Chapter IX

The Birth of Lilith

There was something otherworldly about being in offices after hours. Like schools, churches, and subways late at night, it was the detachment and oddity of spaces that buzzed with human life suddenly empty and vacant.

Violet moved her way in between the halls, invisible and silent. It was odd being in her super suit again. For one, she had apparently lost a great deal of weight that even gorging on fast food had not reclaimed. It hung a little loose around her hips and belly. She almost considered donning her old Incredigirl suit, if it weren't for the problem of height. But even the mask felt odd on her felt-too heavy, too suffocating.

They had been patrolling the office for hours, her mother in the security room watching the cameras, her brother in the garage of the building, and her father moving from floor to floor in between. Violet was here at the top, where the big wig offices were. They would all meet here in the CEO's chambers in a few minutes. It was periodic, patrol for a few hours, regroup, and split again. If Ultra entered the building, they hoped to catch him as they moved to and fro.

But he looked like a no-show. It was almost three in the morning, the witching hour, and the specter was late to his own party.

Violet slipped into the CEO's office again. Checking the shadowed clock on the wall, they would all be here in a few minutes for their second to last check of the night. At five, the janitors would arrive, and the security guards would return to their posts. Until then, she was alone in the deathly silence, among the tools and chairs awaiting their operators, the clock ticking echoing in the empty space. Above her the heat turned off, finishing its cycle abruptly.

The office was ostentatious, with a chair better suited for a cocaine kingpin than an investment broker. Still, Violet slipped into the leather seat and spun slowly. The art on the wall didn't help either. She recognized, vaguely, a William Blake large and prominent behind the chair, and a depiction of a rather bedraggled nude woman shrieking as she stepped from a well that Vi didn't really think appropriate for the office. Not very inviting for someone who was in the business of helping people feel safe and secure with their money.

She spun again when the door opened, her mother stepping inside, smiling. "Nothing on the cameras."

"Nothing up here too. He could have at least called and told us he'd skip tonight."

She chuckled and propped the door open. "How are you feeling?"

"Besides bored?" She gave her mother her best smile. "I'm fine. Really. It's a little weird. I'm looking over my shoulder a little more. But I've got my powers, I'll be okay."

Helen came over and cupped her daughter's cheek. "That's my girl. Always jumping right back into it."

"Nothing in the basement." Dash skidded to a halt, bunching up the area rug on his stop. He combed back his hair and shrugged. "Maybe he heard we'd be here and bailed. Maybe he's hitting a different place."

"Your father has his police scanner, he's been listening just in case."

But when Bob arrived, he had heard nothing. The family gathered in the center of the room, discussing their new positions. Violet perched on the edge of the desk, somewhat disappointed. She had wanted to get Ultra as much as she was leery about putting herself in another life or death situation. He was really her only key to a chain of evidence that she could exploit.

Her parents were going back and forth about just who should be in the garage now, while Violet took more interest in the paintings by the door, wandering over to look closer, going toe to toe with one of the portraits. They were matching, roman or greek goddesses, on either side of the mahogany double doors. One was cooing to an owl perched on her fingers, completely at ease with the snakes curling around her bare feet. The other was armed with a helmet, spear, and shield. In the gloom, the faces looked almost identical. Maybe the artist was poor at drawing female faces…

At the sound of rolling metal on hardwood, Violet glanced about the floor. A black metal ball rolled to a stop, bumping against the bunched carpet Dash had disturbed.

Violet considered it only a moment, wondering if she had knocked a trinket off the desk, when a dark cylinder suddenly fell next to it with a clank of metal-followed immediately by an explosion of light.

Her shield was around her before the flashbang went off. She was blinded, but she went invisible on instinct, her hands pressing against her forcefield, cloaking the purple haze as well. She heard the door slam and the lock bolt.

Two latent images of the office and her family gathered around the desk swam before her eyes, and she blinked hard to disperse it. When she saw again, the second bomb went off, filling the room with green smoke. Her family was coughing, waving their hands to clear the air but the smoke lingered, coiling about them like a sinister embrace. The vents hadn't finished their heating cycle-they'd been shut off. The room filled with gas, like mist rising in a graveyard.

She shook her head again, ready to rock into the assailant coming in through the door like a wrecking ball.

