I knew I was forgetting something in my note last chapter. Another thing to put here, especially going into this chapter. The second movie expounds a little on all their powers and different uses. For this story, I give that movie a nod and a wink. The events happened, but certain things that are shown done with powers, especially Violets, adhere specifically and only to the first movie.

Chapter III

I Do Not Like Thee, Dr. Fell

The next morning-or Violet assumed it was morning-she was shaken awake and ordered up before she could properly reestablish herself in the world of the living. Blearily, head pounding slightly, she stood, following Syndrome out from her cell, barely protesting when he put his hands on her waist and lifted her onto the operating table.

She saw there was more equipment in the room now, EKG machine and what looked like an EEG on a rolling cart, a mess of wires trailing to the computer. No knives, which should not have comforted her as it did.

"Here." He handed her a set of loose grey-colored clothing. "Change into that."

"No."

"It's six a.m., princess. Just do it and pick another battle."

"I'm not getting undressed."

"And I've got a stack of magazines more tempting than you." He checked his watch, and turned to the side, busying himself with disentangling the EEG chords, eyes focused on his task. "Go on, if I wanted to look at flat boards I would go to a lumberyard. You've got one minute."

Violet pulled the clothes on first, before peeling off her pajamas underneath anyway, trying to reveal as little skin as possible. She tried not to frown when he tossed her owl-and-star-printed clothes in the incinerator. They were her comfiest set, and she would miss them when she got out of here. Just keep thinking about that. Think about surviving and getting out.

She laid down and tried not to feel vulnerable, failing miserably. The bright lights hurt her eyes, and did nothing for her headache, even when she squeezed her lids shut. She heard the clink of metal and felt something fall over her chest-then tighten.

Jerking violently, Violet's eyes snapped open. He had belted her across the chest, pinning her torso and arms to the table. "No!"

She began kicking wildly, trying to wriggle out of the confines. Syndrome caught her ankles, strapping her legs down as well. She fought like a wildcat, the nylon of the straps cutting into her flesh through the cotton of her shirt and pants, making the table rattle dangerous.

"Stop that. You're going to hurt yourself and I'm not going to care."

"Let me go," she growled. "What are you going to do to me?!"

"Monitor, so stop whining."

"Why do I have to be bound for you to monitor me?!"

Syndrome shoved the roll of paper towels under her head as a pillow. "Because the antidote you took last night is going to wear off soon, and I don't fancy being thrown into my monitor again.

"Antidote?!"

"Antidote to superpowers. It suppresses...whatever causes you to have them. Or at least several possibilities. Haven't nailed it down quite yet. Short-acting, so I have to make sure you're nice and bound before your abilities come back."

"My powers aren't a poison," she screamed.

Syndrome's eye twitched and he stuffed a finger in the ear that was facing her. "God Almighty, princess. Are you sure your scream isn't a power either?" He sat on the rolling stool and began peeling the EKG sensors. As he stuck them to her skin, he huffed in frustration at her constant squirming. "If you stop wiggling it won't hurt as much."

"My hair," she hissed. With all her fighting it had gotten caught in the straps and under the roll of towels, pulling painfully at her scalp.

Muttering darkly under his breath, Syndrome finished placing the sensors and worked on gathering her long mane together. With a quick finger comb, he deftly twisted the strands into a tight, sleek plait, tying it off with a rubber band and tossing it across her chest, coiled like a snake.

"Why do you have it so long? Don't people use it in a fight?"

"They usually can't see me to grab it," she murmured, a little surprised. She had once tried to teach Dash how to braid to make bracelets one summer while they went camping, and both he and their father failed miserably. "How'd you know that?"

"What, the braid? It's not like it's hard." Syndrome snorted and returned to the EEG. It was bigger than the ones she used in the hospital, and when he turned it on, the computer monitor came alive. "I used to do it for N-for Mirage all the time. You're too easily impressed. I thought you had to be smart to be a doctor."

Violet narrowed her eyes as he began applying the smaller electrodes to her head. It shouldn't matter, but between this and the remarks again about her weight, gaining a rapport was going to be harder on her than him. Aiming to slice, she snapped, "Not anymore. She's got someone else doing it."

