Chapter II
Princess
Upon arriving home, Violet noticed two things. There was a note on the door, and the power was out.
Her family had absconded to the Agency, and wouldn't be back until late. Dicker was introducing them to his replacement, her mother's looping script informed her, before the official swearing-in took place. Not that Dicker was any less efficient than in his youth, but he was getting on in years. A desk job as head of NSA was able to stave off forced retirement for longer than it ought, but enough was enough. They'd be throwing a shindig for him after everything was signed (the task of calling old 'super' friends was left to Violet while they were out), but the old supervisor wanted his closest agents to meet their new boss without the formality first.
Well, there went her relaxing evening of ice cream and the re-run of Trouble with Tribbles.
Sighing, she ripped the paper off the door and started pressing the passcode into the keypad (02141927), eager to beat the rolling thunder that chased her heels. There was no beeping of the buttons, and Violet realized it was darker than usual through the window. Usually, the pool lights illuminated the house from the back, but now as the sun had long set, the darkness was oppressive. Swearing softly under her breath, she thanked her lucky stars that she had kept her manual key in her purse. It took a little might-the lock was barely ever used this way-but she finally burst into the front hall.
Gee, if only her power was something useful, like fire. Or electricity. Anything really, just so she could see as she stumbled through the now unfamiliar paths of her house, blind in the midnight. Purple in hue, her forcefields didn't actually emit any useful light.
She stubbed her toe more than once and cursed whoever designed this house high on the hill-far away from the power grid of the town below. By the time the electricians fixed whatever had blown from the storm down in town, it'd be hours wandering in the dark.
Finally finding a flashlight in the trusty junk drawer, Violet made her way up the stairs to her room. She knew it was a bad idea, but she'd rather tempt being electrocuted by showering during a thunderstorm than crawl into her bed still sweaty and grimy from the hospital. She had helped during an open heart surgery, and it had been wonderful! Expanded her experience and the patient got through it with nary a complication. But she had stood for fourteen hours, sweating, worrying, probably splattered with God only knew what, and had a deep desire to be clean. Besides, she was more worried about falling asleep under the warm spray than being shocked by stray lightning.
After she dressed in her pajamas and wrapped up her long wet hair in a towel and teetered back down into the kitchen, flashlight between her teeth, arms loaded with old contact diaries, the phone book, legal pad, and pens. The power was out, but at least their landline still worked. Pointing the flashlight towards the white ceiling, giving the kitchen some illumination, she flipped through the day's mail quickly, 'ooh'ing over her latest medical magazine (a new article from Dr. Jang, they were always excellent reads) before pulling a stool to the wall phone and getting to work. She started with her father's contact diary, flipping through the pages. He was better at keeping track of old supers back in the day, finding their identities and locations. She hesitated as she flipped, seeing the shaky red lines through so many of the names. Jason Lore "Universal Man", Alan Moscoweitz "Everseer", Evelyn Treyvelean "Blazestone", Timothy Menken "Hyper Shock".
Name after name, crossed out. Dead on the island. Violet rolled her shoulders, remembering how the metal encasements had held her suspended in the containment chamber as a prisoner. It hadn't permanently damaged her-but when she thought about it, she fancied it still twinged.
She moved on, making a list of names that weren't crossed out, sticking her pen in the rotary dial, and spinning. Most of the numbers were disconnected with two exceptions. That took up about half an hour between the two supers wanting to know how both her parents were and what she was doing and do you know, I remember when you were born? The first all-super baby! Well, secretly anyway!
After that, she got her greeting and message down to concise points to hopefully make the next conversation as short as possible as she broke into Helen's address book. I'm Violet Parr-yes that Parr. Dicker is retiring, party, drinks, fun, goodbye.
Her mother's book was more up-to-date as older supers came out of hiding. A few more names RSVPed...but a few more hung up the phone the minute she greeted them. "Hello! I'm looking for Lightening Bug-..." Violet looked at the receiver she was holding bewildered as the dial tone hummed. So she stopped using hero names. But then-"Hello, I'm looking for Jodi Solanga? Yes, this is Violet Parr, I'm Robert and Helen Parr's daughter-"
The dial tone, again.
"What on earth…?" Violet dropped the receiver into its cradle. She looked over the list again. Ten RSVPs were not bad, and seven bunk numbers were expected. But the eight hang-ups bothered her. Lightening Bug, The Viper, Smoke just to name a few. Sure, it was possible they wanted nothing to do with the NSA, or the Parrs as they were rather magnets for trouble. But eight close enough for her mother to keep in touch with?
