10

"Syndrome, you're getting water everywhere! Why didn't you dry your hair out?" Helen yelled, chasing after him with a rolled up magazine in her hand. Buddy bounced around the house, trying to avoid being smacked. He rounded corners so fast that he almost slipped and fell. It was hard to run when one was only wearing socks on their feet. He turned back behind him, panting heavily.

"You wouldn't give me a hairdryer! You said it was too dangerous! It's your fault, don't whack me with that! That's a huge catalogue you've got there, lady -- and it's not even near Christmas!" he gasped, increasing his pace as he entered the living room once again. He dodged a blow from Helen as she used her elastic powers to increase the length of her arm. He chortled, almost enjoying the trouble he was making. He ran back into the hallway, and to his surprise, smacked into something, and fell onto the ground.

"Did I hit a glass door or something?" he asked, rubbing his face and trying to stand up. Violet appeared in front of him, and Helen came behind and started whacking him with the newspaper. "No, you hit my force field," Violet sighed. "What are you two doing? For a moment I thought he was trying to escape -- but then you two just kept going around in circles."

"She's hitting me because she wouldn't give me a hairdryer!" Buddy yelped, doing his best to avoid being smacked any further.

"He got water on my hardwood floor." Helen said gruffly, giving him a final tap on the head with her magazine. He stared at her in amusement and pushed himself to his feet. "Alright, that was fun, but I'm getting so bored. What are we going to do next?"

"You're so immature," Violet grunted. "I've got to go now, mom. I signed up for a volunteer job and I've got to be there in about ten minutes. Good luck with the nutcase."

".. You referring to me?" Buddy asked, his mouth twisting into a crooked smile. "I'm no more of a nutcase than you are. I'm seriously bored, though. Can I watch television?"

Violet grabbed her purse and walked out the door without another word. Helen glared at Buddy and set the magazine down on a nearby coffee table. "As long as 'watch television' does not mean 'take apart television piece by piece to see how it works'." She rumbled, going back to the kitchen to work.

"Don't worry! I already know how a television works, so I don't need to take it apart!" he assured, holding up one hand and grinning. As soon as he turned away, he abruptly stopped smiling, and walked stiffly towards the living room, a look of pure hate shining in his eyes. He sat down hard on the couch and pressed the remote buttons harder than need be. There was nothing good on, like always, so he simply flipped to the news and pretended to watch. However, in his mind he was working out how he would escape. He did not want to stay any longer, pretending to be pleasant in the presence of his enemies.

Stupidity seemed to be the only way to hide his scheming mind. If he acted like he was some fool who didn't know left from right, they could never tell if he was up to something. He felt pressure on the couch next to him and woodenly turned his head to face whoever had the audacity to sit so close to him. The anger on his face was replaced with a faux look of cheeriness, which almost faded as soon as he saw that he was looking at Agent Reeves.

"Hello, Mr. Reeves," he said, doing his best to keep his words matching his expression, and not his inner feelings. "Is there something that you want to watch? I could change the channel for you."

"You're looking unusually happy, Syndrome," Reeves said, eyeing Buddy suspiciously, and flinching uncomfortably, as though he expected the man's mood to suddenly turn dark. "Yes, there is something that I want to watch. Could you turn to channel 20?"

Buddy picked up the remote and flicked through channels casually, until he came to the one that Reeves had wanted to watch. "A Disney musical animated movie?" he said, turning to Agent Reeves with a puzzled look on his face. "I had no idea you actually liked things like that. You don't seem like an animated feature sort of guy."

"Well, they bring back memories, and lighten up my mood a bit. Oh, I think you'll like this one, Syndrome!" Reeves said, gazing at the television, looking rather childlike as his dark eyes sparkled.

"The Jungle Book? Exactly why would I like this one, might I ask?" Buddy asked. No reply came, for Agent Reeves had become engrossed in watching the movie. Buddy glared at him and got up off the couch, going to the kitchen in search of a snack. The smell of cookies hung in the air, which made his stomach growl. He gently tapped Helen on the shoulder, and ducked, just in case she decided to whirl around and hit him.

"Syndrome, what are you doing?" she asked. "If it's a cookie you want, you're not going to get one. These are for a bake sale, not for anyone in this family unless you wish to purchase one."

".. I apologize for getting water on your floor."

"That's not going to get you a cookie."

"Darn it."

He paused for a second, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. "I'm hungry, though. Can't I have a snack?"

Helen sighed and pointed to the refrigerator. "Grab yourself something from there, but don't eat too much, it's almost dinner time, and you shouldn't spoil your appetite."

"Yes, mom," sniggered Buddy, opening the fridge and peering inside. There wasn't much that appealed to him inside, but after digging around a while, he pulled out an unopened package of cheese sticks. He held it up triumphantly and turned to Helen. "Can I have these?"

"All of them?"

"Yep!"

".. So much for not ruining your appetite.."