He paused, glancing down at her

"She's married, you know. I think she's pregnant too." She wasn't but stretching the truth wasn't too bad of a sin considering her circumstances.

"Yeah…? Oh." He chuckled, and cupped his cheeks, pulling a mocking face of fake distress. "Oh no! Oh, my heart! The woman that betrayed me-twice-is married? What ever shall I do? It's not like I was at the wedding." He dropped his hands and lifted his eyes to the ceiling.

Violet's mouth dropped open. "At the-..." Then Mirage knew Syndrome was alive. Knew and kept him a secret from her father all those times he visited! All those cards she received, and she knew the man that tried to kill the sender was alive and still attacking supers. "She sold me!"

Syndrome sighed and rubbed under his nose. "Sold you," he asked, already tired of this new line of interrogation. "You know I haven't even had my coffee yet, can you try taking a little pity? What are you talking about now?"

"So now you'll take 'condescending mercy'?"

"Forget it. You know, I can gag you. I was trying to be nice."

Violet ignored the threat. "Mirage sold us out, she told you where we were. She told you I wasn't a part of the agency, that I was vulnerable!"

But he was already shaking his head. Now he didn't mock. In fact, he looked a little…despondent. "No. No, she didn't. She doesn't know the inner workings of the NSA. Who would tell her? She's Syndrome's Slut around there, isn't she? Who'd tell her anything useful?"

Violet frowned. "We don't call her that."

"You don't, maybe. But your brother isn't so polite. I found you through school documents, but someone else told Fell about your status."

"So who did?" Who was close enough to them, to know the inner workings of the NSA, so close that they heard what Dash rattled off about inside the building?

"Look-listen to me. I'll make you a deal." He rolled close, putting both elbows on the table. "If you just shut up for like...three hours." he shook back his sleeve and held his wristwatch in front of her eyes. It had a black matte face, the glossy black numbers only visible through certain slants of light, and silver hands so razer thin, she could barely tell they were there. "That's when the big hand will be right about….here. Three hours without your interrogation and I will answer your questions, okay? Can you do that? Can you please just give me a break from your voice?"

Violet scowled and contemplated the wisdom of leaning up and sinking her teeth into his knuckles. But as his right hand was closer, the bastard probably wouldn't even feel it. Still, she lifted her eyes to stare resolutely at the ceiling and said nothing.

"Thank you. Sweet baby Jesu, thank you." He turned the EKG on and left her field of vision. She heard the machine begin to print, and the sound of paper ripping. "Alright, stupid as it may sound, relax. Deep breaths."

Violet knew her heart was probably going a mile a minute. She breathed in through her nose, and out through her mouth. While she didn't want to help whatever twisted plans he had for this information, she saw no other route but to comply. It grew easier when he flicked the turntable on, though she had to wonder where and why he had a copy of The Turtles' Happy Together. Maybe he had raided her massive collection when he kidnapped her, as she was the last in her family to switch to cassette tape. Violet opened her mouth to ask...but refrained.

His stupid smug chuckle didn't help matters.

He monitored her readings for half an hour, getting a baseline. Nerves turned to tedium, the only break in the monotony was when Syndrome left the room and returned with a mug of coffee. Was he allowed to freely roam the facility? Was there a facility beyond this lab? Again she struggled to keep the inquiries locked behind her lips and suffered through his laughter.

"Man, this deal is better than buying shares in Buy-N-Large."

Violet's jaw worked. The smell of coffee wasn't helping matters either. That smells like chestnut creamer.

"Alright, let's get started." He sat on the stool and faced the computer. "The antidote should have worn off by now. Now, as you've seen, you try to do anything to me, and they'll be on you like white on rice. So don't get any ideas about cutting off my oxygen with one of those force fields."

"What? I'd never-"

"He-e-ey." Syndrome glared. "Three hours."

"That was questions-I've never suffocated someone with my powers!"

"I think I specified your voice, princess. Now, shut it. Despite what ridiculous moral code your father drilled into you and how it's obviously failed you, I don't want you getting ideas now. Relax, and turn invisible."