Violet slipped her towel off her head, combing her fingers through her now-damp hair, her mind working. Were they the same, the bunk numbers and the hang-ups? Surely no one would take supers when they were so much in the public eye? Violet shivered. It was so similar to how her father described the victims of the Kronos operation. They went missing, un-missed, one by one.
Syndrome, however, was dead. Even Mirage, once lover turned traitor, had tabs kept on her. She lived quietly now, married. Her mother still wasn't too keen on her, but Mr. Incredible would never forget how she risked her life-several times-to help them. She earned at least a Christmas card every year.
And it would be stupid for anyone to target heroes-now that they were legal, public, and licensed.
But older supers? Retired and out of the game…?
Paranoia was a mental disorder, she had to remind herself. Perhaps it was because she was out of the action, on the sidelines, that she was prone to worry. Perhaps there was a reasonable explanation she was not privy to, something going on in the NSA, more relocations...for some reason. Right.
She rubbed her eyes. Or perhaps the darkness was getting to her.
Leaving the list on the table, Violet returned to her room, dropping the pen into her work purse. It wrote well, and ten of her good pens had already been stolen this week. The room lit up with a flash, and she began to count, waiting on the roll of thunder. One, two, th-
With several beeps and a loud hum, she heard the power switch back on. "Thank God," she murmured. She'd hate to go to work tomorrow with a rat's nest for hair for want of a hairdryer. She moved towards the bathroom and flicked on the light.
The figure moved so fast, Violet didn't even have time to register who it was, or what they looked like. A sharp pain in her neck, instinct taking over as she turned invisible. Turning, she ran for the door-made to run for the door. God, she had to get to the door! But her legs gave out, whatever was coursing through her veins acting faster. Her vision tunneled, and she scrambled, reaching out. A shield appeared around her, a stuttering weak thing, barely a glimmer, before it died.
The last thing she saw was a pair of dusty boots stepping before her, and legs bending as her assailant knelt down.
Alcohol.
Violet smelled rubbing alcohol, and bleach, the kind they used at the hospital to sanitize the floor and bed railings. It stung her nose, and she tried to rub it, but her arm felt dead like she had slept on it all night, lifting it a little before it flopped uselessly on her waist. Another try and she batted weakly at her face.
The rolling of chair wheels on linoleum, and a hand wedging under her head, lifting it and lilting to the right. Glass against her mouth, and a voiceless whisper of drink. Only when she began to gulp down the water did she realize her throat was dry and sticking, and her whole body ached.
Where was she? The hospital? She tried to reach back into her memory, but it was foggy. Her body remembered panic-something was wrong, and danger was close. A fight?
"Drink," came the command again, a little more firm.
A bell rang in her memory at its tone, distant, hazy, and her heart began to pound painfully. Her eyes fluttered, lids like lead. She pushed, fighting hard to make her body comply. She knew this pressure-like when she tried for a forcefield in a free-falling plane. Violet just had to try, just keep focus until it clicked, just had to force her muscles to work. She felt something give, not her eyes, but a familiar coolness spread over her flesh.
"Turn invisible all you like-just drink."
Her eyes snapped open, and she coughed, spluttering on the water.
Syndrome swore, dropping the glass and shaking a hand free of droplets. "I said drink, not choke. Hey, stop, you're gonna asper-"
But Violet wasn't listening. She was struggling as hard as she could, using her core to rock herself until she flipped off the table, landing on the floor with a bone-rattling thump. Whether it was the adrenaline or the shock, her body began to at least attempt to obey her as she crawled, squinting in the bright whiteness around her. All she saw was the clean white floor beneath her, the artistic flecks to mimick stone moving as she crawled.
Her hand met a wall, and Violet pulled herself up, pressing her back to it, finally facing her kidnapper. She was in a room...a lab room. Or something like it. There was the table she had just fallen from in the middle, under the bright fluorescent light, and a computer system dominating the wall opposite her. On one end of the room there looked to be a cell, equipped with a cot and sink but a sheer glass wall separating it from the rest of the horrifyingly white lab.
And there, sitting on a rolling stool and very much alive, was Syndrome. He was leaning back against the computer desk as if resurrecting from certain death was an everyday experience and her shock was bewildering.
Violet had scant memories of the villain, having only been face to face with him three times while his focus was on her parents, but the few she had were seared to the inside of her consciousness, like a latent image only the eyes of her nightmares retained. She remembered him towering over her, broad and strongly built like her father. And the cold, cold blue eyes. Like dry ice, so devoid of warmth they burned. Those hateful eyes she remembered the most because there was no mercy, no hope left in them. The eyes of a mass murderer, a man who had tried to shoot down a jet carrying children.
Well, he still had that frosty glare, but the eyes were different. For one, his left was slightly paler, washed out like an ink stain. Maybe it was due to the silver scar that ran from his hairline and cut across his brow and cheek to meet his lip.