And then she heard it.

There was the sound of a shot-but not a gunshot. Violet's whole body froze. The sound of a dart gun. Panic, absolute terror as an invisible door slid back, guards running through, taking aim right at her. Pain in her leg and blackness, utter blankness. The white sterile walls, the glass, and fear. The sound of a buzz saw and bad warbling singing-feed your head!

Once, twice, and again. Bob went down first, jerking and falling to his knees. Dash was next, clawing at his neck before he hit the floor. Helen was the last. She tried to stretch, making herself a smaller target. But her body moved slowly, and she whimpered as if the ability gave her pain. She wavered on her feet and dropped, body reverting to its natural form.

From the fog of the gas, Ulta rose, the swirls of green bowing from the motion, giving deference to the monster. He stepped up to the pile of supers, head cocked to the side. He was carrying a rifle, his gloved finger safely on the lower receiver. Dressed in all black, boots laced up to his knees over tucked tactical pants, but without his flak jacket, the vigilante sported a smooth helmet as his mask of choice.

When he spoke, his voice was digitized and deep. "One. Two. Three." He lifted his head, the moonlight from the ceiling to floor windows glancing off the rounded vizor. "And one left. Hmm."

He stalked the room, hand lifting to the side of his helmet and pressing a button. There was a low buzz, and then that horrifically computerized voice began to hum electronically as the creature beneath sang under his breath. "I can stand the sight of worms, and look at microscopic germs, but light refracting little girls are really too much for me." He scanned the room as if trying to make her out through the mist. He reached into his belt, pushing aside a thin cylinder hanging there, and brought out another small bomb, peering behind the desk. Without warning, he threw the missile straight to his left.

It bounced harshly off her shield with a dull crackle and broke, spitting another bout of gas into the room, sickly green fingers of smoke coiling about her small sphere to create a shadow of her form. Violet gave up the invisibility and glared at the vigilante.

"Ah. Thank you."

"What is this, neurotoxin?"

"No. Why don't you lower your shield and find out?"

"I don't inhale what I don't know."

"I can wait. In fact, I prefer to." Ultra seated himself on the corner of the wide desk, leaning over and turning on the computer. "I would like to see if it permeates your force field. Besides, you've made it rather small. How much air do you have in there really?"

"Vi…" Her mother lifted herself to her elbows before flopping again. She was awake, but barely. In fact, they all were, at least their eyes were open, blinking and looking. But they weren't moving.

"What did you shoot them with?"

"Nothing deadly." The computer was booting up, and he leaned over, taking a diskette from his jacket pocket and inserting it into the computer. Pulling the keyboard onto his knee, he went back to tapping at the keys. The computer screen flashed as Ultra typed his way through commands and programs faster than Violet could understand. Her skin was beginning to prickle, and her head hurt. The air in her sphere was running out from her excited breathing. "The gas won't kill you either."

"Who did you hit in October?"

Ultra paused, his helmeted head swinging around to look at her. Or at least she thought he was. The visor took up most of the headpiece, and it was one smooth piece of glass. No shadows indicating there was an actual face beneath. "That's rather specific."

"I just need a name. Who did you attack last October? It was someone with money."

"They all have money."

"Not all of them. What about...about the pharmacy?" Her head was beginning to hurt now. The oxygen was getting low.

"Just lower your shields. I won't even shoot you. I simply need this information, and I will be out of your hair."

"You know I can't do that."

"Oh?"

"You've murdered people."

"Who have also murdered people. Or worse."

"And those guards?"

"I did try not to."

"Right." Violet began to sway, (could the gas actually permeate through her shield?) and her concentration slipped-just for a moment. But it was enough. Her shield flickered and fell. She gasped, choking on the gas, stumbling straight into the desk, and falling half onto its surface. She spluttered, her lungs rejecting the foreign smoke. Ultra reached over and patted her back.

"Deep and steady now."

But instead of relief, her temples began to subtly pound. Violet clutched her head, forehead against the cool wood of the table. Lifting her eyes to glare at the figure, she noticed two things at once. One the hand that held the keyboard, Ultra's right hand, he sported a rather nice watch. A matte black face, with glossy black numbers.

