I'd go through the rest of the impromptu vacation, but none of it is particularly important, as far as I'm concerned. Really, that first night was all that made any difference. Don't ask me why things never got very awkward between us. I assume it's because after the fact we never had time to ask questions ourselves. I know I love Doctor Impossible, and it only becomes more apparent to me as time goes on. But there's a difference between loving someone and being in love with them. Mine is a wish to serve, so I guess you could call me a minion of sorts.
It might be easier to deal with the title if only he had more than just me, but at the same time, I'm glad it's just the two of us. We're alone together more often than not, and in a more logical sense, the more people you have, the harder it is to keep track of them all. I would assume so, anyway. I've never been a leader; I'm not cut out for it. I either work alone, or as an underling, and the weird part is it doesn't really bother me.
Not that he calls me "underling" or "minion". He stopped calling me anything like that weeks ago. I'm Syn when in costume, Libby when out. It doesn't bother me to be called "Libby". He's the only one who does it, after all. I don't know what his take is on all this. I don't know how he thinks of me, and I don't think I ever will know. He's as inscrutable as ever, but it's part of the mystique. If I could figure him out, a superhero might be able to, too. And we wouldn't want that, now, would we?
The house is nice. Four bedroom, three bath, really not as big as you'd think that would be. The yard is what's big. After a couple of weeks I finally caved and hired a caretaker to mow the lawn on a regular basis and keep the neat hedges from growing over that white picket fence. Oh, yes, if I were looking for domestic bliss, this house would be at the end of the rainbow.
Frankly, I think it's growing on me. I'd say I don't remember the last time I cooked a meal, but I guess it was those steaks a month or so back. I've resolved that Rio must have run away from home like I did, because otherwise she'd certainly have grown into Carbon Copy Female. There must be a universe somewhere where good me isn't giving evil me problems, and instead evil me runs rampant while good me (neutral me?) cooks dinner for her husband.
Speaking of spousal relations. "What's for dinner, honey?"
"Don't call me that," I growl at him. "I'm making chili. Must be the Mexican in me."
"Anyone ever tell you you'd make an excellent housewife?"
"No one ever had the opportunity. If you keep it up, no one will in the future, either."
"Now, calm down. Don't go shaking your spatula at me."
"Ladle."
"Whatever." He pauses and something under his hands explodes. Thank goodness someone had the sense to deactivate the smoke alarms. "Shit."
"Maybe you'd be able to concentrate better if you left my problems alone and focused on yours."
He sucks on one of his fingertips, scowling. First degree burns. Can't say I remember what a burn feels like (last time I know of, I stuck my hand on the side of a pot my mother specifically told me was too hot to touch when I was three), but I'd guess it's not fun. I return to the kitchen briefly, then cross the room with a Band-Aid. "Here."
He gives me a strange look. "I'm an evil mastermind. I don't need a Band-Aid."
"What do you want, then, a kiss to make it better?"
"No." Our banter isn't really the smartassery contest it sounds like anymore. It's really a long, semi-rehearsed string of teasing, for the most part. Don't get me wrong, I still get angry at him from time to time. It's hard not to lose patience with someone as stubborn as (or more stubborn than) you are. We seem to have fallen into an easy partnership. I'd hated to say I told him so (but I did say it, and I secretly savored it), but the beach trip did us some good after all.
When not cooking, I'm sewing. I hate myself sometimes. I'm having a hard time recalling any sort of education I might've gotten from my mother or a Home Ec class, and stitching spandex is tough, but it's not like I'm wasting hard-earned money on materials. I'd ask everyone else why they don't just steal money like I do instead of earning an hourly wage, but a world where everybody stole everything would suck. That, I will be the first to admit, is true.
I made a new logo, so to speak. My stickers won't change; those are uniquely mine. But I'm working some red and gold in, and ditching the green. It feels wrong when my plasma color doesn't match my costume anymore. Black and green with red makes me feel like a goddamn gothic Christmas ornament or something.
So that's where the red comes in, and gold, of course, goes well with it and happens to be the contrast color of choice for my colleague. I am trying to think about how Doctor Impossible would design my costume if he got his hands on it. Some armor here, some fins there, a cape. I'm almost embarrassed for it, but if he can prance around in that stupid helmet, then I can wear a breastplate. With shoulder pads. Hideously large metal shoulder pads. I'm doing my best here. I haven't dropped the black, at least, or the domino mask, or the silver wig. I don't think silver looks quite right with the other colors, but it's my persona. My S is gone, and so is... all of my costume except the black jumpsuit, so without the wig I figure I might as well just change my name altogether. And that's not going to happen because Synergy took me a while to think of.