He was still strong and broad under his lab coat, button-down, and trousers, but he was in repose, watching her with bored resignation. His hair was different too, high and tight, like a marine. He regarded her with an even, almost bored gaze, and ran a hand under his nose. "Well, that was a fine little performance."
"You're dead," Violet screeched, her voice cracking so horribly, it was more of a loud hiss.
"Thanks, princess, didn't notice that before. I'll be sure to inform my boss." He stood, and Violet curled tighter into herself.
She had never felt truly weak before. Small? Yes. Weaker than her father in terms of strength? Of course. But utterly helpless was a novelty she never wanted to revisit. Closing her eyes, she summoned that part of her mind that conjured her forcefields, reaching for that muscle memory, trying to make it click like her invisibility. She heard a whoosh, once, twice, and knew she was only managing a little pocket of protection before it gave out
"It's the sedative. You're going to hurt yourself if you keep that up." His voice was closer now and when Violet opened her eyes he was before her, kneeling down. The hand that reached for her was met sharply with her heel. Well at least that part of her was back in command.
Syndrome swore again and stood. "Okay, fine. You get up and get back on the table under your own steam. I'll wait." He folded his arms. "I have all week."
"I'm not getting on that table," Violet hissed, tucking her feet under her, and trying to use the wall to guide herself back up. If she couldn't feel brave-she'd at least act brave. She'd wear her courage like a mask to hide her abject terror. In her best Shadow voice, she informed him: "I'm not doing anything so you can torture and kill me, you sick freak."
"I'm not going to torture y-" He shook his head and turned his face away with an eye roll. "Why am I even trying? Go on, get your prepared speeches out, let's get it over with."
"Speech-ah!" Violet's foot slipped and she fell again with an ungrateful slump. Her legs were shaky like a newborn foal and couldn't even take her slight weight.
Syndrome watched her with a raised brow, up a few inches then down, up and down, up and- "That annoying speech all you supers have. Probably assigned to you at birth. How I'll never get away with whatever, and you'll stop me. How you all manage to hit the same words-justice, villain, good, evil-it's like you're all reading from the same manual. Okay, that's enough."
He came towards her again, just short of her kicking range. "Listen, you can either let me help you, or you can try climbing the wall for the next hour and sit on the floor. The hospital floor. And this isn't even a real hospital."
Violet paused, the internalized germaphobia medical school had installed in her made her skin crawl at the thought of sitting on a floor where any medical procedure took place. The villain must have seen how her own disgust froze her because he had her in his arms the next moment.
God, he was strong. How was a dead man this strong?! She felt weightless in his arms, and her stomach twisted violently. If she didn't get her powers back there was no way she was beating him in a fight. And he was disquietly warm. Violet shivered from the contact, her own skin chilled from sitting on the cold linoleum.
Syndrome dumped her back onto the table-an operating table- but didn't force her to lay down again. Awake and aware, Violet took in more of the room. She didn't see a tray filled with knives and drills and other means of pain, nor did she see bloody rags tossed carelessly from the hands of a monster. In fact, there was nothing here-or nothing here yet. The only out-of-place thing was the turntable seated on the computer's desk.
Her jailor picked up the cup again and went to the glass partition that sectioned off the bed, toilet, and sink. With a hiss, a portion of glass swung in like a door on his arrival. He went to the faucet and filled the cup. Coming to her side again, he dropped two tablets into it and held it out.
Violet scoffed. She didn't have any prepared speeches, like he accused, but she had plenty of bravado. "You're insane as well as evil if you think I'm going to drink anything you give me!"
He didn't speak but held up the package the tablets came from. Store-bought electrolyte tablets. He dropped the cup into her hands, and Violet only caught it by instinct, water sloshing over her fingers.
"Fine, don't. Sit there and suffer but you've lost a lot of fluids, you've been dead to the world for twenty-four hours, and you aren't getting food for another six so…"
"You're going to feed me?"
"What...? Oh, that's right." He slapped his forehead. "I forgot. I'm evil. Right, no I'll let you starve and watch you waste away slowly." He eyed her under his fingers. "...Not like it'd be a long wait."
Violet hugged herself, frowning. Of all the insults he could have flung, skinny was not one she was prepared for. "You're dead," she repeated. "How are you still alive? I saw the explosion!"
"Yeah, big, wasn't it?"
"Deadly," she corrected.
"Mmm. That jet was built to withstand a lot. The plating could take a punch, even internal combustion. Do you want the long story or the short?"
Oh-he was just going to...tell her?