That, and Violet could no longer create a shield to push Ultra's patting hand away. Something was blocking her, like a wall in her mind.

"Excuse me." Ultra pushed her shoulder, and she fell in a heap on top of her father and continued typing. Mr. Incredible's eyes were wide and straining, but his body wasn't moving an inch.

But Violet could move. She stood, and launched herself at the villain-but she wasn't going for his rifle, or even for the keyboard. Her arms wrapped around his head, and she wedged her fingers under the helmet as he shot up, stumbling away from the desk. They struggled, Ultra kicking at her legs, trying to put a knee between their bodies and fling her off. But using his head as leverage, Violet wrapped her legs tightly around him, clinging for dear life, all the while tugging, searching for a strap. She found a buckle and pinched, the helmet coming loose.

Without her purchase, Ultra was able to throw her off him, sending her to the floor with a bone-rattling thump. The helmet cracked on the ground, skittering away. The man stumbled into the glass window wall, panting and disoriented. The streetlights below backlit his frame and sent his red hair aflame.

Syndrome glared at her through his longer bangs, lips pulled back in a snarl. He was still fearsome in his expressions, and his savage growl made Violet scuttle back a few feet. His hand went to his leg, and he unholstered a pistol, aiming right at her head. Violet recognized the Baretta and stared down the barrel. And here she had no shields. No amount of adrenaline or pushing would help this time.

They stayed there, panting and staring at one another, a bizarre reprise of their last goodbye in the forest; Syndrome standing above her, Violet on the ground. A tableau of goodbyes, and he still did not fire.

"Are you going to shoot me?"

Syndrome growled and stepped forward. "I would really love to. I told you I never wanted to see you again. But I would prefer not to splatter your brains all over your mother there." He kept the gun trained on her as he returned to the desk, continuing to upload the virus to the system.

"How are you doing this?" Violet got to her feet shakily, her hands held up, coming no closer.

"Typing? Something I picked up in college, funnily enough."

"Still refuse to answer?"

He looked up at her. The green glow from the screen reflected in his eyes, casting his strong face in a sickly light. "You mean the hit in October."

"You were trapped with me! You never left-you couldn't have left without Fell's permission."

"I have my ways."

"Goddamnit, Syndrome!"

"I'm not telling you, princess. Scream all you like but I'm not trapped here with you anymore. I'm getting what I came for and leaving."

Violet tried a different tact. "I see Fell perfected the antidote."

Now Syndrome's scowl turned into a hideous grin. "Fell didn't do shit. I changed it. It's a wonder what you can do with actual resources and freedom. I'm better than him, and when I blow his head right off his shoulders, I'll be sure to tell him. Want me to add a shot to the kneecaps for you?"

She went cold immediately. All this time wasting away in a desert of tax returns and paperwork and he-"You know where Fell is?!"

"More or less. Don't even try. I'm not telling you so you can inform the NSA and he can run before I've even had a chance."

"I won't tell." Taking a chance, Violet went to the desk, planting her hands on the surface. The barrel of the gun was mere inches from her throat. It would leave quite an exit wound if he fired now. "Why do you think I'm here?"

"To catch Ultra."

"Yes, that's what the NSA wants-but not me. I wanted to know who Ultra hit in October so I could track the money. I'm trying to find the leak in the NSA. Why do you think I joined after what you told me?"

Syndrome's eyes narrowed. He was deciding on whether or not to believe her. He licked his lips and accused, "The same reason you all join. To climb that ivory tower and have all your actions sanctioned whether you deserve it or not. After all, you raised quite a witch hunt after me, even seated yourself at the head of it."

"How do you know that?"

"I was admiring my likeness on the Top Most Wanted, seeing as I was so suddenly on it after being dead. Not the best picture of me, by the way. It says it right there, any tips to contact Agent Parr, and seeing as Shadow hasn't officially received any groundwork, I could only assume it was you doing paper pushing."

Violet, ridiculous as it was, breathed easier. At least he wasn't catching droplets from the same leak Fell had tapped. "Well, I didn't do it to capture you. I had to give them something. If I said Fell's name, whoever sold me would go running. I joined to get insider knowledge. They wouldn't let a free acting hero have access to their database."

