and booted foot propped up against the wall. Recognizing the stiletto as a signature part of her costume, directly at odds with her current attire, he was distracted for a moment, until her face caught him off guard.
To his scientific mind the profile was made up of a series of features that on their own were unremarkable, even possibly plain. A nose too snubbed to be delicate, a mouth too thin to be generous or seductive. Wide, innocent eyes that bore a world's weight of dark circles, but were intelligent and the darkest shade of blue-violet he'd ever seen.
Placed together the mismatch seemed nothing more than an amalgamation of parts, but on second glance it settled like ripples on a pond, leaving him with an impression of winsome grace; the kind of strength that automatically caught one's attention, earning respect, but was matched with an impression of fragility.
He didn't know if it made him want to protect her, or break her within his arms. Either way, as Super or Villain, he could suddenly understand 'Ice-Cream's increase of attention. Even if she couldn't.
Overlong bangs swept across her forehead, half-hiding her face an instant before they were absently pushed away, and then he knew.
It was the kid. Having seen her only from a distance, and without a mask, she'd been unfamiliar at first but there was no mistaking it now that the pieces had fallen into place. Even while dressed in the baggiest clothing, hair an unkempt length of bound braid, Buddy knew without a doubt it was her.
Invisigirl.
Which meant that his enemy's daughter was old enough to be pursued by paramours, a hit he didn't know how to take, like someone shouting in his ear, 'Guess, what? You're old! Deal with it.' But there was something more to his shock, and Buddy wasn't sure why it winded him so much. Yet counting back mentally with both fingers and an internal abacus, Syndrome realized that yes, it was possible. He was thirty, which made her roughly twenty years old, and more than enough of a prize for most Superheroes. Not that she seemed excited by the knowledge.
And he still didn't know who the elusive Superman was. Other than, maybe, the thought that it had been his favorite flavor back when he'd been young and naïve…
No.
Frowning furiously, the scientist-turned-NSA lackey almost missed her next words as she continued to speak, "I…just don't know what to do with him. He's…"
"Dark? Brooding? Sarcastic?" Dixie filled in with a light smirk, arms crossing over her chest once before she bowed to fill a cup full of water from the water-cooler, "A genius? And what's wrong with that, Vi?"
"He's evil, Dixie! A genius, yes, but every time I'm around him I, well…I don't know, my skin crawls or something. It's like I'm a bug under his gaze and I know his eyes are going to laser me down. I can never breathe or think right around him."
Her friend just blinked, ever so slowly, "wait, let me get this straight--your skin gets goose bumps, you feel like he can see straight through you, and you have a hard time breathing around him. And this is a bad thing, how exactly?"
Frustration whipped the Parr girl's braid around as she propped her hands on her hips, and Syndrome gave her points for avoiding whiplash. But it still couldn't distract him from what was happening, like an audience member forced to watch the heroine die upon the train tracks, or a vase breaking in slow motion but being helpless to catch it. There was something here, something important the Ex-Villain was missing.
"He tried to kill my father! Tried to kill my whole family, even. You can't possibly--!"
The blonde threw her hands up in the air defensively. And the move somehow connected her image with a much younger one he had seen once-upon-a-time. That of Dixianne Dicker, now Dicker-Clark, daughter of NSA's top dog, herself. She was unpowered but strong, and currently worked as secretary to her father, mind power her weapon over physical ability.
So why was someone like her dealing with Mr. Expendable's eldest brat?
"Look. All I'm saying is that Dean was the same way when I met him--an Ex-Thief with an agenda. And I hated him, too. But maybe you're protesting just a bit too much for--."
"He tried to kill me, Dixie. Me," the words were spoken slowly, succinctly. And for a moment the redhead wondered if he should feel insulted. After all, it wasn't like he'd been trying to get at the kid.
Just her father.
Besides, that was years ago. Six or more at least. If it was still bothering her it wasn't his problem; it wasn't like she had died. And they'd somehow managed to 'kill' him off in the process, so didn't that make them even? Honestly, what was the chick's deal? It was like she was obsessed or someth--.
"Just think about it, okay Vi?"
The tiny, stick-thin excuse for a Super shook with the depth of her sigh, but eventually the girl framed by black hair nodded, "alright, Dix. I just…I don't know how to deal with it all. I don't even know how to deal with guys. Ice-cream. Whatever."
The woman she was asking for advice from could only shrug, "well. Just remember that no matter how powered or how talented, they're pretty much all the same--blind, confused, and just a little dumb. You just have to find one that's not as dumb."
"Like Dean?" the woman known as Invisigirl asked tartly, and Buddy couldn't bite back the grin that came in response to her tone.