Violet blinked. Perhaps it was the overload of information (kidnapped, Syndrome alive, locked in some torture chamber of a lab), or perhaps with her adrenaline dropping, the last of the sedative coursing through her system was gaining the upper hand again, but Violet didn't see an immediate exit. And if he wasn't planning on killing her right away, she might as well get information, keep him talking. Let them monologue, all villains love a monologue, her father had trained her.
She watched him cross to the cabinet on the wall opposite the computer and pulled out a towel, tossing it on the floor so he could mop up the water with his foot. "Long. No one could survive an explosion at that close of range."
"I was wearing a suit if you recall."
"The gaudy Mode knock-off?"
His hands balled into fists, and he snatched up the damp towel, throwing it at the wall. The cloth triggered some kind of senor, and as it slid wetly down, a door opened beneath it, catching it mid slide. She heard flames burst into life behind the metal-an incinerator. And a good reminder not to get too comfortable. I bet I could fit in here. I bet that's where I'm headed.
"That's it, I'm not telling you."
"No. I-I want to know. Look." She brought the cup to her lips, sniffing it gingerly and taking a sip. It was far too metallic for her liking but, based on taste, she couldn't sense anything else in the liquid.
Syndrome's eyes narrowed. "You know, I don't remember you being this annoying when you were ten."
"Fifteen," she grumbled into her cup.
Syndrome frowned and glanced at the ceiling, fingers twitching as if he were counting on them. Then he reevaluated how much he cared and shrugged. "Fine. The suit helped somewhat. Didn't save my legs, however. But once the turbine was jammed and, lest we forget, the car filled with gasoline flung at the engine, the explosion was inevitable. But like I said the plating of that jet was designed to take a lot. It shielded me from the initial combustion.
"The fall did most of the damage. Punctured a lung I'm pretty sure, cracked all of my ribs I'm certain. Spine, arms, you name it, I broke it. Lay there coughing up vomit and blood because everyone thought oh no one could survive that-If you're gonna puke, I'm stopping."
Violet shook her head, mouth full of the water she had just gulped. Bowing her head, she spat it back into the cup as gracefully as she could. Oh, she wanted to puke. Just thinking about all the damage he was describing churned her insides, like sympathetic pain, because she could envision it. She'd seen horror in the ER, and had watched amputations done professionally and clean. It had been hard to witness then, so she could only imagine a turbine doing it to both his legs.
"How," she breathed again.
"I had friends in high places-friends who were watching what was going on, who were invested in my work."
"Invested in you killing innocent people?"
Syndrome didn't threaten her this time, merely glared at her until she held up an apologetic hand. "Invested in my plan working. In creating a problem and solving it, coming out the hero in the end. A nice ploy, if accomplished, that can turn public and global favor. You see it all the time in war, just never that explicit. They figured out where I was, and no one was really focused on the smoking wreckage. So they sent some people in dressed like EMTs to get me out."
"Okay-that doesn't explain the how."
"I forgot, you're a doctor now, right? Your secret identity." He leaned carefully against the computer's desk, crossing his ankles. "Well, that I can't help you with. I don't know the specifics of how."
Violet snarled. Of course. Of course, he wasn't going to actually give her anything, like who pulled him out, who was working behind the scenes to keep the largest killer of supers alive. He was just stringing her along, wasting time. Well, she hadn't been wasting hers.
She was by no means recovered, but as he monologed on, she had been focusing on her abilities, calmly reaching inside herself to access her powers. Staring into her cup, she focused on turning her thumbs invisible, just her thumbs. It took more effort and concentration to localize her powers, like turning a limb or just her head invisible or morphing her force fields into shapes.
She just needed one...good...moment-
She flung out a hand, creating a forcefield so small and concentrated it resembled a large baseball more than a shield. Her aim was off slightly, but it hit its mark well enough-right in the middle of that smug bisected face. It knocked him back, skull crashing into the large rounded monitor of the computer with a crack of bone and glass.
He slid to the floor, out cold. Violet followed him and immediately searched his pockets. He had to have a key of some kind, something that caused the glass door to respond to him without touch. She fumbled inside his coat and shirt, a hand leaning on his chest. Nothing in his pockets except a pen and a pack of gum. It was then, when she was about to give up and search the room, that she noticed two things.
There was a small beeping coming from somewhere close by...and he had no heartbeat.
Violet snatched her hands away for a moment, gasping. I've killed him. Oh my God, I murdered him. It shouldn't have brought her as much panic as it did-she was the one kidnapped! But she was too well trained in preserving life to give her revenge much mind. And, after all, she had been trained never to kill, always to arrest. She turned his face towards her. Blood seeped from a nostril and his nose was pretty red but other than that seemed fine. He was breathing after all! Fingers cupped his crown, and she found no evidence of an actual crack-only the start of a very painful bump.