"I'm surprised you believed me. How do you know I wasn't lying-giving you an answer just to shut you up? I never said it was an NSA agent either."

Violet's stomach flipped at the thought, but she knew it was a bluff. "Why would you lie? You thought you were going to die."

"To torture you?"

"You already had that under control, and I was also heading for the grave. What did it matter? Where's the fun in lying to a dead woman walking? Besides, who else could quote Dash so accurately if not someone inside the agency? You told me the truth, stop pretending."

Syndrome paused, still unsure of her sincerity. But he wasn't gripping the gun as hard now, and Violet moved quickly, snapping it out of his hand, spinning it by the trigger guard. She was lucky, that was a move she barely mastered in her self-defense classes, and with her shields, it wasn't one she practiced often.

The villain sneered and spread his arms. "Go ahead, princess. Shoot. It won't make a difference. I'm taking what I want and walking out-bleeding or not."

He moved away from the computer, heading towards the wooden filing cabinets. He slid his boot knife out and wedged it between drawer and frame, smacking the hilt with his palm. The lock broke free of the wood moring, and the drawer slid out. Papers flew as he ripped through the folders, searching.

"I can help you find Fell," Violet said, following him, dodging the folders as they were flung. "Find Fell, I find my leak, we both win."

"Good pitch, no sale." He tried the next drawer and the next but they did not hold what he wanted. With a frustrated growl, Syndrome spun, eyes searching the room. He considered the large William Blake that hung right behind the desk. A great umber beast, its head lowered to bite, loomed over a reclining woman in yellow. Syndrome took his knife to the creature's skull and sliced it and the maiden right down the middle. Pulling the canvas aside, he crowed in victory, finding the steel wall of a safe behind.

"I have more resources than you," Violet continued to bargain. "I can give you more information, I have access to more records." When he ignored her she snapped, "At least just give me the name of your hit!"

"Nope." The monster rifled in his belt again, fumbling until he found what he was looking for-a small thick silver disk. He attached it to the door and tapped a code into the small keypad. The disk began to beep slowly.

"We're fighting on the same side here-"

"Are we?" He laughed and faced her finally. "And how do I know this isn't some ploy to bring me in, hm?"

"Because believe me, on my hitlist you're a pretty low priority!"

"Hitlist, hmm? Seems a little dark for you."

"I d-ack!"

Syndrome had edged past her then, taking a handful of her loose hair, and dragged her away from the wall. "I thought I told you to put this up?" He kept her captive for a few moments, watching the safe door. The beeps came faster, growing in urgency before the device exploded, leaving a smoking hole blasted in the center of the metal.

He let her go and returned to the safe, pulling whatever he could reach through. Papers, a golden watch he pocketed, a stack of cash that followed the watch, a string of diamonds he offered to Violet who promptly slapped it out of his hands, and finally a storage case of diskettes. This he placed on the desk and began flipping through, apparently finding what he needed. He took out four, tucking them carefully into his jacket. As he zipped the pocket, his eyes fell on something else in the case and he went utterly still, as if he too had heard his own dart gun.

Violet peered over his shoulder. There, the last diskette in the stack was labeled with a strip of masking tape: Lazarus Project.

"Fell is mine," Syndrome murmured to the case, lifting the diskette out, waving it before her face. "But I will give you something to help. Your leak? It's absolutely in the NSA. They sent you here, after all, to protect a man with this file in his safe. Whoever sent you here has dirty hands." He rounded the desk and went to scoop up his helmet. When he turned, Violet was there, the gun leveled at his throat.

"I can make you tell me what I want to know."

Syndrome raised his brows. "You know, I was wondering if you being different was just a fluke because you were captured. I guess I was wrong." He stepped forward until the muzzle of the gun was right against his throat, and kept going. He backed her up against the desk, her arm folding between them, pinned between their chests. The gun was pointed straight under his chin, and if she pulled the trigger, she was going to make a geyser of his thoughts. "And if you're going to threaten someone-" He flicked the switch on the side of the pistol "-take the safety off first."

"Tell me who your hit was in October."

"You're not going to kill me in cold blood."

"You're breaking and entering. You've murdered, you're wanted twice over. I'm within my right. After all, I'm 'sanctioned by the ivory tower', right? They'd even give me a medal."

