Chapter Eleven

I lay on the small, itchy cot trying hard not to scream. I could feel the suppressed noise building in my ribcage, rising and falling like the tide, and I bit deeply into the bunched up blanket in order to keep the ebb. The holding cell was small and narrow, with an ugly yellow shade slapped on the cinderblock walls, and the bottom bunk bed had a thin mattress with an itchy blanket on it. I was curled on this bottom bunk, immobile thanks to the shock coat which kept my arms numbingly still, and also due to my strapped ribs. There was little I could do without pain, and I couldn't even think without feeling the urge to scream my frustration.

So I just cried.

The tears didn't seem to have any meaning to me anymore – the had ceased to bleed me dry of pain, now they were just excess moisture I couldn't wipe off my face. For a time, they had purged me of all feeling and grief, but now they just felt emotionless and cold. Like the supervillain I was becoming.

Was this what my life was going to be like? An eternity behind bars, staring vengefully out from beneath a sagging cot, waiting to strike? Obsessively planning escapes and heists, assembling a good team of supervillains, thinking nothing of murder and destruction? Not all supervillains worked alone – perhaps if I could come to peace with the other side, I could finally find a place to belong. I could be at home among other people, instead of lying continually without ever feeling welcome.

But my conscience…my conscience begged me to listen.

Being a superhero had its tolls, it had its pitfalls – but it was the Family Business. I was duty-bound by blood. Wouldn't it break my father's heart to see his wife dead, his son missing, and his daughter flipped and turned into a supervillain? Would I ever have to hate my family, curse my very existence?

No, I still loved my family. I loved my family too much to see them hurt further.

I prayed that the search parties would find Jack-Jack. Although if the other missing supers were any indication, they didn't have the slightest clue where to find him. He had simply vanished. I was positive it wouldn't be long until the FBI stepped in and took over; vanishing super children would grow to be a threat of national security. Brainwashed superheroes, an army of them, and the world would be your oyster.

There was a dull metal clang from the hallway, and I looked up instantly, hoping to see a familiar face. The shaking had stopped shortly after her interrogation with Agent Dillon and Officer Jempson, so I wasn't impaired by the unconscious jostling. The burly black guard who had locked the door was now opening it, and he had a baton looped around his wrist. I kept my eyes downcast, hoping he wouldn't see how red and puffy my eyes were, but it was useless – some of my hair was stuck to my cheeks, where my tears had dried.

"Come on, up we go," He muttered, and turned me around none-too-gently. There was a zipping sound, and the shock coat was unclasped, allowing my arms to rotate fully and I whimpered in pain, massaging my shoulders. The residue from the power-smothering coat made my skin tingle unpleasantly, and I saw a rash creeping out from beneath my sleeve.

The side effects of the coats were nasty, but luckily short lasting.

He grasped my shoulder and guided me out of the jail cell and down the spotlessly clean corridor towards the barred door at the far end. I chanced a look upwards, and raised my hands to brush the hair away from my face. "What's going on?" I asked, my voice creaky and rusty from disuse and the torrent of tears.

"Someone posted bail." He said tersely, and I felt a swooping sensation in my gut, as though I had missed a stair. The bail they had posted was close to a million dollars – who had that kind of money? And especially only after an afternoon in jail?

Syndrome.

I gritted my teeth and felt the bluish electricity crackle around my fingertips, then quelled it with effort. If the guard noticed, he didn't show anything, but I couldn't keep my fingernails from digging into my palms. If Syndrome was here, I would kill him without a second thought – he didn't deserve a chance to explain himself. He would bail me out, of course, that would just be a continuation of his torture. I strained to see who was around the corner.

All the fight went out of me when I saw who it was.

"Dad?"

My father was a huge man, and I do mean that literally. He was built like a mountain, with big sloping shoulders tapering down to a narrower waist and thick thighs. He had put on weight since the death of my mother, which hampered his once impressive physique, and his blonde hair was almost totally white and thin on the top. But those dark blue eyes were so similar to Dash's, and so full of hurt that I broke free of the guard and ran to him. He crushed me in a hug, and the breath was driven from my body as my injured ribs exploded with pain. "I'm so sorry, I got here as quick as I could," He told me quietly, and gave the guard a stony glare. After the guard rolled his eyes and left, Dad turned back to me. "Are you all right? What's all this going around, what's with the rumors?"

"I told you not to pay attention to the papers," I tried to crack a smile but failed, and instead let my head fall on his big chest. "This is all a big mistake, Dad, I don't know who put that bomb in my pocket, I don't know what happened, I don't know who saved me, I just…"

He hugged me again, more gently this time, and then put his hands on my shoulders. "Everything will be fine," He told me, and even though the crease between his eyes told me otherwise, I chose to believe him. "We'll get everything straightened out. Now, we need to get out of here. Dash has a lead."

"How did you bail me out?" I wanted to know, and I felt smaller and safer in his presence. Not like a sticky, ignorant child, the way I felt around Syndrome – but a small, comforted infant. His long legs propelled him down the hallway, and I had to trot to keep up with him.

He looked away. "I'm not exactly retired, Vi."

He had been doing what he hated, then; posing for cameras and signing autographs, perhaps giving a speaking engagement or two. But I had been following the news, and it seemed so unlike him. "You were the last I heard," I said slowly. "Dash has been doing all the superhero work." We rounded a corner and I went back up to the desk to retrieve my belongings, my head still churning. How did Dad get the money? I signed my name reluctantly, and was given back my jacket and cell phone, which surprisingly had a missed call. I shoved it into my pocket without looking at it.

Instead of answering me, he pushed open the door. "Dash found a lead on where Jack-Jack might be," Dad said gruffly, and I stopped thinking about the inconsistencies in his words. We could catch up after JJ was safe and sound.

"What is it?" I asked, getting into the car behind him. He revved the powerful engine and took off down the street.

"The program we enrolled Jack-Jack in, the power-control after-school group. It's my fault; I thought I did all my research…" His voice broke and I thought I saw a tear fall. "The leader, he was a researcher. His medical license was revoked when he was discovered using inhumane methods on

his test subjects." Dad's big hands gripped the wheel hard, and I heard the plastic groan in protest beneath his mighty grip.

"How did you find that out?" I asked, pulling my jacket on swiftly.

"Dash," He answered with a trace of pride. "He's developed his own contacts, and an old friend of mine has a son who works for the CIA. It all trickled down from there."

"What about the other kids who were in Jack-Jack's group?" I felt useless just sitting there, twiddling my fingers, while my brother was missing.

"They're all there, and Dash already notified the police about our findings."

"So what are we going to do?"

His voice was flat and grim. "We're not going to wait for the police. I have the address."