She lifted one eyelid, and the pupil dilated in response to the light. So he was alive. Then how the hell-?! Pressing her ear to his chest, she confirmed the fatal silence. But there was a...a humming in between the sluggish breaths. Like the slosh of a sonogram but the timing was out of rhythm. Blood was flowing...but no heart was pumping it.
That, apparently, was the how.
As she listened, half horror half fascination, her eyes lifted to his face again. From this angle, she saw something peeking from beneath his collar. Tugging the cloth down, she saw a collar-seemed to be made of the same white metal as his gauntlets once upon a time. There was a little red light flashing and-so that's where the beeping was coming from.
Violet sat up and tried wedging her fingers under the collar-a tight fit. She felt his throat constrict as the pressure cut off his breathing, but tugging didn't make it come loose. She gave up on brute force and shook blood back into her fingers before trying to find a latch and failing again. The beeping was getting louder and the tempo faster. God, she hoped it wasn't a self-destruct mechanism.
Whatever it was, it was obviously the key to this place. If she had to drag him to every surface, so be it. Fisting her hands in his coat's shoulders, she planted her heels, squatting low to the ground to give her leverage and tugged. But he was heavy, too heavy! She had dragged fully grown men before, and it was tough, but this was abnormal. Like he was made entirely out of lead.
The beeps were getting closer now, more like a high-pitched whine. "You dead son of a-!" Violet scrambled to his side and instead tried to push him across the floor. He did slide, just a bit. And at first, she thought it worked. A section of the wall near the computer slid open.
But looming in the doorway were men, who spilled into the room, rifles in hand, clothes and weapons just as cursedly white as the walls around them. Violet flung up her arms, casting a shield over herself-but she was tired, she was still sedated, and she was scared out of her mind. It covered her from head to waist, protecting everything vital by instinct. But that was all.
Violet expected the pops of bullet fire and the flash of muzzles, shrapnel bouncing off her purple haze-she was used to it by now, it was normal to her in a sick way. So when all she heard were clicks and saw no shrapnel, Violet knew something was wrong. Instead of sitting in a pile of broken metal, the projectiles were stuck in her forcefield by their needles.
Tranquilizer darts.
Too late, she tried to reel in her legs, tucking them underneath. She felt pain cut into her shin, and the icy fingers of numbness crawl up her leg. Not again dammit not again!
But her shields were stuttering already, winking out of existence as her vision darkened once more. Violet fell backward, collapsing on top of her nemesis as her world once again became silence.
"No, lucky is what you are."
"She is alive. If you had given her the antidote right away it never would have happened."
"No one has regained their powers minutes after waking up, how was I supposed to know? Pumping her full of crap isn't exactly productive if we want to monitor her."
"She is younger than them, she recovers faster. Feed her stimulants and get her up. We have very limited time. The sabbatical excuse will only work for so long."
"I don't know what stims will do to her! I'm a mechanical engineer and computer scientist, not a goddamn doctor."
"Well I am, and I am telling you, wake her up and start working."
Violet wanted to moan. She wished whoever was talking would just shut up and let her sleep. Her head was pounding now. She drifted in between sleep and wakefulness, breaking the surface only when the throbbing in her temples crescendoed. Beyond her the argument continued, words garbled in her half-awake state.
Finally, she cracked her eyes open slightly. She was laying on something better than the operating table this time. It was the cell she had spied before, and she was on the cot, a thin blanket tossed over her, head cushioned with a lumpy pillow. Her vision doubled, and she had to blink hard several times before the tableau of two men arguing over the operation table merged into one solid picture.
Beyond the glass wall, Violet saw Syndrome, hands planted on the table. He was hunched, lips pulled back in a snarl.
The man he was addressing was also wearing a lab coat, but it fit him poorly. Everything did as he was skinny and small; a gangly combination. He reminded Violet of a caricature of a boy she had seen drawn in Asbury when her family had vacationed in New Jersey. His ears protruded from his round head and his hair was slickly combed against his skull. But he carried with him an aurora of dread like an odor, despite standing a head shorter than Syndrome.
"They shot her with God knows how much. It's a miracle it hit her bone. I'm guessing why she isn't dead is that she didn't get the full dose," Syndrome snapped.
"It's been twenty-four hours, it should have worn off by now. You know what to do."
"This is ridiculous. You're going to murder her before we even get anything from her. I told you-"
The clownish man lifted his wrist to look at his watch. He pressed a finger to the surface.