"You won't shoot, princess." His lips pulled back into a smile-not mocking, not cruel. Horrifically genuine. As if they were friends, sharing a joke. His gloved hand came up, fingers tracing the shape of hers through their gloves, adjusting her grip until her forefinger moved from the safety along the barrel to the trigger. Daring her. "It wouldn't be right. And your loyalty is to that more than anything else."

Violet felt complimented and enraged by spades. "Let me help, goddamn you!"

"No. One thing I've learned is working alone is better. I won't have you tripping over leads and sending people scuttling about. I've worked hard to keep these break-ins random, keep everyone unsure whether to hide or not. It's a delicate dance and you've got two left feet. No amount of posturing is going to work, and you don't have your powers, so there's nothing left that can entice me."

Even as he said it, his icy blue eyes flickered to her mouth, and Violet was ashamed to admit it tingled in response. They hadn't shared a kiss-they'd shared a moment of breathless relief, no amount of conversations in the dark or bleeding wrists would change that.

"Besides, you have a bigger problem on your hands." Syndrome leaned past her and ripped his virus diskette out of the computer.

"What do you mean?"

Syndrome backed away and squatted on the ground. He was looking at her father now, leering with a blood-thirsty grin painted on his lips. Here they were again, the hero and his snubbed would-be apprentice. Except Ultra's vengeance was against a man more monstrous by half. "They've heard everything you know. The dart was nothing but a paralyzer." He grabbed her father's face, making sure he was looking directly at him-hard, to make sure he knew there was life in his nemesis still, if barely. "They've seen this little meeting of the minds, princess. How are you going to explain to dear old dad that you lied to them? That his baby girl made a deal with the devil to get out of hell?"

"I didn't. Stop that!' Violet grabbed his sleeve and hauled him back to his feet. "I didn't make a deal with the devil. I didn't do anything wrong to get out of there and you know it."

"Oh? You broke my collar, you let me live. I don't think he'll see it as a net positive."

Violet didn't flinch. No matter what happened, how much destruction followed, how many people Ultra killed or how disappointment filled her parents' eyes, she would not regret saving him from that collar. She might have to put him down one day, in a cell, or end his life in battle. But it would be his actions to bring them there. She wouldn't let him, or anyone, die like an animal trapped in a cage-that was her choice.

"I didn't do anything wrong."

Syndrome's humor fled him, and for the second time, Violet saw real emotion flicker over his expressive face. Sadness? "You really believe that. Of course you do, you're a shit liar."

Violet was unfortunately working on that. "Thank you. I think."

He looked down at the diskette still in his hands. "I won't help you. This is mine and mine alone. I won't let another Incredible soil my revenge. Too many people make too many liabilities. Cooks in the kitchen and all that. But I'll give you this." He held it out to her. "To help you with your family. Play it for them, and it might give your perspective some sway. After that, shut the computer off."

"Does that activate the virus?"

"Yes. After seeing that, I have no doubt you'll want to."

Violet took the diskette, and when Syndrome still held out his hand, placed the pistol in his palm. If he really was going to find Fell, he'd need to stay alive to do it. But she wasn't about to let him go alone. Violet would let him walk now, while she was at a disadvantage, but they would see each other again. He said he was working alone, but she sincerely doubted that. Violet knew just where to look. She'll always be with me, I'll always be with her.

Ultra slid his helmet back on. "Goodbye, Princess. Happy hunting."

"The paralyzer?"

"Give it another half an hour. It's short acting, doesn't leave a trace in the bloodstream. Stretch their limbs and it'll speed it up." He lingered for a moment more, perhaps looking at her, perhaps looking at the bodies on the floor, before he went to the door, kicking it open and breaking the lock. Then he was gone.

Violet spent the next half hour, pulling her family into comfortable lying positions. Tossing her mask onto the table, she set about doing just what Syndrome suggested. She started with her mother, moving her legs in easy kicks and getting the blood flowing. Sitting on the ground, and began her story again. She knew the cameras had been cut along with the ventilation system and spoke freely.

She told them about the man she met in that lab-the defeated villain, the declawed tiger, collared and caged, about the antidote and Fell. She stuttered over what his plans had been originally, about the tests, the interest in her healing and womb. The torture, the impromptu surgery, the scars.