Violet closed her eyes and reached. Like with the sedative, it was difficult, and she had to push, like waking up from sleep paralysis. Her head throbbed and she grunted with the effort. Suddenly, there was pressure on her temples. It eased the throbbing, and when she cracked an eye open, she saw that Syndrome had placed his palm on her forehead, thumb and ring finger pressing into temples. He was still facing the computer, intent on his work. "Try again."

Another deep breath, and reaching again. It took a few more tries until she finally did it, body shivering as it shimmered and melted into translucence. He had her perform on and off, telling her to make different body parts disappear-just your hand, now feet, eyes, hair-to phase in and out slowly, then all at once.

Next, he had her creating force fields. Different sizes and different places, stagnant ones, big ones, just a wall, now a full bubble, small, flat-what shapes could she do? He watched the computer monitor most of the time, glancing at her every now and then.

"Do you always have to do that," he asked as she glided a humming purple ball back and forth across the room. Her hand was guiding it, as much as she could from the elbow down.

"What happened to three hours?"

"Don't try to get smart, nothing can convince me at this point. Do you always have to move your hand to guide the forcefield?"

"I guess? I always have."

"Have you tried not?"

"I never needed to."

"Your hands have never been bound?"

"They have-in your containment chamber. It's how I got us out. I put a force field around me and broke the connection between the electricity and the shackles. But I flexed my hands in the containment."

"Hm."

He ran her through paces for what seemed like eons before he left his vigil at the computer. He returned to her side and loosened her chest strap just enough for her to lift her head so he could tip two more tablets and some water in without her choking. Syndrome left again, but upon this return, he unstrapped her completely.

Violet took a deep breath and sat up, rubbing her arms. To her surprise, Syndrome was holding out a mug for her, steaming and freshly brewed. "Creamer and two sugars."

Too sweet for her taste, but she accepted nonetheless, sipping greedily. Her headache had abated once the antidote wore off, but with a fresh dose, it would return. She didn't want to compound it with a lack of caffeine.

He seated himself and drained his own cup, turning the music up until she could barely hear him over it. "Alright."

"Alright, what?"

"Ask. You kept your end...sort of."

"Oh. I didn't actually expect you to do it."

"Well, we're going to be stuck with each other for the foreseeable future, and as much as I love besting you verbally, I really am too old to be having a fight every time I need you to do something." He crossed his legs and shrugged. "It doesn't hurt me to keep my word."

"I would just think keep your promises would be a 'ridiculous moral code'," Violet pointed out, blocking the words with finger quotes. "Like going to your betrayer's wedding."

Syndrome folded his arms. "You know what, I'll start with the questions. What is it with you supers thinking you're the arbiter of good qualities? It's like those damn speeches you all have. You think no one else can have a redeeming feature. Like no one else can be honest or helpful-you slap the label villain on there and you expect the world to just follow suit.

"Y'know, when the supers would talk about the glory days on the plane to the island, they'd talk about their enemies like that-who, by the way, would cause just as much damage trying to cause havoc as your people did saving the world just so you know. Like they were varments to be put down, not actual people with lives. It's fascinating, honestly, to see how you all are so detached from reality. That's what should be studied in a lab.

"You don't think Bomb Voyage has friends? That he walks around every day in that stupid makeup and doesn't go out? Talk to people? Have family?"

Well, she knew Bomb Voyage had kids. And Su Nami. Violet looked into the coffee, unwilling to admit that he might be right. It had come as a complete shock that Syndrome would not only refrain from snapping his lover's neck on sight but condone her with someone else. It seemed beyond the towering villain of her memory to do something like... "Forgive people? Like you forgave Mirage?"

"..." Syndrome swallowed and rolled his shoulders. "Yeah. Like that."

"You were going to call her something else before."

He considered her for a moment, and judged the information safe enough: "Her parents didn't look at her and go 'Hmm, Mirage'. Her name's Natalya. Mirage was a joke that stuck."

"Like you? Syndrome when you're really-"

"Don't."

Violet frowned. She only really knew his nickname anyway. "So you could forgive her, for actually betraying you, but not my father?"

"Well, I wasn't sleeping with your dad, so."