Violet heard the crackle of electricity and Syndrome shrieked. He fell to his knees, hands clawing at his throat. She saw little currents of lightning dance across his flesh and teeth as he crumbled to the ground, shaking. Abject fear kept her stationary as she watched, her fingers itching to reach out and do something to stop this. Instead, she gripped her blanket tightly, breath caught in her throat. She had heard of torture, knew it in theory, and seen the end results hours later, but to watch another human, no matter how vile, writhe and scream in pain-it was stomach-churning.
He was her enemy, her own tormentor, but Violet tried to shut her eyes so she did not have to watch his body contort, spine arch in agony. But it was as if his shouts were the antidote to the tranquilizer-instead of battling to open her eyes, she had to fight to look away.
All at once, it did stop. Syndrome lay gasping on the floor, trying weakly to push himself up. The doctor knelt, and cupped his cheek, almost like a caring father. Except a father would never run their thumb over their child's lips the way this man did, nor would they suddenly grip their child's face hard enough to bruise.
"And I told you to wake her up and continue. I think your little strolls outside have given you undue confidence. Do it, Lazarus." The man threw the villain away, and turned on his heel, leaving the room without another word.
Violet glanced at where the door shut cleanly, leaving no hint of its existence in the white expanse of wall. Careful, mindful of her still weak state, she slipped from her cot to the floor. Her legs felt like dead weight, barely moving when she tried to balance on her knees. Crawling to the glass, she placed her palms on it, watching Syndrome finally push himself to sit up.
He glanced up at her, and then away, as if the very sight of her added to his pain. For a long time there was only the sound of his labored breathing, punctuated once or twice by a dry heave.
"I thought you said friends found you," Violet whispered
Syndrome deigned to look at her again, a brow raised. "Oh...they did." With a grunt of effort, he pushed himself to his feet. He wavered for a second, finding his balance, and paced over to her, towering over her form and forcing her to tilt her head all the way back to maintain eye contact.
"My friends found me. And then they sold me to the highest bidder. Just like you."
Syndrome was more insane than Violet thought. He disobeyed the doctor's orders and refused to do anything to his prisoner for the rest of the day. He acted as if she didn't exist after she woke up, and only interacted with her to pass her food through the glass. There was another invisible door in the wall on the ground where he slid the tray through. Violet recognized the hospital food-the bare necessities, everything to keep her strength up but nothing for taste. Chicken and vegetables, a sealed cup of fruit, a carton of milk, and two pills in a package.
"What are these," she asked, kneeling to pick up the tray, and squinting at the tablets. There was no scoring, no letters or numbers stamped into the neon blue chalk so Violet couldn't recognize the medication.
Her jailor said nothing, only switching on the computer, swearing when the cracked glass of the monitor flickered the lines of text instead of a static image. A few good slaps to the wall the machine was moored in and it stopped for a moment. He pulled open a drawer and rifled through it, retrieving a record, and tossing it onto the turntable. He dropped the needle and turned the volume up.
"I'm not taking these if you don't tell me what they are," Violet snapped, sitting on the bed. She was lying of course-she wasn't taking them at all. She'd take a page from the psych ward and hide them under her tongue. She just hoped he wouldn't try to cavity search her to make sure they were downed.
Syndrome spared her a withering glance, but continued his silence, and turned the dial on the turntable again so that Hotel California drowned out any other interference from his guest. Violet had the urge to throw the food at the glass but knew she needed to keep her strength up. If she was going to get out of here, she'd have to be more careful than before. Her rash actions had only drawn attention, and probably made everything worse.
Fighting with her plastic utensils and the chicken breast, she tried to analyze her situation. Her instinct had been good-Syndrome had mentioned 'others', and the doctor had confirmed she was younger than them. So the paranoia about the missing older supers was confirmed. The old villain was once again picking off heroes, studying them once more. Violet searched through her memories about Nomanisan.
They were limited, as a teenager she hadn't fully understood everything going on around her. But it had been a topic brought up again and again throughout her life. She had seen the documents that cataloged Syndrome's plans after the fact. Her father had a copy of the file he took out every year, and during one of their spring cleanings, she had come across it. He had used supers as guinea pigs to test his robots to make it invincible to all but him-so that no one could steal his glory.
Vi snorted and shot the villain a hateful glance. What good that did him.
And now, was he doing it again? The doctor had mentioned antidote, and Syndrome had used the word 'monitor'. Not test. They were looking for information. But she wasn't an agent for the NSA, she wasn't an official hero, what information could they get from her?
It just made you easier to nab, an acidic voice that sounded frighteningly similar to Dash hissed in her mind.