He retreated back into his bedroom with his snack. Hopefully, he'd have enough peace in there to think. He crawled onto his bed with one of the cheese sticks in his mouth, chewing on it thoughtfully and rolling over so he could stare at the ceiling. He had an excellent plan for escape in his head, but he wasn't sure if it would work or not. There would be a few things he needed, but didn't know where to get them from. He also had to check and see if his bathroom had a window, as he didn't notice if there was one last time. He got up and walked to his bathroom, opening the door and looking back and forth.

He caught a glimpse of a small, high window, with bars running across it. That would be one of the hardest things to escape through, but he might have to go for it. But first, there were a few other things he needed. He exited the bathroom and started looking for his other pair of pants. He reached into one of the pockets and pulled out a wallet. He smiled and grabbed a handful of bills from it, and rushed out of the room, heading towards the kitchen again, once again trying to look as pleasant as possible.

"Ms. Helen, ma'am!" he called.

"What is it? If you're after a cookie again I'm going to hit you with the magazine --" Helen said in a low, threatening tone of voice.

"No, no, I don't want a cookie, I want to take art lessons!"

".. You're kidding, right?"

"Nope! I want to be a sculptor! I could even pay for it myself!" he exclaimed, waving the money in the air.

"If you're serious about this, I'll talk about it with Agent Reeves. I'm sure he'd be fine with you getting a hobby, especially a creative one like this one. Where is he, anyway?"

Buddy took in a deep breath, trying not to laugh. "He's watching 'The Jungle Book'," he said, biting his lip immediately afterward and chuckling to himself. "I could fetch him for you, if you want me to."

Helen simply nodded and went back to cooking for a moment, then she stopped suddenly, and turned around slightly in his direction. "Where'd you get that money, anyway?" she asked.

"I'm rich," he replied simply. He ran into the living room, noticing that Reeves still seemed to be in a trancelike state. Buddy sighed and grumbled, walking up to the NSA agent and waving his hand in front of the man's face. There was no response for a second, and then Reeves pushed Buddy's hand away and grunted.

"Agent Reeves, can I take art lessons?"

"Eh, sure, whatever."

"M'kay!" Buddy said with a huge smile on his face. If his plan worked out, he'd be free in no time. All he needed to know was how to sculpt a life-like statue of himself. He stood, thinking for a second, and suddenly spotted Agent Reeves' pistol out of the corner of his eye. He gently reached over and slid it out from the agent's coat, and put it into his own pocket. Reeves didn't even flinch, he just kept watching television. This was certainly a bonus. If anything went wrong, he'd just shoot.

"Give it back, Syndrome." Reeves growled all of the sudden.

Buddy froze, biting his lip. He turned around quickly, and all in one motion, shot Agent Reeves in the head, jammed the pistol into the agent's own hand, and called for help. "Oh my gosh, he just committed suicide!" Buddy gasped, assuming a dramatic pose, his hand on his forehead. "Quick, Mrs. Parr, get over here! I fear something absolutely terrible has happened! Help, help, help!" He couldn't help the sarcastic edge that found it's way to his words, but Helen didn't seem to notice as she came rushing into the room.

"What happened?! Why'd he do this?" she asked, grabbing the phone to dial for an ambulance.

"He just said 'life's not worth living' and shot himself, it was absolutely dreadful!" Buddy exclaimed, jumping around and trying to make an even bigger deal out of it. "What will we ever do without brave Agent Reeves around!?"

Helen glared at him in a 'shut up, this is serious' sort of way, and dialed 911. Buddy smirked and scampered back to his room, attempting to wipe splatters of blood off of his clean shirt. "Ugh, these will never come out," he grumbled. He hoped everyone would be stupid enough to continue believing that Agent Reeves had shot himself. He also hoped there hadn't been any security cameras in the room at the time. If there had been, it'd mean a heck of a lot of trouble of him. "Maybe I should have just given him his gun back. Ah, well, what's the worst thing they can do to me, anyway? I've already killed so many people, it's not like another one makes a difference. It's just less trash in the world, s'all."

He found another shirt to change into and did so. He heard a lot of commotion outside as the ambulance arrived, and paramedics entered the house, along with police. He scanned the hallway to make sure it was clear of any people before he walked out of his room to watch everything. Helen was distraught, but obviously more because blood was on her couch than the fact that Agent Reeves had 'killed himself.' "Syndrome, get over here and help me wipe some of this up," she said with a slight cough. "Then, after you're done with that, go with the police. They want to ask you some questions since you're the only witness."

Buddy narrowed his eyes. The last thing he wanted to do was go with the police. "Do I have to?" he asked.

"Yes."

Oh, this is just brilliant. I've got to think of an easy way to get out of this…

"Oh! My poor stomach!" he gasped, falling onto his knees suddenly, and clutching at his abdomen. "Ack! The pain, the terrible pain! Quick! I need a doctor!"

Helen glared at him. "Did you do something wrong, Syndrome?"

"No. What makes you think that?"

"You're trying to get out of going to see the police."

"I don't like police officers."

"They're your friends."

"That's what you think, Elastigirl."