I made the mistake of telling Doctor Impossible when my birthday is. At the time, I didn't think it was important, but by December eighth, when I've gotten my costume finished ("Not bad for a first try" was the reaction, which is good enough for me) it matters a little more.
"Good morning." Someone is weirdly smiley today.
"Oh, god! Get out of my bed!" Alright, technically he's not in my bed, he's sort of perched at the edge, but it's close enough to bother me.
"Happy birthday, Elizabeth."
"Did you not hear me?"
"I made you something."
"If it's breakfast, I don't want it. Out."
Jonathan sighs and crawls off of my mattress. "It's not breakfast, but if it was, my feelings would be hurt."
"You have feelings?"
"Shut up. Meet me in the Lair."
The Lair is what he's taken to calling the basement, since it's where he keeps most of his creations, including the supercomputer. Lately the good Doctor has been hard at work committing a felony a minute. I wouldn't mind except that I've got a bit of a competitive streak. I'm supposed to be waiting for a vehicle or four for use in committing my countrywide crime spree, and suddenly, I have a sneaking suspicion I know what my birthday present is. He's certainly excited about something, anyway.
I throw a long sleeved shirt and a pair of sweatpants on over the camisole and panties I wear to bed. This house is too big to retain any heat, and the snow's about a foot deep today. It is freezing in here, and it'll be worse in the basement, but I probably ought to get this over with so I can have my coffee. So I trudge down the stairs to the ground floor, clumsily locate the basement door (helpfully left open for me), and trudge down those stairs, too.
Good lord. It's like if a tank made love to a jeep and then they let Doctor Impossible mess with the genes while the thing was in the womb.
"Do you like it?" I can tell he wants to bounce a little or something. He wants it so badly, but he doesn't want to look any less threatening than usual.
"What is it?"
"It's the SynerJeep," Jonathan informs me, gesturing toward the front of the vehicle. Sure enough, there's my logo, cast in what looks like brass, but is probably titanium or something. The whole thing is black, but it has gold metal accents and dark red tinted windows. I think my head might just barely reach to the bottoms of the doors.
"Oh." I'm trying to sound excited. I really am.
"You don't like it, do you?" Dammit. I don't think I've ever seen him look so hurt. Well, except for that time back at the beach, and I don't want to relive it all that badly.
"No, of course I like it." I do. It's just hard to show it when one is dragged out of one's bed and forced to marvel without coffee first. Even if it's not the way I'd want to wake up on my birthday, I manage a smile that I think even looks a little apologetic. "I just woke up, is all. Really, Jon, this is... very nice of you. Very thoughtful of you to remember. Thank you." Is it just me who thinks maybe 'nice' and 'thoughtful' aren't usually words you'd use to describe an evil genius? People certainly are complicated.
"Wonderful. I'm glad you like it, Elizabeth. Now we can get some real work done. I wouldn't have held out on you so long, but it seemed necessary, what with your birthday so soon."
Which reminds me. "When is your birthday?"
"I don't remember. It's been a while since it was last celebrated."
"You have an eidetic memory."
I see surprise register on his face. "August fourteenth. You'd do best to forget it."
"Don't tell me what I'd do best to do. I'm going to go do best to make breakfast."
"It's your birthday."
"Then I'll be sure to take a day off from lounging on my money piles to not make breakfast once you rule the world."
I start back up the stairs, and Doctor Impossible follows a couple of steps behind. "Libby, my dear, you have the strangest fantasies of any woman I've ever met."
"And how many women have told you their deepest desires?"
"I can count the number on one hand. Two fingers of one hand, to be exact. And one of those fingers might actually be a lie anyway. Quite a bit of the rest was."
"Then that's not saying much, is it?" I try to ignore the wistful tone of his voice when he talks about Lily. I wouldn't admit it if my life was at stake, but it bothers me.
"I suppose not."
Breakfast is fruit and toast. Not much of a birthday meal, but it's what's left in the fridge and pantry. I refuse to go back to eating Chinese takeout, but it has become painfully obvious that I'm also neglecting my duty to go shopping every so often to keep us well-stocked. The house turned out to be more out of the way than I'd like. It takes me five minutes just to get off the property, and then I have to walk another half hour to get to the nearest grocery store. Remind me to get a car that doesn't look like something off of Monster Truck Rumble.
After I've filled my stomach, I'm feeling better. "So, tell me about this... SynerJeep," I say, lazily pushing a butter knife enveloped in red around the table. The glow has that shimmery quality my power gets when I'm in a good mood. It's sort of iridescent.
"I'm glad you asked." And there's that familiar defiant gleam in Jonathan's eye. He has transitioned to Doctor Impossible. "It's state of the art, really. I don't mean to brag, but it's true." He totally means to brag.
"Great. How is it state of the art?"