The next sip of juice was hard to swallow. It was true. She had been left vulnerable without the protection of the Agency. Except…
Just like you
Syndrome had been sold, and he indicated that she, Violet, had been as well. The chicken threatened to make a reappearance at the thought. But that was impossible. The NSA was monitored by Dicker himself, and her parents made it their business to know everyone well after the Evelyn incident. So that must mean someone else. After all, Syndrome knew her profession.
But that wasn't hard. He knew the Parrs; that was how he had found Jack-Jack. He was just lying, she concluded. Trying to spin her mind in different directions to keep her from focusing-to keep her from escaping.
Which was seeming bleaker by the moment. Syndrome was one thing, she was rather sure she could handle the old fox. She shot Syndrome another glance. He was staring intently at the lines on the computer as they flew past, fingers impossibly fast at the keyboard, head nodding to the beat of the music. Every so often his left side would twitch violently, something that went completely ignored.
He was a genius-as a child she remembered staring uncomprehendingly at the plans in her father's file of the robots and island infrastructure, all apparently designed by him. But maniac computer genius, and his newfound strength, was all he had. If it was just the Parr's nemesis, Violet would just test her metal against his, wait for another moment to use her powers against him, strength or no strength.
But this...doctor. This facility-wherever the hell they were. This was more difficult. She shivered. How cold he had been to Syndrome and just plain creepy. The villain seemed to be as much a prisoner as she was, and if she was going to get out, she would need some help. This villain was not one Shadow could handle all on her own. Maybe…
With a last gulp of juice, she tested her legs and shakily made her way to the glass wall. She called his name, but her weak voice couldn't rise over the music. Finally, she rapped her knuckles on the glass. Syndrome glanced at her, and she motioned for him to turn down the music. After the last verse (the song seemed to last forever), he turned the volume dial down. "Yes, princess? Meal not up to your standards?"
"Are you okay?"
He looked almost disgusted for a moment. "What?"
"Are you okay? You should be resting. Electrocution wounds-"
"I'm not wounded."
"Listen, I don't know what keeps you alive, but the human body wasn't meant to take volts of electricity for minutes at a time. Surely-"
"The human body, no. But I'm not exactly human. After all, a human couldn't survive that explosion, as you insisted."
"B-"
"I don't need any of your pity, princess. So you can just stay on your pedestal. This particular powerless mortal doesn't need your condescending care." He turned back to the computer screen and continued working.
Violet bit down on her tongue so hard, she tasted iron. I need him. I need his help. He's allowed to go out, which means he knows how to get out. "Who was that?"
"Jesus." Syndrome pinched the bridge of his nose. "You know when I had your father as a prisoner he wouldn't deign to even speak to me. Why don't you take a leaf out of his book?"
"If I'm going to be used like a lab rat, can't I at least know who's loading the needle?"
"I am."
"Really? Because you didn't sound so enthused before."
"Yeah, well not wanting your varments to die before you even start isn't exactly mercy."
Violet tried a different tack: "Do you really care enough about someone who tortures you to protect him?"
Syndrome's grip on his nose tightened and she saw how his body tensed at the accusation, icy eyes glare at her over his fingers. But he sat back, and ran his tongue over his teeth before answering: "Paul Fell." At her contemplative look, he snorted. "Don't try, you don't know him. He's not exactly a licensed doctor anymore, Virginia stripped it a long time ago. He deals more in hallucinogenic tortures, augmentations, and bringing the odd handsome scoundrel back to life."
"He is the how," Violet breathed.
"Sure is. Apparently nearly wet himself with the chance to play around with body parts on a still-living doll. Got to stick it to a rival of his too boot. Who doesn't love that?"
"So now you're...what? Helping him out of companionship? Gratitude?"
Syndrome's face was quite expressive-emotions danced across the features often, contouring them into monstrous visages. His sneer was as powerful as it had been when she'd been locked in his containment chamber. He tugged at the white metal collar, snarling, "Does this look like gratitude?!"
Violet took a step back, even though he was still seated and halfway across the room. "No. It looks like a dog collar."
The comment struck the villain and he spun back to the computer screen, turning the player up as high as it would go. The sound hummed through the metal walls of the lab, even making the glass wall shiver. Violet plugged her ears, waiting for the next break in the music. Operation Reverse Stockholm was working out well so far. "You didn't answer my question!"
"You have his name, take your pills and shut up."
"I asked if you were okay!"
"What I don't seem okay to you? Look, I'm peachy," he snarled at the computer screen. Once again his head cocked violently to the side, twitching.
"No. You look like you're in pain. And that you're having aftershocks."
"Yeah, that's what happens when your body is half metal and meets the wrong end of twelve volts."
That caught her attention. "Half what? Tu-Can you please turn that down?"
He obeyed again, this time his gaze was filled with vindictive glee. "Half metal, princess. Do you think any bone survived a fall of a few miles?"