"Get off of your lazy bottom and go with the police, and no more excuses about your stomach hurting or something like that. Don't call me Elastigirl, either. You could jeopardize the well being of not only yourself but everyone around you!" she snapped, smacking him on the cheek firmly. To her surprise, he didn't even flinch, he simply glared at her.

".. You call me Syndrome, so it's only fair that I get to call you by your alter ego name, too." He grumbled, itching the side of his nose and using the coffee table to help himself get up. "So you can either call me 'Buddy' or 'Terry', or I can call you 'Elastigirl', your choice."

The police were waiting impatiently for Buddy to come with them. He sighed and prepared himself to do some heavy-duty lying. They grabbed him by the shoulder and led him out to their vehicle. They sat him down in the back seat and closed the door firmly, before climbing into the front seat. The car smelled rather old, and the leather seats squeaked when Buddy moved. He leaned back, closing his eyes, his mind wandering back to a scene from many, many years ago.

"I can help you, you're making a mistake!"

A sudden rush of rage came back, and Buddy clenched his fists.

"You mean he got away?" a policeman asked.

"Well, yeah, Skippy here made sure of that." Mr. Incredible growled, gesturing towards Buddy who was sitting inside of the police car, arms folded across his chest.

"Incrediboy!" he snapped, glaring in his former hero's direction.

"You're not affiliated with me!"

Buddy wiped his nose on his sleeve and sighed. "I don't even know who I am anymore. I'll just -- attempt to figure it out. Let's see -- Incrediboy? Absolutely not. Buddy? I doubt it. Terry? Not at all, never really was, never really will be. Syndrome?" he paused and thoughtfully looked out the window for a moment before answering himself. "Most likely.."

--X--

Violet arrived at her parent's house on her motor scooter, sighing as she looked towards the door. She wanted to go back to her own apartment, but her mom had insisted she stay just for the first few days that Syndrome was around. She parked her bike, unstrapped her helmet, and walked up the path to the door. She rang the doorbell and pushed a strand of her black hair out of her face.

Her mom opened the door with a grunt. "You wouldn't believe what happened today."

"Why is there blood all over the place?!" gasped Violet. "What happened?"

Helen rubbed her temples and motioned for Violet to sit down. "According to Syndrome, Agent Reeves committed suicide. He's currently at the police station being asked a few questions. The NSA phoned me and said they'd send over a team of agents in Reeves' place, and they'll be over any time now. Could you help me straighten things up a bit?"

Violet nodded, going to the kitchen to get a wet rag, and trying to think of ways to remove blood stains from fabric and carpet. "Let me see, was it ammonia and detergent? I think it is.." She grabbed the rag, dampened it, and went to the laundry room to look for detergent and then to the pantry to look for ammonia. She returned to the living room and got down on her knees so that she could clean up splatters. As the blood transferred from the carpet to the rag, she thought about Agent Reeves. There was no reason for him to commit suicide, was there? He looked pleasant enough, not at all depressed, unless he was extremely good at hiding it.

Helen grabbed another rag and dipped it into the ammonia/water/detergent solution and scrubbed the couch with it.

"So, Syndrome was the only one who witnessed the event, was he?" Violet asked. Helen turned to her and nodded before going back to scrubbing.

"I don't believe Agent Reeves committed suicide," Violet continued. "I think Syndrome killed him."

"Agreed. He should know better than to try to pull the wool over our eyes. It was obvious to me, and the police, that it was his doing. He was acting fidgety, and you could tell that he was lying."

"Why hasn't he grown up yet? How old is he now, thirty-five years or something? Why does he act so immature?" Violet breathed.

"I'm guessing it's his was of coping with things. He's had a lot happen to him. He missed out on ten years of his life, and he'll never get those ten years back. In that time, he could have matured, but because of the memory wiping, he thought he was someone else. When he learned he wasn't someone else, he went back to being who he was before his stay in the NSA's psychiatric hospital." Helen answered.

"He missed out on way more than ten years of his life, from what I know. He's probably missed out on about twenty-five years of his entire life. He was about -- ten when he tried to become dad's sidekick, right?" Violet asked, rubbing down hard on a particularly annoying stain.

"Yes. You're right about that, too, Violet. Revenge consumed his entire life, and he knows it. That's why he acts immature. He could also be acting immature to hide the fact that he's angry, or to hide the fact that he's plotting something. I'm willing to bet it's for all of those reasons."

"Is that why he does particularly annoying things, too?"

"Well, Violet, as you know, he, like most villains, is an attention-seeker. He'll do anything for attention, because he thrives on it. It could be positive or negative attention, he'll take it either way. By doing annoying or destructive things, he gains the attention of everyone around him, and that makes him feel good."

"Why can't he just do something productive and earn attention that way?"

"He could, but he probably doesn't feel motivated to. Tearing things apart is easier for him than building things up." Helen said, reaching over to help Violet with the tough stain.

"Thanks for the explanation, mom. I'm going to have a talk with him when he gets back."