Her face twisted in disgust. She didn't want to think about him, her father, and intimacy in the same or any capacity. But his point stood. Violet had always just written off Mirage's betrayal as seeing the light-like flipping a switch in a dark room. There was good there, she just had to see it, and thus leave Syndrome. It was so tidy and neat in her brain as a child, so very right, she never thought to reexamine it with age. She hadn't considered there was more to their relationship, something deeper that could withstand betrayal. "Do you have family?"

"Do you want to waste your questions on my personal life?" He checked his watch.

"No-I want to know who sold me out to Fell. Was it an agent?"

"I don't know."

She slammed the half-drunk cup of coffee down on the table beside her. "So much for your word! You promised to tell me!"

"I promised to answer you," he clarified. "And I did. I don't know where Fell gets his information from."

"So he just sends you out on errands? He lets you just...wander?"

"Do you think he lets me do anything, princess? He turns a blind eye here and there, but I get sent out, I collect and come back. That's it."

"But you can leave this room."

"Yes, but I'm monitored, always." He tugged at his collar, then nodded to the ceiling. Violet twisted to where he was looking. There, in the corner was a small black dome tucked into the corner of the ceiling. "Even if you didn't tip off the alarm on the collar by knocking me out, they would have been here sooner or later. We're always watched. So don't get too clever, if you possibly can."

Violet let out a shaky breath. Monitored, always. Gaining his trust was going to be harder with a third party listening in. If they could even hear over-

She swung back around, glancing at the turntable, and then to Syndrome.

The villain smirked. "Ah, there it goes. That poor, overworked brain cell of yours. That's enough for now. Back in your cage."

The next days were much of the same. He woke her before the medication wore off each morning, and strapped her to the table to display her abilities. After that, she was placed back in the cell and given food to eat. Syndrome never left the room, reviewing the data as she ate, stretched, exercised (as much as she could), and lounged lethargically on her cot.

He even slept there, crawling onto the operating table with a pillow and simply shutting his eyes after turning down the lights. If it wasn't proof enough that he was as trapped as she, Fell returned on the fourth day, asking for progress.

Violet pretended to sleep, watching them through slitted eyes as she set about memorizing every word.

"It's what I thought," Syndrome told him, switching the computer on, pointing to several scans. "She's different. Her powers aren't supplemented by neurological activity, they rely solely on it. We did CT scans when she first came, and she had no extra gland, nothing to produce a different hormone, no different bone structure, or overdeveloped muscle. It's centered around here and here, both her invisibility and her ability to produce force fields. I think maybe they're one and the same. I think that she produces a different type of field to cloak herself, except it excretes from her skin, rather than appearing independently."

"Excellent! No one will be able to top this! I have noticed you dosing her up more than the others."

"She requires it. It wears off faster. I think her metabolism is unnaturally fast."

"That would account for the appearance."

Violet's hands tightened on her blanket. It didn't really matter, but if she heard one more crack about her body-!

"Maybe. But I think she heals at an accelerated rate."

"Really?"

"I haven't tested that yet."

"You have the supplies. Do so."

"I'm not going to hack at her and watch the skin heal."

"And why not? It's the fastest way to find out."

Her breath stopped. Oh God-oh God what were they going to do to her now? She hadn't even thought of her healing, she didn't think they would notice, since Syndrome hadn't gone out of his way to hurt her.

"Because she could become infected, first of all. Second of all, how do we know she can't control that too, and simply bleed out?"

"Oh well, you seem to have a tidy little rapport. I doubt she'll do that to you."

Syndrome snorted. "She's the brat of the man I despise. I like needling her-I have to get some entertainment sometimes."

"Yes. All work and no play makes my Lazurus a grumpy boy, doesn't it?"

Violet swallowed down the bile Fell's tone raised in her throat.

"I'll figure something out."

"Yes, you will. She's fascinating, and perfect for what I need. Maybe we'll keep her longer, she is producing more than the others. We could see how far this heightened health goes. Who knows-you want entertainment? Maybe you can entertain both of you and we'll watch how pregnancy works on her. It would be fascinating to watch a super in the fetal state."

A long silence followed that. "She's a kid."