"That's why…"
"Why what? I'm so strong? A delightful side benefit."
"You're so heavy."
"Now that's just rude." Syndrome twitched again and stood. "Fine, maybe this will slake your curiosity." He stood, and going to the cabinet retrieved a toolbox. Placing the box on the operating table, he shrugged off his lab coat and began working on his button-down.
Violet's eyes went wide. "What are you doing?"
"Show and tell." He stripped off the shirt and Violet-purely out of instinct-clapped her hands over her eyes. She wasn't interested in getting an eyeful of the man who tried to kill her. This only made him laugh-and whatever this Dr. Fell had done, that was still the same. The sound of it seemed to rattle her very marrow. "Seriously? Did you go to Catholic medical school? Don't worry, not that kind of show. You couldn't afford it anyway."
"I wouldn't want to attend," she protested from behind her hands.
"Just open your eyes-big baby."
Peering through her fingers, Violet saw Syndrome, down to his undershirt, rifle through the toolbox. He pulled out a scalpel and leaned back against the operating table, blade hesitating over his right shoulder.
"What a-whatareyoudoingwhatareyoudoing?!" Violet nearly flung herself at the glass. "Stop, stop!"
"Calm down, I know what I'm doing."
"You haven't even disinfected the area! You're not wearing gloves-"
"It's my own blood. And it won't bleed much on this side." And then he sliced, cutting a shaky triangle into his flesh. Violet watched in horrified fascination as he peeled back the skin. Wiping his hand on the discarded lab coat, he reached back into the box and pulled out a thin screwdriver. Tongue between his teeth he carefully slid it in between the chords of the tricep.
"Be careful," Violet breathed. "Because you could sev-"
Syndrome rolled his eyes. "I've done this before, thanks." She heard metal meet metal, muffled through the muscle and flesh. He turned the screwdriver once, then again, digging and searching. He seemed to find what he was looking for, and with a twitch, his whole left side went slack, like a stroke victim. Then another turn and he gasped, his whole body jerking before he stood straight again. Pulling the tool out, he flexed his arm.
Violet could see from where she stood, that the flesh of his arms and shoulders had a netting of silver scars over it, the whole of it dissected into sections like pieces of a completed puzzle, thick bands of scar tissue at the joints. "What did you do?"
"Reset. Like turning a computer on after a power surge." Syndrome hopped up onto the table, now armed with a suture and needle. Running a finger under his nose, he reported: "The trick is starting it again before I run out of oxygen."
The fact that he had done it so fast, bespoke years of practice. Which meant years of similar treatment-years of electrocution. "I can do that."
"Oh yeah. Sure, come out here princess and sew me up-maybe we can play another round of force field baseball after that, huh?" He shook his head and plunged the needle into his flesh.
Well, he wasn't wrong. "I always get complimented on my stitches."
"Oh yeah, I bet all your instructors are lousy with loyalty to the little medical super."
Violet ignored that dig. "Doesn't that hurt?"
"Nope. Bareilly any nerve endings on this side." He stitched up the flesh, trying off the suture and biting the excess off. He rolled his shoulder, wincing. "The muscle gets sore though."
Violet had nothing to say to that. She was still reeling from what she had witnessed, and all that it implied. He wasn't super, but he wasn't human. He was a villain, but he was also a victim. He was set to be her tormentor-and right now, the only hope she had in sight.
And worse of all, she felt tears sting at her eyes. Empathy. What she wouldn't give to cut that part out of her right now as easily as Syndrome sliced himself. To see all that he did as deserved, a rightful punishment for all the evil he committed. But now...now she only felt like crying. What the hell is this place?
He cleaned up his tools and threw the lab coat in the incinerator, returning the toolbox to the cabinet and pulling out a stock bottle of medicine. Violet recognized the label even from afar and winced when he popped four into his mouth and dry swallowed.
"If you say one word about overdosing-"
"How are you going to keep awake with that much oxy in your system?"
"Sleep's overrated, princess."
"That's not what's on my tray."
"No. That's your special medicine. And you don't want me coming in there and forcing it down your throat, do you?"
She shook her head.
"Then take it. I'm not answering any more of your questions either, so stop trying."
She didn't see another option, so she took the pills and swallowed them with the milk. Unfortunately, he did tell her to stick out her tongue after, just to check. Violet slumped onto her cot, rubbing her eyes. She wouldn't ask any more questions, even if she had them. After witnessing his impromptu surgery, she wasn't sure information gathering was the best idea anymore. She preferred not to know.
So, even though she had slept enough for a week in the past three days, she let whatever she had taken work through her, and drifted off to sleep on the steady rhythm of Syndrome's music.