"Like Dean," the blonde affirmed, then held up one finger, "okay, one sec. I have to go grab something from my desk."
"Kay," quiet dawned on the hallway. The girl, moderate in height but short in comparison to his own 6'3", leaned against the supporting wall like a scarecrow on its last leg, breathing deeply. Her face still looked slightly pinched, the heels of her hands pressed against closed eyes, but overall her frame had relaxed over the course of their conversation.
She held herself carefully, Buddy noticed with absent intent, but not defensively. And the hair he vaguely remembered falling perpetually into her eyes was tucked away, creating an entirely different effect.
She was pretty, if slim, and bore no resemblance to her father and little more to Elastigirl's former appearance. But there was the steel strength he'd identified earlier glinting out from underneath the glass exterior, driving him forward from his hiding place before sanity could stop him. It wasn't till he was directly looming above her that she even noticed his presence, though.
And then it was like his first ring of reactions at the NSA all over again, panic flashing immediately as her spine went from lounging to ramrod straight, hands lying flat against the cement of the wall.
Then the little Super did the unexpected.
She blushed. A full-out flush from neck to the tips of her ears, revealing the white line of scar tissue running down her jaw and widening her eyes until the rest of her features nearly drowned in them.
The kid opened her mouth to speak, but the only words that were vocalized were undecipherable and not existing in his vocabulary; a squeak of mousey proportions. With that as punctuation, Syndrome played a card he'd long since discarded but picked up with ease, planting flat palms to either side of her head: that of the wicked Villain.
Then, smirk having taken permanent residence, he muttered low and pointed, "So. Superman, huh?"
Her eyes grew wider, form straighter (if that was even possible), and pasted herself to the white-washed wall. Immediately the hands that had been pressed against her face just minutes before had curled into controlled claws, ready to create a shield that would leave him reeling. Before she had the chance to act, or he to think, his lips were soft on hers. No pressure, nor force, just a gentle brush.
Time slowed, then stopped just seconds before the clock tolled one.
It had been an impulse, the thought of 'she's gonna scream' recognizable in its truth. From there the Villain had acted without thinking, remembering past fights with Mirage and musing on his way of ending their disputations. Sure, he'd also wanted to scare her, or at least keep her from destroying the office, but…her hands had stilled in place, forgetting her effort at self defense, and the rest of her was, in fact, frozen. All except her lips, which were subtle and unresisting in a delicate press that lasted just a few short seconds, but somehow turned the world on its head in the process.
And then they were apart, her body slumped and lungs heaving as though she'd never before tasted oxygen. In one ear Buddy heard a noise and absently turned to his left, meeting the eyes of one NSA secretary, daughter to another man he hated (if not to the extent of Mr. Incredible). A smile and nod was all he gave the blonde, noting that she'd managed to knock over her cup in her shock, then turned and walked away, switching off his computer in passing.
Just before the elevator closed he heard ironic words echo from across the room, falling on ears that weren't meant to hear them. Just as he hadn't been meant to hear their conversation before.
"So you don't like Superman, huh? Tell me another one."
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AN:
Such a nerdbomber. So. Dixie forced herself into creation, and as I was describing her I kept having the word 'sharp' pop up in my mind, so when I went back to type up what I had written, I had used the adjective about three times. And then all I could think about was Azula from Avatar. "Sharp outfit Chan. Careful, you could puncture the hull of an Empire Class Fire Nation Battleship, leaving thousands to drown at sea...because it's so sharp." XD XD XD If you've seen the episode where the bad guys are at the beach then you'll know what I'm talking about. –laughs-
Erm, to explain…if you're a girl and you've never had an 'ice cream' conversation, then you're missing out on an integral part of your life. Or at least, you haven't been watching copious amounts of Hey Arnold or Lois and Clark: Adventures of Superman. Which means you have more of a life than me--congrats. ~__^ -wink-
None of Violet's paramours are based off of real life people (although one is created after a fan-character of an existing Disney character. XD ), but instead they have been made as an exaggeration of certain traits my roommie and I have had to deal with over the past three years. And Dean was just a random name that popped into my head. Not sure if it was Iron Giant, Harry Potter, or my Uncle-inspired.
I've never experienced a water-cooler conversation, fyi, and this is most definitely a tribute to both Crazed Fuzzle, for her Daddy's Little Girl ending (what else could follow that up, but a Syndrome-Stuck-In-A-Cubicle scene. Hehe. The idea grabbed me with iron hooks), as well as all the Gundam Wing "At the Preveneter Headquarters this happened…" fanfiction that I read as a fifteen-year old girl. Both tend to leave a bit of an impact, either way.