"Oh, now, where did this morality come from? She's well into her twenties. Twelve years isn't so big a gap for you to clutch your pearls, Lazarus. Besides, it'll be the nicest thing I'll ask of you. Think of it as a reward."

More silence, so thick with rage, Violet could feel the hairs on her arms rise.

"Ah. Well, I could always get some of the men to do it if you're so averse to the idea. But that's for later, hmm? Continue, I will return in a week."

She waited until she heard the suction of the door sealing behind Fell before she flung the blankets off. Syndrome had his back to her, hands fisted at his sides. Then, calm as a cup of water, he walked to his stool and flung it so hard at the invisible door. The metal dented and the stool snapped in half on impact. Violet jumped, curling up against the wall on her cot as tightly as she could. She didn't even realize she had cried out until her jailor swung to face her.

"I can heal fast," she stuttered. Abject terror bled from her as fast as the words. Shadow couldn't help her now, fear burning that part of her to ash as she begged. It wasn't smart, and it wasn't brave, but anything to keep him from cutting her open like a frog. She'd go through every test calm and quiet and good to avoid that fate. "I can't control it, I just heal fast. A day or two quicker that's all. My brothers can too. It does nothing more than that." When he had nothing to say to that, she whispered, "Please don't cut me."

Syndrome's face was, for once, inscrutable. He just stared. Her heart beat so loudly, it drummed in her ears. Finally, whatever tension that coiled between them broke. He ran a hand through his hair and straightened. "Go back to sleep," he grunted.

"Please. Syndrome-"

"Go back to sleep. You'll need it."

"Don't-I can't heal like you think-!"

"I'm not going to cut you," he screamed, his face twisted with such frightening rage that sent her back against the wall again. He took a deep breath, collecting himself. Folding his hands, he pressed his steepled fingers to his mouth, standing in silence until he had control over his emotions. "Go back to sleep. Do not say another word. I am going to bring you food, fix the door, and in the morning we are going to explore your shields."

Syndrome moved to collect the broken pieces of stool. Ignoring his warning, she scrambled out of bed and moved to the glass, pressing her hands against it in supplication. She had assurance for the pain, whatever her kidnapper's assurance was worth. But the other-

"Please don't let them touch me. Please."

He stood, coming towards her, but she didn't back down, even as she tilted her head to look at him. This time disgust distorted his features. "Oh my God, princess," he breathed as if he couldn't believe his own ears, the implication in her begging. "Oh my God."

With that, he left, the door now visible as it was bent out of its mooring, jamming halfway.

They did no testing the rest of that day despite, what he said, nor would Syndrome speak to her the few times she tried to pull him into conversation. He had returned with a tray of food, sliding it through with her pills, and spent all of his time fixing the door. Eventually, she gave up, sipping her milk and watching him work on the loose wiring and welding, nodding along to Johnny's Cash's dulcet tones from the turntable. She sat on the floor with him, her legs stretched in front of her. Panic was a difficult emotion to keep up-eventually, the hormones pumped into her bloodstream gave out. Holding on to it made her feel itchy and irritated, like when she wore her mask for too long. The initial fear had settled in her stomach and dissolved into a longer-lasting dread, which was easier to ignore for small pockets of time.

Violet distracted herself with a tragedy of a different type. Well into her first year of residency, she was accustomed to watching people more skilled than her work and analyzing their methods. Machines, however, and computers were out of her forte. So it was a little fascinating to watch Syndrome work with obvious skill at the complex piece of technology.

Having had practice in recent days of separating the fear from her situation enough to act and think, she worked the novel talent retroactively to her memories. Nomanisan had been a technical wonderland. Syndrome was obviously a genius, and it had made him rich. After all, he had owned an entire island big enough to be a small country, jets, and rockets. He had it all, and it was all from his own work.

What a pity he'd thrown it all away. What he could have done if he wasn't such a bastard. The things he could have created, instead of hell and havoc. He could have been a hero to so many, with a business suit rather than a super one. Violet had not seen such technical wonders ever again in her life. Well, except for…

"Oh my God, it's your house!"

Syndrome jumped and swore, shutting off the flame from his welder. Pulling off his goggles, he glared at her. "What the hell, princess?"

"We're living in your house!"