She described Implanted Muscle Memory.

Violet explained how Syndrome had refused to touch her and began to see her not as a rat but as a way out. How they had studied her powers, developed them. How Syndrome had readied her for the fight-how it was his curiosity about her abilities and not so much his fire that had saved her life.

On her knees, she practiced her healing craft and told them everything she had been hiding-that the leak was from the inside, that no one could be trusted. "We're...on our own. Again." She finished with Dash's arm, massaging the tricep. Her mother and father were sitting up, staring at her with expressions she never saw before, but categorized as confusion. Perhaps they could not understand how the girl before them was their daughter. Violet had had trouble with her own mirror lately after all.

Helen broke the stalemate first. "Why didn't you tell us?"

"The same reason I didn't tell Surratt about the living supers. It was safer if you didn't know."

"You should have told us," Bob chastised. From his tone, Violet knew he was controlling his temper. That barely regulated waver in his voice, word fluctuating between command and snap.

"How could I? When were we alone? Really alone? Who knew whose ears were pressed to the hospital doors."

Dash wrenched his arm from her grip. He was still slow and aching, but he set about getting to his feet well enough. "You lied to us," he ruled. "You betrayed us, Violet."

Helen glared at her son. "Dashel Robert Parr!"

"No, you saw it with your own two eyes. You saw how they talked-as if they were best friends. He tried to kill us, Mom! He tried to murder Dad, you, the whole city! He tried to murder you Violet, and you gave him his gun back. You didn't even try to stop him."

Violet suddenly felt tired, and old beyond her years. Still, hearing the words she feared most-betrayer-did not hit her as hard as she thought. Perhaps she was simply more numb than afraid now. "I inhaled the antidote too."

"You could have fought him! You had the gun, you should have shot him. I would have shot him-I would have shot him for you!"

Suddenly, Violet realized why Syndrome had smirked at her brandishing his pistol. She saw right through Dash, his bravado and his blustering, and knew him. She knew him down to the bones-what he would do, and what he wouldn't. It was a strange thing, to see a person's character so completely in an instant and meeting them for the first time all at once. Dash was bold, brave, and full of fire.

And he was scared out of his wits, getting his first taste of how much he didn't know.

For a moment, Violet wanted that ignorance back-for the knowing had not given her much. "You don't have it in you to kill, Dash."

"Oh but you do?! You and your buddy Syndrome can kill, is that it?"

Helen rose to her knees. "Dash that is enough!"

"Yes."

The small word made them all look at Violet. She had whispered it, but it acted like a starter pistol, bringing immediate attention.

Violet looked up at her brother, the brother whose memory had pushed her to live, to survive. "I think I could kill Dash. I feel it. Right here." She brought her fist to her chest, tapping her knuckles right above her heart. "It's like a stone in my aorta. I think of Fell and everything he did and I think I could kill him. I could make him suffer like he made me suffer. I want him to feel the terror, feel his heartbeat, and wonder if it would be his last. Because that's everything I felt, and I hated it. And I hate him. I've never hated anything in my life as I hate him. And I feel like that's all I have left-the hate and the anger. And I'm afraid. I'm so afraid that it'll win, and I'll lose and I'll never feel anything but the hate again. And then Fell really would have killed me. He...he…"

Violet felt the darkness writhe inside her, like a tapeworm, feeding off everything she had taken in, sucking out the good and leaving the waste. It devoured her hope, her happiness, and her love for her family until she was made up of distrust and despair; Until she was just a vehicle for revenge, a stone monster made of vengeance and writhing hatred. She had been created, just as much as Syndrome was by her father, and again by Fell.

The mad doctor had crafted a demon on his tail; the Lillith bride to his Lazarus.

"What has he done to me," Violet whined, breath coming short. Her hands clutched the hair at her temples. She hadn't cried for Fell, she hadn't cried in her cell. She hadn't cried in her dark guest room all alone, allowing only a few solitary tears and nothing more. But finally, surrounded by a family she betrayed to protect, she felt the sob coming, panicked and loud. "Oh God, what has he done to me? What did he do to me?!"