"Be patient. At the basest level, you will never actually have to drive this car. There's an on board computer that does all the work for you. It hasn't even got a steering wheel. Just tell it where you want to be, and it'll take you."
Alright, that's pretty impressive. His face looks expectant. There's more, but I have to ask first. "Very nice. What else?"
He counts off on his fingers. "Vaults to keep your cash in. Entirely bulletproof exterior. Heatproof up to three thousand degrees Fahrenheit, then the platinum will melt, so do be careful." Platinum? How much did this thing cost? I try not to think too much about it. "Freeze-proof, too. I don't think anything short of the end times will hurt this vehicle, and even then, I'd suggest it as a bunker. Of course, Libby, you'd be worried about this, so I made sure you wouldn't have to pay for gas. It runs on zeta energy."
Isn't that the stuff that caused his accident? "Is that safe?"
"Should be." He winks at me. He is having way too much fun with this. "Oh, and..." The pause is for emphasis. Here it comes, the part I'm supposed to like best. I can tell from the smirk. "...there's a hoverboard in the back."
"Hoverboard?" I squeak. This just got legit.
"With a charging unit. You've got about six hours of battery life, which I figured should be enough, but just in case, you can carry a spare battery on your back."
Right now I don't particularly care about how much battery life my hoverboard might get. I want to mess with it. This is officially the best birthday ever, and I have to admit, I didn't think an awesome birthday would be what I got out of hanging around the Smartest Man in the World. "Can I... can we... I want to see it."
"Naturally," Doctor Impossible smiles, fluidly rising from his chair. He trails in my frantic footsteps slowly, enjoying every second of praise he garners. "Now, Libby, keep in mind it's no power staff or anything, but I hope you'll enjoy it anyway."
"Open the car." I think my eyes are blinking one at a time.
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," he says, shaking his head. The grin has not left his face. He fishes a remote out of the pocket of his flannel lounge pants and presses a button on it. The car's headlights flash, and I attempt to open the trunk, but it doesn't work. "Libby. Did you really think I'd make a car that opened with just a remote?"
"Maybe." Yes. That's how cars work, isn't it?
"If I ever thought you were a genius, this would've dismissed those thoughts."
"Just open the car."
He chuckles at me. "No, no. That's your job. There's a retina scanner on the driver's door. Naturally, I have a program that will override it, but where's the fun in that?" I rush to the front seat and hold my eyes open as wide as I can, searching for, I don't know, some kind of camera or something. Doctor Impossible coughs to suppress a laugh. It's a few seconds before a robotic voice announces, "Authentication confirmed. Welcome, Synergy."
Ohmigod this is the coolest thing ever. "How do I open the trunk?"
"Voice recognition confirmed. Access granted." I hear a soft click as the trunk pops open.
"Oh." Now I skitter back around to the other side of the car, and summon my strength to lift the massive, bulletproof rear door. But it comes up with surprising ease.
My hoverboard rests mounted on the left wall, while a line of gleaming safes decorates the right. Everything inside is gold and red with black accents to contrast with the black exterior. Doctor Impossible even had the good taste to put a big bow on the hoverboard, which I very gently place on the floor of the SynerJeep.
It feels lighter than it should in my hands, especially concerning how cumbersome it could be. The board is about three feet long and two feet wide, and it has the same shape as a bodyboard made for skimming across shallow waves. I half expect to find a wrist strap, but I guess that wouldn't look very cool. The top is glistening gold with a rim of some sort of red colored metal. Two black spots mark where my feet should go, but there's not much other than that to indicate the thing's purpose. It's nothing but an aerodynamic platform of seamless metal. I flip it over, and the bottom is black with a large insignia, presumably so when frantic citizens look up, they'll know exactly who just made off with their life's savings. It's for the greater good, honestly.
I notice the red rim shows up on the black side, too, and toward the edges of the board, narrows off into a nasty-looking edge. Naturally, I go to touch it.
"Wait a minute, Libby, it's-"
"Ow." Damn, now I've got a paper cut. Of sorts.
"...Sharp." He takes a moment to sigh and rub his temple. "I suppose I should've expected as much. You're lucky you didn't hack that finger off altogether."
"That would be a lame birthday. Made less lame by the fact that I still have a hoverboard."
"That's true. Would you like to try it out?"
"Do I breathe air?"
"Well, you never can tell, really, with metahumans, but I'll take that as a yes. You're going to need the hoverboots." He points back toward the inside of the monster truck, where I completely ignored a pair of red boots with gold metal toes and black soles. They have fins, but I'm not complaining.
"THE BOOTS HOVER, TOO?"
Doctor Impossible's eyebrows furrow. "Um. No. But they have smart magnets inside that interface with the board."
"Smart magnets?"
"In other words, they don't stick to everything iron, cobalt, or nickel. Just that board, and it's a strong hold."