He continued to stare at her. "...You didn't know that?"

"No! Winston said it was just...some...billionaire's house!"

"Wait, you're serious." He sat up straighter. "You're serious that you didn't know it was my house? You didn't move in there because it was some kind of poetic justice?"

"Why would we do that?"

He glanced about and spoke slowly as if she were particularly slow. "Because you're supers, and it's fitting. Hence the 'poetic' part."

"My father would burst a blood vessel if he knew it was your house."

"Yeah, he would, especially if he knew what went on in the room he sleeps in."

Violet pulled a face. "You're a pig, why do you have to always bring it back to that?" She slumped against the glass wall again. The parting waterfall, the tech, the multiple exits. It was the perfect house for a family of supers. Or someone trying to be super with a perchance for extravagance and anonymity. "You knew that house. You knew how to shut off the power and get in undetected."

"Mmhm." Syndrome snapped the goggles back onto his face. "Honestly, it was so easy I was sure there was a trap somewhere. Or that you would have at least changed the passwords."

Violet rubbed her face. It was bad enough that she was a lab rat in a soon-to-be-torture chamber, but the constant feeling of stupidity that was heaped on her day after day was almost worse than the fear. "...Why are all the passwords '02141927' and '12221942'?"

Syndrome continued working without an answer for so long, Violet figured he was ignoring her. It came as a surprise when he answered, "Because it's my mother's birthday. And the other one is Natalya's."

"Oh." Violet played with her carton's spout. It shouldn't be a surprise. Her father's favorite password for the locks on briefcases and lockers was his wedding anniversary, something only Edna, Lucious, and his children knew. Violet's was still the day she and Tony first kissed-a date that had been so important to her at first, and then became a series of numbers she simply knew by rote from her school locker and then her work's. Dates were a common passcode, easy to remember. So why did it seem so bizarre for Syndrome, mass murderer, to use something as common as his mother's birthday?

Did you think he spawned from an egg? Or popped out of a villain factory?

"How is-"

"No."

"What?"

Syndrome lifted his goggles again just long enough to glare at her. "I told you. I'm not going to answer anything about me. Sorry, princess, but you must look at least as hot as Jean Simmons to unlock that particular chest. I'd take an Anne Margret in a pinch."

"Even just about your mother?"

He roared with laughter. "Especially about my mother! Haven't you dated at all? Or does daddy-dear keep you locked up in your tower?"

Violet's lip curled. She was getting a little sick of his belittling of her experience, especially when she beat him at age fifteen! "I guess he doesn't have to, seeing how skinny and babish I look."

"Do not tell me you actually took Fell to heart," Syndrome snorted.

"No. But you never seem to get tired of reminding me how stupid and ugly I am."

"And I'm a pig and evil. And crazy, I think you threw that in there too." He pushed the goggles to rest on his forehead and smirked. "You're a weirdo, you know that right? You're locked in a translucent cell, hooked up to a computer every day, and you're raking me over the coals for commenting about your chest size?"

"You know it's just as weird to obsess over getting yelled at by a celebrity when you were ten, right," she shot back.

All the humor drained from his face. Snapping the goggled back on, he continued to work, leaving Violet in uncomfortable silence, firmly ignoring her for the rest of the day, even as he went to sleep. He just turned the record player on high.

It shouldn't bother her, she knew. Violet was aware enough to know what was going on. She was separated from everything she knew, she was scared, and didn't know what was going to happen to her next, or why. She was without stability, without anything to ground her. She was seeking validation, comfort, and a grasp on the situation in any way she could, and was starting to develop a need for their banter. It was consistent, it didn't surprise her. And she needed it as a means to escape. It was becoming important to her, so much so, that her emotions were being to adapt around it. Miss it when it was gone, fret when she damaged it, and hurt when he did.

So, she could identify the psychological phenomenon. Then why did it feel just as intense? Any kinship she felt was merely an outgrowth of her need and the similarity of their situation, at least in their captivity. No more. So why did she still want to apologize?

Stockholm, Parr. Ignore it. It'll go away.

Rolling over, she was determined to do just that. Still, she didn't fall asleep until his slowed breathing indicated Syndrome already was.