Her mother's arms stretched, wrapped around her tightly, and dragged her across the floor, pulling her to her chest in a suffocating grip Violet was glad for. She cracked, wailing sobs leaking from her like water from a broken vessel, nothing but her mother's embrace holding her together as she shattered. Distantly she felt her mother shake with her-felt her silent sobs giving chorus, reflecting her grief.

Dash came to their side, knees hitting the floor. He was too angry to give comfort, but he loved his sister too much to abandon her. When her weeping hit low tide, she reached out weakly, fingers against his leg.

"I'm sorry."

He accepted nothing, but his fingers held hers loosely.

Violet looked around at her father. He had come to wrap an arm around his wife, his free hand on Violet's hip, squeezing comfortingly. His own tears had made a dark stain on Helen's red super-suit, like blood in the moonlight.

"So, we're on our own again," Helen echoed Violet's conclusion thickly, wet trails glistening on her cheeks.

"It could be a lie." Bob cleared his throat and leveled his gaze at Violet. "You said Fell wanted to perfect the antidote-Syndrome proved he did. It could be an elaborate trick. He could be in league with Fell. I mean, he created a whole island and government plot just to lure in supers."

It could be. Syndrome could be playing on her sensibilities despite his protests. It could be the most elaborate plot a villain could think of. He was smart enough, and it was his MO. He thought about the long game, not quick bursts of destruction. He was like a bird that way, always building nests, preparing, housing instead of flitting from opportunity to opportunity.

But Violet knew it wasn't. It was her instinct, her heart, telling her his rage was true. Besides leaving a treasure trove of supers prone and primed for the taking, the hurt when he described all he lost, the desperation that a chance gave him, the savage relief when freedom was granted wasn't a lie. That kiss wasn't a lie. But she couldn't explain that. It wasn't fact.

Violet gently extricated herself from her mother's hold and picked up the fallen diskette. The Lazarus Project. She couldn't give them instinct, but she could give them proof. Dabbing at her face, Violet moved to the computer, seating herself in the leather chair among the papers and dropped items. The wheels crunched over the diamonds as she moved closer and slid the diskette into the computer, opening up the file. There were a few text documents and a video file. With a feeling of falling, she opened the video.

The action activated some program in the computer's system. A bookshelf on the opposite side of the room turned, the backs of the shelves becoming a projection screen, a projector descending from the ceiling. The video image played double-one on the computer screen, one from the projector.

It was a surgery. Dr. Fell, blood-spattered and calm, moved around the table, talking as he worked. Explaining his methods, his actions as he sliced, replaced, and sewed. Like a professor, giving a lecture, undeterred by his patient's voice.

And his patient had a voice.

For all her life, Violet would remember the words Syndrome said on Fell's table. When she was older, much older, and passed this strife, she would think back to this moment and realize it was the final nail in her life's coffin. The Violet that witnessed Fell's horror was a creature totally alien to the Violet who wanted to simply tuck herself back into her normal, boring, controllable life. This new Violet could not fade; she burned too brightly with righteous rage, like a woman clothed in the sun. She would make Fell pay for every cut, for every shriek Syndrome let loose in pure agony, screaming please, please kill me. Please let me die-please STOP CUTTING.

Still, all that righteousness was hard on the stomach. Violet shut off the computer, stopping the video, and left the leather seat. She barely made it to the potted plant in the corner, retching hard to leave her dinner in the soil beneath Truth and her well. When she was done, Dash was at her side, holding her hair. She really ought to get into the habit of putting it up.

Her parents were still kneeling on the floor, both staring at the now blank screen without moving a muscle, petrified by the stark reality of whom they must hunt.

Wiping her mouth, she looked up and waited for her brother's verdict. She wouldn't wish the knowing on him. She wanted to protect him, wanted to protect all of them. After all, she had survived, she had proved her metal. Why should they go through it with her? But they had to see-she had to show them there was an evil greater than Syndrome's sins.

It had to take priority. It had to be stopped.

Syndrome was wrong-he couldn't do it alone. It was a lesson her father had learned, and one still on the villain's syllabus. Either they all went together, or together they stayed where they were, the threads of their lives too tightly knotted to pick apart now.

Dash took a deep breath, and decided: "So, what are we gonna do?"