I'd ask how one makes a magnet "smart" but it's probably the same situation as with the smart fabric of my old suit. I don't want to know. Less science, more fly... ence. I zip up the boots, and I can tell they're custom made to fit my feet, if not only for their abilities. You own a pair of custom shoes one time, and you know the feel forever.
"What now?" I ask him from my perch on the bumper. It was the only place I could find to sit other than the floor, and my feet dangle over the four foot drop to the ground.
"The boots also function as an on switch, so to speak. Now you can make a hasty getaway without worrying about those pesky power buttons."
"Thanks for trying to sell this to me, but I'm already sold."
"Whatever you say. Here." He lifts the board underneath my feet, and the soles of the boots attach to the black spots on top like metal snaps for clothing. The hoverboard powers up with a soft vibration under my feet. I can't hear a thing. I begin to stand and the board holds my weight easily, balancing parallel to the floor a couple of feet off the ground.
Hoverboards aren't all that uncommon nowadays. Certainly, they're expensive, but not any more than a cheap car, depending on the model. Technologically, they're quite advanced. There's no need to stretch my arms out or try to keep balanced like you see in old movies. Balancing on a hoverboard is easy as long as you know how to stand on solid ground. I can faintly feel the spinning of the gyroscope inside – the internal computer reads your foot position and weight distribution a few hundred times per second, quickly making predictions based on movement more rapid than you can even feel yourself taking. The board knows exactly how you're balanced at any given time, and it holds you up more solidly than your own feet can. I wouldn't normally bother with learning this kind of stuff, but I've always wanted a hoverboard, so I ended up reading quite a bit about them. I never got one before now, though, because frankly I don't trust corporate technology. Anything with a computer built in is bound to have something you don't know is there, and who knows what they could be putting in the stuff people buy en masse?
I've certainly tried hoverboards before, though, and this one is unlike any other. It's lighter, stronger, and more... weaponized. This much I can tell from just standing on it. I gently lean forward to prod the board into moving, and the acceleration almost knocks me off, but just as Doctor Impossible had promised, the boots don't lose their grip. "Whoa."
"Ah, yes, the speed might take a little getting used to."
"How fast does it go?"
"How fast are you comfortable with?" he answers, with a sly grin. "It's faster than the ones the police have, and that's what's important, right?"
"Damn." Do you know how fast police hoverboards go? Faster than most cars, that's for sure.
"It's made for maximum speed and agility. It also flies upside-down."
I crouch and put my weight on my heels to gain altitude, then rock hard onto my right side. Sure enough, the board flips, and I'm just fine. Normal hoverboards will crash if you're not careful with banking. Obviously I won't have that problem. "How does it do this?" Normal hoverboards also only have whatever it is that makes them hover on their bottom sides.
"A combination of small-scale antigravity field and neodymium magnet."
"Neo-what?"
"Neodymium magnets," he begins, as if reciting from an encyclopedia, "are the strongest magnets known to man. Coupled with a field-reversing mechanism and an electric amplifier of sorts, a neodymium magnet will pick up the smallest amount of magnetic material in the air or ground, and use the polar repulsion of it to keep the board airborne, whatever its direction relative to the Earth's surface."
"Oh." I guess that makes sense. I'm just not going to ask anymore. Knowing doesn't do me a lick of good.
It takes me a couple of tries to get the board right-side up again, but riding it is no problem. Pretty soon I've gotten used to the acceleration, and I'm zipping around the room almost flat to the board's surface, taking advantage of its very precise steering. This thing moves as quickly as my reflexes do. Crashing shouldn't be an issue.
"Done yet?" Doctor Impossible asks from the floor. I can hardly hear him over the rush of wind in my ears. I've flown before; to a certain extent my power allows me that much, but this won't drain me in a matter of minutes. Reluctantly, I slow and then finally come to a stop in front of him.
"How do I get this thing off my feet?"
"Land."
"That makes sense." Sure enough, I lower the board until it sits flat on the ground, and my feet pop off easily. I scoop the board off the ground and place it back into its dock inside the SynerJeep before turning to my companion. "Thank you. This is all... really incredible. I can't imagine where you'd get all the stuff to make this. Or how you did it."
"All in a day's work, Elizabeth. It wasn't very difficult."
"Of course it wasn't difficult. It wouldn't be, for you."
He just shrugs enigmatically and starts back up the stairs, leaving me to my own devices. I decide I'm not done yet after all, and grab the board before permitting the car to close and lock itself. This is going to be quite a bit of fun. I force myself to walk in a slow, dignified manner up the basement stairs, then up the spiral flight to the second floor where my room is. I suit up, proud of myself for sanding down the rough edges of my new armor before I needed it. Time to revisit some old haunts.